Wildlife Wars: The Life and Times of a Fish and Game Warden

by Terry Grosz

  I commenced my stalk of the car with its dust-cloud banner as it moved down the mountain road. When the car I was following dropped down in the valleys or depressions of the road, I made sure I was on the rises directly behind it. When it was on the rises, I dropped into the valleys, all the time gaining. Soon I moved right up into the driver’s dust trail, and now, for all intents and purposes, he was mine as soon as I decided to pull the trigger. My instincts were very strong at this point, and I just grinned. The thought that something was wrong here, really wrong, kept swirling around in my head. When I focused on the driver, it was apparent that he had not yet seen me tailing him. That was good. I didn’t want to pull him over until I had a safe wide spot in the road. That way some other hunter coming down the road would not run over both of us, and if the lad was in violation of the law, I would have room to work. Because this vehicle had just emerged from Sullivan Canyon, I would have the opportunity to question the occupants about the mass of shots I had heard earlier. If nothing else, maybe they could shed some light on what had happened back in the canyon, which might lead me to a violation. Still, my instincts told me this was the car, so my interest in these folks in front of me remained very high.

  A wide spot appeared in the road ahead, so I turned on the red light and instantly saw the driver’s face as he turned to see what was behind him. Then he turned to looked at his single passenger. The look bespoke a crotch just grabbed by a pit bull. Their vehicle pulled over, and I followed them as they ground to a stop. Waiting until the road dust from the stop had passed both vehicles, I continued to watch the occupants of the car. They had just frozen in their seats. As the dust subsided, I got out of my vehicle and walked up to their car, noticing that the rear bumper was not dusty and had a snotlike material smeared over it. The car also appeared to be very heavily loaded in the rear, and all the camping gear that would normally be carried in the trunk appeared to be piled in the rear seat.

  The driver and passenger had not moved and were intently watching me in their mirrors as I approached. Looking into the back seat, I observed a .22-caliber bolt-action rifle on top of all the camping gear and, looking forward into the passenger compartment, I saw that the passenger had a rifle held between his legs. Standing slightly away from the vehicle, I leaned down and, speaking through the open driver’s-side window, asked the passenger to hand me his rifle out the open window, butt first and keeping his hand off the trigger. Since it was illegal to have a loaded rifle in a motor vehicle on a way open to the public, that was always the first thing I did in order to gain control of the weapons. The lad handed me his 30-06 bolt-action rifle without a problem, and when I examined it, I found it to be unloaded and in compliance with state law. Laying that rifle on the hood of their car, I then asked the driver to hand me the .22 rifle in the back seat, which he did. I noticed as he struggled to reach the rifle over his shoulder and hand it to me that he also tried to unload it. I immediately told him to hold it right there and not to mess with that rifle any further. When he pulled his hands off the gun, as I instructed, I reached into the car and removed the rifle safely. As I had expected, I found that it had a live cartridge in the barrel in violation of the Fish and Game code. I told myself that my instincts had been right regarding a violation in this car, but they still weren’t satiated: more was wrong. I laid that rifle alongside the one taken from the passenger and in so doing noticed a single drop of dried blood on the stock of the .22. I didn’t say anything yet about the blood but got both lads out of the car and had them stand by the front of my patrol truck, giving me the opportunity to reach into the rear seat of their car and pull out the driver’s hunting rifle for examination. It was a 30-06 bolt-action, totally empty, so I placed it on the hood along with the other two rifles. I stood there quietly looking through the two men, noticing the total lack of eye contact and the fact that their body language placed them in the nervous category of a dog crapping razor blades. Not seeing any evidence of a deer in the back seat but remembering the “snot” on the rear bumper (usually found when someone has dragged a freshly killed or gutted deer over the bumper and into the trunk) and keeping the drop of blood on the .22 rifle stock in mind, I figured a few questions were in order. Looking at the driver, I said, “I see you cut your ankle while hunting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, if you were hunting back there in Sullivan Canyon, it’s known for its rugged talus slopes and difficult hiking conditions. I noticed this drop of blood on your rifle and figured you had cut yourself while hunting deer in that area.”

  He quickly said, “Yes, you’re right, I did cut my ankle back there while crossing a talus slope.” Sometimes when you hunt humans, who are considered the most dangerous game, and you’re close to the kill, the metaphorical smell of blood has to be one of your sharpest senses. That smell was now flooding my nostrils. I think another smell was flooding the nostrils of the lads being interviewed...

  “The blood was on the stock of the .22-caliber rifle, gentlemen,” I told them. “It is illegal to hunt big game in California with a bullet less than .24 caliber.” Their silence was such that you could hear a slight breeze moving through the pine trees. They just looked at me as if there were no tomorrow, as did my newsman.

  I said, “Let me see your ankle; I have a first aid kit and will patch it up for you.”

  He said, “No, that’s OK, it’s all right.”

  I said, with a whole lot more authority in my voice the second time, “Let me see that ankle, now!”

  He lifted up his pants leg, and no blood was to be seen. I said, “All right, men, let’s take a look in the trunk of the car, if you don’t mind.”

  The driver didn’t breathe for a moment, then walked the short distance from the front of my truck to the rear of his sedan, placed the key in the lock, and opened the trunk. Then he stepped back to let me move forward and look inside. In the trunk were jammed seven does with their heads and feet cut off. Packed around the deer were U.S. Forest Service handi-talkies, flares, pots, pans, kettles, and silverware stolen from the Forest Service fire cache at Lett’s Lake.

  Looking back at the two men, I said, “Lads, we seem to have a slight problem here. Care to tell me about it?”

  The men said nothing for a few moments, and then the driver said, “Well, what you see is what you get. We have nothing more to say.”

  “Fine. Both of you are under arrest for the illegal possession of seven deer.” I advised them of their rights, searched for any weapons on their persons, and handcuffed them. At that point I became aware of the forgotten newsman, who was hurriedly taking pictures and notes as events unfolded around him. He was beginning to get a look in his eyes that spoke of the memory of the hunt from generations ago. Good for him, he was alive, I thought. I placed both men in the back of my patrol truck, the newsman drove the defendants’ seized vehicle, and down the mountain we went to the town of Stonyford and into the open arms of the resident deputy sheriff, Carter Bowman.

  At Stonyford I transferred my prisoners to the deputy sheriff and had the Forest Service identify its stolen property. Both men later pleaded guilty to the illegal possession of deer and possession of stolen U.S. government property. Owing to previous records of theft, both drew three-year sentences for the theft charges and an additional six months and fines for the Fish and Game violations, plus loss of their rifles.

  The instinct of the hunter really paid off in this case, which developed from one drop of blood and went on to pay even greater dividends. The deer killing that had plagued me for two years, the broken fences, the gut piles, and the spent casings in the road were no more. Just as soon as these lads disappeared into the penal system, my deer killing stopped. It took me several months to realize what had happened, but it finally began to dawn on me. Plain and simple, it was as if the poachers had dropped into a black hole. Out of curiosity, I had the seized 30-06 rifles and the many spent 30-06 casings I had gathered at the kill sites over the years sent to forensics in Sacr
amento, and they matched. These lads had been my deer killers in 1968 and 1969, the ones who had given me fits. It was fitting that it had taken me two years to catch the lads and that they had three years to ruminate over that fact. My lads, for whatever reason, had gotten careless or bold and changed their killing from weekdays to the weekend. They left the safety of the night and highways and tried Sullivan Canyon. Greed and ego will do you in every time. It might take a while, even two years, but the catch will happen, as it did in this case.

  Well, the newsman got his story, and the people of Colusa County received a firsthand insight into how the hunter and prey really lived. But neither the newsman nor the good people of Colusa County got the real story, that is, how God loves little children and fools. Somehow, I think God blinked that fine day on a dusty road in Colusa County and included game wardens because he allowed me the opportunity to apprehend two lads who really needed catching. From that day forth, I have led a blessed and charmed life, catching many others who crossed over the line.

  It probably doesn’t seem fair to those on the “dark side” of the line that God is on our side. I guess they need to keep in mind that since He created all the critters, it is only fair that He should have a hand in the lessons of life we all share, especially when we deal with those critters.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tinkle, Tinkle, Eeeeeeee, Boom!

  Several thousand mallards and pintail rose from the rice field in front of me, turned into the slight breeze from the northwest, and headed for Colusa National Wildlife Refuge for a day of rest. I could now relax my vigilance. It was early fall, 1968, and my location was a dry harvested rice field somewhere south of the refuge in Colusa County, California. My home for the moment was a rice check. My covers were a tarp and the marvelous cloak of night changing to day. My companion was Shadow, a 110-pound female black Lab whose snoring told me that at least one of the enforcement team was doing the right thing.

  I was a California state Fish and Game warden doing what most of us did in the Sacramento Valley in that diminishing heyday of the commercial-market hunter. That is, I was “sleeping” with the ducks in the harvested rice to protect them from an untimely death from flying lead pellets and subsequent sale in the markets of large cities in California. The evening before, just at dusk, I had slipped into the field where I now lay against the rice check for cover to guard a feeding flock of ducks that numbered about ten thousand. The flock was not big enough to draw the protective attention of all the federal agents in the area (a recognized plus for the market hunter) but was not small enough to be overlooked by the state game wardens in pursuit of those trying to make a few dollars by feeding the commercial markets in Sacramento, Yuba City, or San Francisco fresh-killed, rice-fed ducks. Hence my presence in that field so long ago.

  The contented flowing-water sound feeding ducks make was now gone. Little by little and then in larger flocks the ducks had gotten quiet and then lifted off for their favorite loafing sites. The rice field was still, as was the early morning. Lying there against the rice check, satisfied with my night’s work, I became aware of the cold seeping into my body that comes just before the break of dawn after a long night of inactivity. The stiffness in my back from lying on the cold ground all night began to manifest itself as well. However, both elements of discomfort were quickly forgotten as God worked His eternal magic and created a sunrise for those who cared to notice. I felt that this morning He had created one just for me and my efforts to protect His creatures the night before. Game wardens think like that often during the many hours they lie in wait in their never-ending commitment to protect the natural resources we still have for those yet to come.

  This morning was spectacular! Against the backdrop of the Sutter Buttes, He ran His paintbrush of many colors across the canvas-gray sky. The reds, golds, and yellows, interspersed with background shades of blue, were truly what feeds the souls of those of us who serve Him and His. As if this magnificence were not enough, He wafted the unique smell of burning rice stubble across my nostrils and ran skeins of ducks and geese across the painted skies, looking for whatever they look for that time of the morning. Damn, it was a sight I had seen many times before and since, but I have yet to tire of that kind of spectacle. I could only hope this fine morning that those of us who serve the American people in an endeavor to protect their rapidly diminishing natural heritage would be successful in our quest, and that the people would wake up in time to learn that their heritage is limited and in danger.

  Rolling stiffly to my side and rising to one knee, I surveyed my rice field one more time for anything out of place and then climbed to my feet to meet the rest of the day. Shadow, who was the very essence of that word, rose also and looked up at me for a command or body-language indicator to tell her what was up. This was one of the most remarkable dogs I ever knew, loyal to a fault, expecting nothing more than just to be with me and experience life as I knew it. She filled a time in my life when I needed the companion that she was. I only hope that wherever she is now, she feels I did the same for her. She was a gift to me from a wife not of this world.

  Donna, my bride, knew she couldn’t be with me herself for many reasons. But she made sure she was at least represented in spirit, and so she was. Anyone who has had such a dog as this will understand and forgive me for having a hard time continuing until my eyes clear.

  It felt good to walk across the rice field that morning as I limbered up my stiff muscles and joints. The body heat that came from movement also felt good. It really was great to be alive. A pair of low-flying pintail, those greyhounds of the air, saluted that thought and brought a smile to my wind-burned face as they flew across the dawn toward the Sutter Buttes. Reaching my patrol vehicle, I pulled away the camouflage parachute covering it, repacked it in its protective container, threw it into the back of my pickup, loaded up Shadow, slid into the cold seat, started the truck, and drove down the muddy rice-field trail out to the pavement. Turning north on Lone Star Road, I headed for home, some of my wife’s good home-cooked breakfast, and a few hours’ sleep so I could start all over again.

  In my tiredness as I drove about a mile north on Lone Star Road, I neglected to focus instantly on the suspicious muddy tracks coming from a fallow field to the east. When the tracks entered Lone Star Road, they also turned north. My mind might have been cluttered from lack of sleep and all the other ailments that afflict working officers, but the mind of a game warden is never still. The inner alertness that comes from hunting humans spun my mind into full alert when I finally did sight the evidence of a pair of muddy tracks that fine morning. In a moment the cluttered decks of my mind were cleared for action. The truck rolled to a stop while my eyes examined the tracks in the rearview mirror and my mind searched for answers. There were no rice fields in that area, which meant there was nothing a commercial-market hunter of ducks would want from that section of the land. What about deer poachers? No, there was inadequate habitat for such critters, much less animal activity. By now I had stopped and was backing up to the spot where the tracks had exited the field and entered Lone Star Road.

  Squinting into the morning sun, my eyes followed the tracks over the trail they had left in the wet adobe Colusa County soil. They tracked eastward and out of sight into an area just south of the Colusa National Wildlife Refuge boundary. That was strange. There was nothing there except refuge boundary to the north and a creek to the east. There was nowhere to go, period. A fisherman maybe, but November was not a really hot time to fish, especially on that small creek. Staring into the unknown that came from too many questions and not enough answers, that unique instinct that comes to most of us in this profession began to make itself felt within my soul. There was something wrong here. The rush that comes from hunting your fellow human was again beginning to make itself felt. Sleep or my wife’s home-cooked breakfast would have to wait, I thought as I wheeled my patrol truck off Lone Star Road and into the familiar adobe mud of the county.

  Slipping and slidi
ng, I dropped the GMC into four-wheel drive and followed the tracks out into the field along the southern refuge boundary and into the area adjacent to the creek. There the tracks curved southward behind a large mound of dirt, left in the area by a past farmer, and stopped. Stopping shy of the spot where the other vehicle had positioned itself, I carefully got out and began to examine the ground. I had one thing in my favor, and that was heritage. My dad, Otis Barnes, had been raised among California Indians as a boy. He had run with, hunted with, swum with, and loved these friends as he did his own brothers. They appreciated him as well (especially in schoolyard fights—Dad was a hell of a fighter!) and spent time teaching, as Dad did learning, their ways. As a result of these teachings, Dad became an excellent tracker and had the eyes and senses of an eagle. Throughout the years of our all-too-short relationship, he had taught me many of these ways, and now I was making use of that heritage.

  Scanning the ground, I saw that the signs indicated a 4x4 pickup with an unusual off-road tread design. Identifying it as a four-wheel-drive was easy. When a 4x4 makes a turn, one of its front wheels will usually blur its track as the tire aids in pulling the rig forward. The tread was another matter. In Colusa County, I tried to make a mental note of every tread design used by my local outlaws.

  That way if I ever ran across that tread mark and an illegal situation, I would have a place to start my investigation. However, this tread was very aggressive, with a pattern unfamiliar to me from my travels in the Colusa farming country. Making a mental note, I continued with my field examination. There were three sets of footprints, two small (about size 9 or 10) and one large, at least a size 12.The size 12 emerged from the driver’s side of the vehicle and the smaller feet from the passenger side. The size 12 sank into the wet soil very deeply, indicating a pretty heavy man, considering the size of his foot surface. The other two footprints appeared to be as normal as day. All three were wearing vibram-soled boots, but the size 12 had what appeared to be a knifelike cut across the bottom of the left sole. This would be a good clue down the road, I said to myself. One of the men was a nervous heavy smoker. There were five cigarette butts left where the truck had been; all had teeth marks in them and were smoked down to the filter. Looking around for other clues, I noticed that where the truck had parked behind the dirt mound, it would not be visible from Lone Star Road. Moving closer for the first time, I walked to where the truck had been parked.