by Terry Grosz
Vince, a deputy California state Fish and Game reserve warden from Yuba City, and I, a California state Fish and Game warden stationed in Colusa, California, had sneaked into this field some time after dark. From our hiding place we had watched thousands of ducks moving into this area to feed, arriving in a highly visible “tornado.” This effect occurred when thousands of hungry ducks swirled into a rice field from hundreds of feet in the air like a vast living funnel cloud. The phenomenon was visible for miles to friend, foe, and duck alike.
Hiding our vehicle in a dry ditch under cover of darkness, we had crept to within forty yards of thousands of feeding ducks, then lain down and covered ourselves up in the rice straw to wait for any commercial-market hunter hoping to fill his freezer who might come along and liven up our evening. As I mentioned earlier, we waited in vain through most of the night until about three a.m., when our company arrived. Vince and I hardly breathed! I could see one of the lads out of the corner of my eye, and he was carrying a shotgun. I supposed the other lad was as well, but from where I was lying I couldn’t see him. In front of our position were about ten thousand feeding waterfowl making their characteristic flowing water sound as their bills hungrily searched the bottom of the field and stubble for spilled rice grains. I hadn’t been paying much attention to the species composition as the birds traded in and out of the field all night but probably should have. What had started out as all mallards and pintail, two highly desirable commercial species, had dissolved into wigeon, a less desirable market duck because of its poorer eating qualities. Wigeon ate a high percentage of grass, which made them a stronger-tasting table meat. That, as well as the fact that they were smaller than mallards and pintail, meant they brought a lesser price.
“Do you want to punch ’em, Bob?” came a voice from the night. There was a long silence and then the other voice said, “Nah.”
“Why not?” came the first voice.
More silence; then the other voice said, “They sound like most of them are wigeon.”
“Boy,” the first voice said, “now is the time to do it; there isn’t a game warden for miles.”
I goddamned near split a gut at that one, and I could tell from the faint rustling in the rice straw that Vince too was having a hard time not laughing out loud. I badly wanted to reach up and grab that bastard by the leg just to show him how close those “miles” really were. But I knew that if I did, I’d surprise him so badly that he would probably shoot at the thing holding his leg, and I didn’t think that would set too well with my constitution. Thinking better of my rash idea, I let well enough alone and kept my hands to myself. Presently the two dark figures moved off down the farm road toward the north in the direction of several other bunches of feeding ducks.
Once they were out of earshot, Vince and I moved up on the road and I turned on my Starlight Scope in order to follow the lads. The eerie light-green glow illuminated the two wanna-be draggers as they moved down the road, and I motioned for Vince to follow me as I followed them. Down the road we went, some forty yards or so behind the hunters, I with my eye fixed to the scope and Vince blindly following my rather large hulk. The two lads stopped again some distance from the next bunch of feeding ducks but, after some consideration, passed them by as well. Again, as they walked across the rice field toward another nearby bunch of feeding waterfowl, Vince and I tagged along like two bad dreams—bad because if the lads pulled a shoot on the feeding waterfowl, they would get a whole lot more than they had bargained for.
Passing the bunch of feeding waterfowl that our lads had just gone by, I determined from the sounds they were making that they too were mostly wigeon. The bunch the lads were now stalking was the real McCoy, that is, mostly mallards and pintail, premium market ducks. After a short discussion in the field of the night scope, the lads dropped to their hands and knees and started to sneak up on the feeding ducks, which were unaware of the approaching danger. Vince and I picked up the pace, I with my eye still on the scope keeping an eye on the lads’ progress so we could move closer to the action if and when it began. If they shot the ducks, we would have to be no more than thirty-five to forty yards away if we wanted to have any chance of catching them. Once within thirty-five yards of the sneaking poachers, Vince and I also dropped to a crawling position, and when the lads crawled, so did we. This went on until the draggers got within about fifty yards of the feeding ducks in the pale quarter-moon light.
All at once the ducks stopped feeding and in unison roared into the air. All of us froze, those sneaking up on the ducks and those sneaking up on the sneakers. For a moment all was pandemonium. Ducks were flying everywhere, from zooming over our heads at rice-check level to milling just overhead in the air. Within moments the ducks got organized, and before long all had left the rice field and headed northeast back to Delevan National Wildlife Refuge. The lads silently rose up and examined the rice field in front of them as if to say, What the hell happened? I asked myself the same question. Something had spooked the ducks, and now the bad guys had nothing to shoot. Through the scope I watched them finally trudge back across the rice field to the farm road and quietly walk back to where they had come from. I didn’t see any sense in following them because there weren’t any ducks in the direction they were going, and I didn’t want to spook them in the hope that they might return the next evening.
Vince and I let them leave and then moved slowly in the opposite direction across the now vacant rice field toward our hidden vehicle. Leaving the area before dawn, and before anyone could see us in the area, I headed home. I dropped Vince off so he could return to his home in Yuba City, and I went to bed for a couple of hours of much-needed rest. I knew I would be alone on the coming evening because Vince had to work at his regular job, so I figured I’d better get a couple hours of sleep because it was very hard to keep from going to sleep against a comfortable rice check in the fields when working alone. I thought, Working alone again, huh? That was pretty dumb. I had taken a load of number 4 shot earlier in my career trying to work these draggers by myself. You might think I would have learned my lesson by now about such lone-wolf activity. Nope! When you are young and immortal, crap like that doesn’t bother you until you are knee deep in it, and then it is too late to worry about anything except getting out of it anyway!
* * *
After getting four hours of sleep, I spent most of the day working the regular-season duck hunters in the northern clubs in my district and then cooked dinner for my bride, spending a few pleasant minutes with her after she came home from work. As soon as it got dark, I loaded up the patrol vehicle and Shadow, my retriever, and off we went to the wildlife wars.
Shortly after dark we slid into the same rice field Vince and I had occupied earlier, and stepping out of my hidden truck, I was rewarded with the flowing-water sound of thousands of feeding waterfowl happily gleaning what rice the farmer had left behind for them. Grabbing my Starlight Scope in one hand and my flashlight in the other, I headed off into the dark to see what the night had to offer the dog and her master. Not making the same mistake I had made the previous evening, I picked a bunch of feeding mallards and pintail away from the road. I positioned myself where I could easily watch the farm road in case it was used again by the shooters, yet close enough to the birds to be of help when the shooting started. Shadow and I dug into a pile of dry, sweet-smelling rice straw, propped our backs up next to a rice check, and watched the ducks mill around in front of us in their feeding frenzy. Correction—I watched the ducks. The dog was soon off into “dog land,” dreaming of who knows what, but whatever it was, her snoring and foot movements told me she was having the time of her life.
Along about midnight the cold began to tell, and I unpacked a light tarp and wrapped it around me as I sat there on the ground listening to the ducks and sensing the chilly breeze from the northwest on my left cheek. The weather was changing. I could sense the arriving moisture in the air and also noticed an increased urgency in the feeding behavior of the ducks. T
hey were moving around like a big feeding snake now, constantly adjusting their direction so they would always be heading into the wind. That way, if surprised, they could lift off into the air with a minimum of effort and be away from any danger in a heartbeat. All of the sudden I noticed they were feeding my way. Like a giant living vacuum cleaner with ten thousand bills, here they came. My tiredness from many previous long days had overcome my alertness, and now it was too late to move without alarming the birds into the air. So I just lay very still along that rice check, hoping not to spook the ducks. They came feeding right up to me in the dark and then went right over the top of me and the dog, all the while “talking” to anyone who would listen and gumming the hell out of any rice they found, not to mention pooping on everything under them.
God, it was the strangest feeling having the better part of ten thousand ducks walk over me, unaware of what they were doing. Shadow was awake now and shaking like a dog crapping peach pits! She knew better than to move unless told to, so she just lay there waiting for the command to “get ’em,” quivering all the time in anticipation. This duck parade crawling over me went on for about ten or fifteen minutes, mallards and pintail first, followed by wigeon and the like. Damn, it was the first time this had ever happened to me, and it was an experience I will never forget. Turning around on my rice check after the ducks had moved into the adjacent rice field, I again watched their progress with my scope, all the while searching the perimeter for any draggers who might be in the country. Finding none, I began to let the cold comfort of the rice straw and lack of sleep from several months of long hours take over and drifted off into a light but comfortable sleep.
A drop of rain on my face woke me to the predicted change in the weather. The ducks were feeding much more quietly now, as they had a tendency to do when the weather turned, and the frequency of the raindrops foretold wetter conditions on the way. Taking leave of my field after one more look through the scope, which was becoming useless in the increasing rain, I headed for my truck. By the time Shadow and I reached it, the rain was falling heavily. Putting the dog in the front seat with me, I started out of the field and headed for home. I was more tired than I had originally thought and had great difficulty staying awake. Realizing that I was falling asleep at the wheel far more frequently then common sense allowed, I picked up my speed in order to get home more quickly. Not a smart move but, unfortunately, what I did. Finally a combination of the warmth from the heater and deep tiredness began to really manifest itself along with the reduction of adrenaline flowing through my system now that the detail was over. Damn, it was all I could do to keep awake. Speeding along a deserted backcountry dirt road toward home, I opened my window and hung my head out into the rain to help keep me awake. Across the land I zoomed, trying to get home for some much-needed sleep.
As I sped along in the very heavy rain with my head out the window, my foggy brain picked up a roaring sound. As tired as I was, it didn’t register at first. The rain was coming down in sheets now, and I couldn’t see too far ahead, but I knew the road was straight as an arrow and I kept the hammer down. The roar continued, only louder now. Damn, what was that sound? I kept thinking. Then it dawned on me. Train! I was approaching an unmarked railroad crossing, and that sound was being made by a fast freight moving south in front of my speeding path. I slammed on the brakes as the sight of a line of boxcars moved across my way! Skidding from the speed I had built up in my haste to get home, the truck finally plowed to a stop not three feet from the side of the moving train. I was so close to that train that the wind it generated in its fifty-mph-plus speed rocked the truck every time another boxcar passed in front of the pickup! Small rocks thrown up by the train were hitting the truck as it sat there, so close to the flying boxcars that I could read the small print on their sides as they zoomed by.
My very close call had done the trick. I was awake now! In fact, my eyes were the size of garbage can lids, and sleep was the furthest thing from my mind. Noticing that my heart was beating at the staccato speed of a snare-drum roll, I waited for the train to pass. Damn, that was close! When the train had gone by, I just sat there for a moment thanking my guardian angels and then again headed for home. My speed was more acceptable now, and I had no trouble staying awake! After I reached home, it took an hour in bed before I settled down enough to drift off to sleep. Brother, I liked catching things—but not a speeding train!
* * *
Because the ducks were still using the west side of my district, I decided to continue my night efforts on that side of the valley and my daytime enforcement efforts checking waterfowl hunters on the east side. Located along the west side of my district were the historical market-hunting towns of Willows, Maxwell, and Williams. I figured that since most of the lads inclined to kill more than their share and at night were living in those towns, it wouldn’t take them long to recognize the shift in the feeding patterns of the ducks as well. Knowing what would come next in the form of killing fields if they were able to sneak up on the ducks, I decided it would be best if I put the blessing of a rather large “tule creeper” (a nickname for a game warden) into their baskets instead. I picked up Guy Bird, another deputy game warden, and a damn good one, I might add, and off we went to the west side to see if we could spin a little magic for the commercial-market hunters I suspected would be there.
Ditching my patrol vehicle and covering it with my brand- new camouflage parachute, we made our way into a likely-looking waterfowl feeding area inhabited by about fifty thousand feeding ducks scattered about in three large bunches. We quietly walked and crawled right into the middle of the noisily feeding ducks, picked a rice check for home base, and dug in to wait for any action that was to follow. On went my Starlight Scope, and boy, what a sight. Ducks were moving like bees in every field of view. The eerie green glow of the scope made the scene even more memorable as we took turns looking into the night made into day by the device’s technology. I thought our use of the scope was ironic because its original function was to aid solders in the job of killing. Guy and I were using it to stop killing. Life in all its aspects is really a mystery, I thought.
Taking turns, we alternated scanning the feeding ducks surrounding us on all sides from our kneeling positions alongside the rice check, watching for any suspicious human forms to sneak into our field of view. This routine went on into the wee hours of the morning as the ducks continued to eagerly feed around us on the abundant rice grains. Once they filled their crops, they would leave as others were arriving, constantly homing in on the sound made by thousands of their feeding brethren. Finally tiring of the stakeout because of the lack of activity, Guy and I decided we would pull up stakes and save our energies for another time. We loaded up our gear and after one more scan of the area began walking toward our concealed vehicle. The ducks nearest us who spotted us as we walked across the field lifted into the air with a soft whirring of wings and headed for points unknown. However, the urge to feed was very strong in the remaining many thousands of ducks, and they continued to feed like there was no tomorrow. I was uncomfortable leaving them there without their bodyguards, but I had to pace my energies or I would run out of gas before the end of the hunting season—or before the illegal night shooters did.
When Guy and I reached the patrol vehicle, I uncovered it and started to drive out into the field occupied by the feeding ducks. Reaching a spot where I was sure I would get the ducks’ attention, I turned on the headlights and siren. The lights illuminated a scene of thousands of feeding ducks scared witless at the approaching monster with two glowing eyes and a howl that could be heard clear up where God was sleeping. Up they went just as fast as they could clear each other and the ground. Up they climbed as Guy and I sat there watching them in utter fascination, and then the unexpected happened! Down they came right at the vehicle like dive-bombers of old! Wham, boom, bang, bang, ka-thump went the ducks as they hurled pell-mell into my parked vehicle. Bang, bang, out went the headlights as the flying bodies that we
re acting like living cannon shot broke them into hundreds of pieces! I had ducks flying through the open windows right through the cab as its two very surprised occupants tried to duck (no pun intended) to avoid injury. Crash went the windshield as several ducks exploded through it into our laps, and I could hear several more hitting the hood, roof, and bed of the truck. With the headlights gone, the onslaught of flying bodies slowly stopped. Guy and I just sat there in stunned surprise. A little pintail hen stood in the front seat of our truck with a look of amazement that had to match the expressions on our faces. Guy reached down and gently tossed her out the window, and she flew off as if nothing unusual had happened. Carefully getting out of the cab, covered with shattered glass, we surveyed the damage with our flashlights.
What a mess the ducks had made of my truck. There were dead ducks everywhere! Guy and I picked up eighty-three dead mallards and pintail that had killed themselves when they collided with the vehicle as it sat in that rice field. I always carried spare parts, and in a few moments I had replaced the broken headlights with spares. The windshield, mirrors, and dents I couldn’t do much about. Damn, what a catastrophe! I will never do that again, I said to myself as I threw another bunch of dead ducks into the back of my now dented and beat-up patrol truck. Previously when I had pulled the same maneuver, the birds had just flown away from the lights and siren. That night for some reason they decided to crash-land on my truck, and needless to say, they did so with a vengeance!
We swept the broken glass out of the front seat and broke out the remaining windshield. I then headed the truck toward the state- controlled shooting area at the Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge just a few miles north. Since the next morning was a shooting day, I knew there would be a lot of hunters camping in the parking lot awaiting their chance to go hunting once the area opened up. When we got there, Guy and I located all the kids we could find who were too young to hunt and gave them each a limit of the ducks who had been foolish enough to run into my truck at a high rate of speed. This done, we headed home for a night’s sleep.
