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

by Terry Grosz

  In those days I was considerably stronger than I am today, especially after thirty years in the trenches. I remember during my early years testing my hand strength at the doctor’s office on one of those devices that measured your strength in pounds. I could easily grip 220 pounds in my right hand! When I played college football, many times my teammates complained after I had grabbed them as they ran by carrying the ball during scrimmages. Suffice it to say that once I got my hand on you, your distance to run was 37.5 inches (the length of my arm). I could just imagine what had gone through this chap’s mind, I thought as I crawled over his inert form looking for the rest of the bunch responsible for the mess before me. As I emerged from my hiding place, a voice in the dark hissed, “Grab these and stack them in the boxes.” This was too good to be true, I thought—they thought I was one of them! Staying low so they wouldn’t recognize the bearlike form as the local game warden, I pitched in to help with the chores at hand.

  There were three more lads working at fever pitch picking up the ducks and a lone one standing guard on the ditch bank on the lookout for the game wardens. His job, as I had found out earlier in my career, was to shoot at the game warden if one was discovered moving in on the shooters as they picked up their ill-gotten gains. Moving closer to the two busy forms picking up dead ducks, I felt for the reassuring grip of my pistol, which I had replaced in the holster, and the heavy five-cell flashlight in the other hand that could do double duty as a club. With that confidence booster, I turned on the light and grabbed the two nearest chaps, one in each hand, taking them to the ground in a fashion that clearly meant business.

  “Game warden, you are under arrest,” I boomed.

  Swinging around quickly over the two stunned lads on the ground at my feet, I yelled, “Freeze!” to the lad on the ditch bank, but he disappeared as if the ground had sucked him straight down into its bowels! There was no way he could shoot without hitting his two pals, and both of us knew it. I had hoped to freeze him with the surprise of attack, but to no avail. He was making off like a jackrabbit! The two lads on the ground were trying to get up and get away, so I put my knee on one’s back, grabbed the other with my right hand, and jerked him hard back to the ground. Very hard, in fact, on behalf of the pintail that had died by my leg. I now had control of the two in the field and saw by looking back at the boxes that my other lad still had not regained consciousness. The lad on the bank and the other in the field were gone, but I still had a fair sample of the men doing the dirty work that evening. Grabbing handcuffs from my belt pouch, I cuffed the two lads on the ground and jerked them to their feet. I wanted to make sure they understood who was boss in the field that night. They got the message.

  One of my handcuffed chaps I recognized right off as a farmer from Maxwell; the other was an unknown. Pushing the lads toward the boxes, I sat them down hard and reached in to retrieve the inert fellow who had grabbed and been grabbed. He was groaning a lot, and for a moment I thought I may have hurt his neck, but it turned out he was all right. I swung my flashlight beam all around and, satisfied that the others had run off for good, returned to my catch of the day for identification. One, as I said, was a farmer from Maxwell, a big raw-boned kid named Dave whose dad had a reputation for killing ducks in days past. Like father, like son, I guessed. The other two were visiting farmers from the Yuba City area up for a good time. Well, if you went by the poundage of the lad who had joined in their fun, then they had a great time!

  I took all their driver’s licenses and uncuffed my two subdued farmers. Then we all picked up dead ducks for the next hour. The tally for their night’s work was 461 ducks, plus one game warden with still ringing ears. Stacking the ducks by the boxes, I made each man carry all he could, and I did the same. That way if the other lads came in behind me and took the rest, I would still have enough evidence to prosecute the lads I had caught. We walked to where my truck was hidden and loaded the ducks into the back along with the lads, and then I drove back into the field to pick up the rest of the night’s kill. Once loaded, I drove Dave and his friends to Dave’s home in Maxwell.

  Moving into his garage, Dave turned on the light, and the four of us stood there looking at each other.

  “Dave,” I said, “you know better than to do this.”

  “Terry, write the ticket, will you? I really don’t feel like talking about it right now. Maybe later, but not now.”

  Not wanting to rub his nose in it, I complied. Dave was issued a citation for taking an over-limit, wanton waste, use of an unplugged shotgun, and shooting after hours. The standard penalty in those days for such activity was a $2,000 ticket.

  Once finished with him, I asked, “Who were your pals, Dave, who chose not to stand with you lads?”

  He just shook his head, indicating he would not tell. I knew they would share in paying the fine, so I let it go at that, hoping Dave might talk to me later. I wrote the other two lads up for the same violations, and when I handed them their tickets, the fellow named Bob said, “That is the worst scare I’ve ever had in my life! You can’t possibly imagine what went through my mind that instant I reached for that duck and you grabbed me by the neck. Mister, my heart still hasn’t stopped beating like it’s out of control! I’m here to tell you, I will never do that ever again as long as I live.”

  Somehow I could relate to his feelings and believed him when he said this was his first and last time for this kind of tomfoolery. All of us then field-dressed the ducks so they wouldn’t spoil and I left to find my friendly duck picker, Angelo Jaconetti, so I could finish the process of preserving the seized ducks. I made sure before I left the garage that I shook the hand of all the lads I had just caught to show no hard feelings. I also made sure during each handshake that each and every one of them realized there was a man on the game- warden end of that handshake!

  * * *

  That evening found me again staking out several large bunches of ducks by myself. This time I was just north of Colusa on Beauchamp’s farm, and the ducks were there in great numbers. It was a real pleasure to see thousands of waterfowl swirling in the air and landing in great hordes as they were doing that evening. I always considered that kind of viewing a treat, and a tribute to those officers who came before me. Along about midnight I heard a rip of shots, like the tearing of a bedsheet, a sound characteristic of a drag shoot on feeding ducks. Gritting my teeth, I tried to echo-locate the sound, finally placing it across the Sacramento River and about even with my location. There was a typical dragger’s moon out, and the lads were making the most of it. Deciding to stay all night on the Beauchamp place because of the large numbers of feeding ducks, I put the shots out of my mind and snuggled down into the dry, sweet-smelling rice straw for the duration.

  About two-thirty in the morning, I again heard the ragged sound of a string of shots characteristic of illegal shooting of the ducks feeding in the rice fields. This time the shots were again across the Sacramento River but far north, somewhere near the Princeton area. With those sounds I began to be a not-so-happy camper. I had long ago realized that I couldn’t catch all the bad guys, but I sure liked to try! Damn. I knew where I was going to be during the night coming up. If those bastards carried off their illegal duck shoots without interference, they would usually be right back at it in the same place the following night. But if I had my way, this time there would be another guest in the field besides the ducks! Not sleepy now, I sat up in my straw hiding place and watched my ducks do their dance of life as they contentedly fed all around me.

  There it was again! Another rattle of shots, this time a long one characteristic of at least five gunners! Damn, the lads were sure having the time of their life in the rice fields to my east at the expense of the ducks. I knew there weren’t any federal officers in the valley to put a stop to this slaughter, only me, and I was tied down on the Beauchamp place. Large as I was, I began to realize just how thinly I was spread around! Those poor damn ducks. They came in for a mouthful of feed and ended up with a faceful of l
ead shot! Damn, damn, damn! My frustration was not offset by the beautiful sunrise God offered up to console His faithful servant lying in a straw pile in a rice field in Colusa County. That morning, after listening to that shootfest on the east side all night, did not make for anything more than a grouchy game warden. When that game warden was twice the size of a regular game warden, a man had better watch out—especially if he had plans to shoot ducks and was within that 37.5-inch grabbin’ distance.

  * * *

  That evening after it got good and dark, I slowly drove by the Garvin Boggs ranch house. There was no sign of lights or life in the house. Hurrying to a wide spot in the road, I spun a tight reverse turn, shut off all my lights, including brake lights (special switches in the vehicle enabled me to cut off all lights so I could sneak around in the dark), and turned down the dirt lane running alongside the darkened Boggs house. Moving as fast as I could go in the dark with eyes not yet adjusted to night driving, I hurried east toward Terrill Sartain’s rice-farming ground, looking for a place to hide my truck before I was discovered. Catching market hunters demanded not only a lot of skill but a ton of luck. That luck started if one was able to get into a likely-looking area without being seen. As near as I could tell, I had done so.

  I parked my truck in a wide ditch that was about a foot deeper than the height of the truck. It had originally been sloped so farm equipment could get into it for repair work. The slope made a perfect ramp for me to drive down into the ditch and be hidden, unless the night shooters planned to use the same ditch. If that was the case—and it had happened to me once—it really caused a case of the big eye and tight hind end on the part of the bad guys when they found the local game warden’s rig parked there before them! That night my hiding place worked like a charm, and no one else showed. I quickly covered my truck with a camouflage parachute and scrambled up onto the ditch bank for a look-see at my world for the evening.

  The air for as far as I could see with my Starlight Scope was full of ducks seeking a place to eat. I would bet there were at least 100,000 ducks milling around. I could see seven huge tornado-like funnels of ducks working down into different places all to the northeast of me in that thousand acres of rice around Sartain’s. God, it was awe-inspiring! I was brought back to reality with the realization that about five hundred yards behind me was the place where I had been shot in 1967. I mentally vowed to never again let such a thing happen and then pushed that thought out of my mind so I could concentrate on that evening’s events. There were several rice dike cross-checks smack-dab in the middle of those whirling masses of waterfowl, and I mapped out a route that would take me right to where I believed the shooters, if they struck again, would position themselves.

  Working into my target area, I used the cover of another ditch bank to cover my progress. Every fifty yards or so I would stop, pan the area with my night-vision scope, memorize the lay of the land, and, using that mental picture, move forward some more in the inky blackness. Striking my cross-ditch, I moved east down it toward where I heard the greatest sound of feeding ducks. Damn, what a sound of music for the soul of a game warden. If that didn’t recharge my tired batteries, nothing would! Sliding into the deep unharvested rice grass next to a small farm access road, I took a position from which I could watch four distinct flocks of feeding ducks. My position would also allow me a running chance at anyone who might try to shoot into any of the feeding bunches. Perfect, I thought as the adrenaline began to rise within me. The hunter and the hunted—what better a way to spend an evening than casting for your fellow humans!

  Along about one a.m., the dragger’s moon made its appearance. Less than half a moon. Perfect for those stalking the ducks, I happily thought. With that evening’s hazy skies, there was just enough light for hunters to stalk and shoot the ducks but not enough for the game wardens to chase them effectively without using a light. I swept my field of view at one-thirty a.m. with the night-vision scope. Nothing. Every fifteen minutes I did the same, but no takers. Damn, that was not like the lads. When they scored like they had the morning I heard all the shooting in this area, they usually would come back unless they had killed all they wanted. Breaking out two sandwiches that I had previously sat on, I sat down on the ground and was starting to enjoy my wife’s meatloaf in one of them when I had a visitor. Down my side of the road bank ambled a striped skunk, heading right for me. By the time I spotted him, I was within his firing range. Freezing, forgetting the good sandwich in my hands, I watched this problem as he came right up to my outstretched boots. Stopping (as I was afraid he would do), he paused and then turned and came straight between my legs toward my crotch. This episode was now starting to have serious implications! I could get gunned down with nature’s perfume, get bitten in what was definitely the wrong place, or both. I didn’t see any options except to hold my ground (what the hell else could I do?) and hope for the best. In a heartbeat I could see what the object of his attention was. The other meatloaf sandwich I had tossed between my legs for safekeeping.

  Moving right over the sandwich, my visitor began his dinner while I held onto the sandwich in my hand, hoping for a chance to eat it without being “skunked” in the process! My skunk had manners, and it took him about ten days to eat his damn sandwich. Finally, without a thank-you or anything, he ambled off. Boy, was I glad to see him go. I watched him to make sure he was gone, and once satisfied that he was, I took a bite out of my sandwich. Almost throwing up, I realized that his wonderful odor had permeated my sandwich, and it was no longer usable as my dinner! Checking myself over, I realized that after he left I had closed my legs. Apparently he had left some residual odor, and now the two of us had something in common after I had dragged my legs over the scent left on the grass.

  Damn, would my wife love me! Not having anything to eat, I was forced to get back to work and check out my ducks. Sweeping the fields of feeding birds, I was satisfied that all was well. Then, looking back toward the area I had come from, I was stunned to see two lads standing in the pale moonlight not thirty-five yards from where I sat. Jesus, my hair went straight up! They had crept to within a very short distance of my position and were intently watching the ducks. My thoughts went back to that morning in 1967 when I had been shot by someone I had not seen. These two lads had sneaked too close for comfort. I wondered if anyone else were with them.

  Quickly scanning the area around me from my hidden position with the night-vision scope, I satisfied myself that there was no one else in the area. Easing even further into the ground and loose rice straw where I sat, I continued to watch the lads to see what they were going to do. Once they committed themselves, then I could make up my plan of action and with any luck catch at least one of them. They stood there for quite a while, then dropped down on their hands and knees and started crawling down the same road I was hidden on, but on the other side of the road bed. Since the little road was only about ten feet wide, I really dug in so they wouldn’t discover me before my time. Fat chance! They crawled to a point just about opposite me on the other side of the road and then smelled the skunk scent on me.

  “Whew,” went one of the lads, “there’s a skunk very close to us, Bob.”

  “I know,” said the other voice. “Try not to rile him.”

  “Well, we know the game wardens aren’t in the country with that little bastard around so close,” responded the first voice.

  Damn! Those voices were the same ones that had stood over Vince and me several days earlier in a rice field north of Williams, commenting on the lack of game wardens in the country! Man, did my heart ever race with the prospect of possibly catching these lads this time! A warden hardly ever got a second chance at bad guys like this, and I damned well was going to make the best of it this time. No three strikes and you are out on this one! Two strikes was fair, I thought.

  As I watched, the lads continued crawling east toward about ten thousand feeding mallards and pintail. Watching the lads through the Starlight Scope, I could see that they were hea
ding for what is known as a dogleg rice check, that is, a U-shaped one. This kind of approach can be bad news for the feeding ducks because they will jam into the constricted area in massive numbers before they move over that check into the next part of the rice field. If a market hunter or poacher plays his cards right, he will wait on the opposite side of the berm until the area created by the dogleg in front of him is chock-full of ducks and then pull his shot. Usually the shooters will wait until just moments before the feeding horde of ducks flows over the rice check out of the area created by the dogleg into the next section of the field. At that moment one of the poachers will whistle softly, whereupon all the duck heads will go up en masse to listen for the sound of danger. The first shot will go right into all the raised heads, which really makes for a killing-field situation that is unreal. Then, as the remaining ducks rise up off the ground like a sheet being lifted, the shooter will continue to pour round after round into the wall of ducks, killing a new portion of birds leaving the ground at each shot. If it’s done right, several shooters without plugs in their shotguns, keeping their shot streams low, can kill three hundred to four hundred ducks in one sitting! This number does not take into account the hundreds of ducks that take a few shot pellets as they attempt to flee and die moments or days later as a result of those wounds. Suffice it to say, it’s a very deadly way to harvest a great number of ducks in short order!

  My two lads headed for one side of the dogleg check, and the unsuspecting feeding ducks, still thirty-five to forty yards away, headed for the other side. A disaster in the making, I thought as I watched events unfold. The two lads crawled to the point of the check and then, after a hurried conversation, split, assuming positions on either side of the point of the rice check. I suspected they had looked the area over and concluded they could kill more ducks if they caught them in a slight cross fire. Later events would prove that assumption correct. The lads dug into the side of the rice check and all but disappeared from view.