By the time I finally approached the hunters’ camp, my uniform shirt was soaked with sweat and I was completely covered with debris. My mouth tasted like cotton and was so dry I could barely swallow. I knew I was getting close, because I could hear laughter and the occasional sound of a truck door slamming.
“Anybody ready for another beer?” came a voice from the camp.
“What do you guys want to do with this extra food?” shouted another voice.
With stealthy footsteps, I entered the back side of the camp, nearest the river. Four newer model pickups were parked between me and the group. From my hiding place, I counted eight adult males. Five were sitting in lawn chairs. The other three appeared to be in the initial stages of breaking camp. Several large ice chests were on the ground and one was perched on the edge of a tailgate.
I stepped into the open and signaled Warden Szody, who immediately spotted me and signaled back. The hunters still had not seen me, so I returned to the rear of the camp. About five minutes later, a green Dodge Power Wagon headed our way from across the field, a thirty-foot-high wall of dust in its wake. The men in the lawn chairs were suddenly quiet, no longer joking about the day’s hunt. One of them jumped up and ran toward the ice chest on the tailgate. He pushed it into the bed of the pickup and threw a tarp over it.
“We would appreciate your leaving everything where it is,” I said, stepping into view. No one said a word. It was as if I had just hit a “pause” button. Szody pulled up about ten yards from the camp. He stepped out of the patrol truck and walked toward me. I asked him to keep an eye on things while I checked something out. Following the same well-worn trail that I had discovered the previous September, I walked straight to the clearing. The old pile of carcasses had decomposed long ago, but right beside it was another pile, just as high and just as wide. “These have to be the same guys,” I muttered to myself. I walked back into camp and pointed the path out to Szody. He followed the trail to the massive pile of feathers and dove carcasses, while I kept a close eye on the hunters.
“That’s one big pile of carcasses,” said Szody, returning to camp. “Looks like they were too lazy to pick ’em completely, so they just breasted ’em out.”
“I’m tempted to bust these guys for waste of game, along with the over limits,” I said.
Shotguns, game bags, ice chests and hunters were spread out all over the camp. With hundreds of doves to count and eight hunters to keep an eye on, Dave and I instructed the men to sit down in their lawn chairs while we conducted our business.
Seven of the hunters cooperated, but as is so often the case, one of them tried to shove his weight around. This time it was the older man in the group, about sixty years old and posturing like some kind of supervisor. “I have permission to hunt and camp in this field,” said the man. “What right do you have to come in here and bother us?”
I have to admit, the first thing that popped into my head was something I had recently heard one of the local deputy sheriffs say, down at Ox Bow Lake. I looked over at Warden Szody, with a barely detectable grin on my face. He knew exactly what I was thinking. Without going into a long dissertation, I explained that California Fish and Game wardens had legal justification to enter private property anywhere in the state where hunting was going on. We had been watching them blast away for the last two hours, so they were clearly hunting.
“You gentlemen have obviously killed a lot of doves,” I explained. “We are here to inspect them and check your hunting licenses. First we’re going to take a look at your shotguns to make sure there are no plugs missing. This process may take a while, so please sit back and relax.” I tried to be as cordial as possible, considering the verbal assault we had just received from their elderly leader. All the shotguns contained plugs, as required by law, and all eight hunters possessed valid California Hunting Licenses.
Szody opened the first ice chest, which was sitting on the ground close by. It contained food and drinks, but no evidence of game. The second and third ice chests were the same. A fourth chest was completely empty. I remembered one of the hunters pushing a large ice chest into the bed of his pickup and covering it with a tarp. Removing the tarp, I pulled the chest out onto the tailgate. Inside, I found several rows of one gallon milk cartons. Each carton was filled to the top with skinned-out dove breasts. “We’re going to have to do some counting,” I explained, as Szody brought over a large plastic bag to lay the birds on.
I proceeded to count dove breasts while Warden Szody tabulated the findings. An hour later, after going through two additional ice chests, we completed our count—328 dove breasts, six of which were too small to be anything but Mexican ground doves. The possession limit was twenty doves per hunter and there were eight hunters, making anything over 160 doves an over-limit. These hunters were in possession of 168 doves over the legal possession limit.
It turned out that all eight hunters worked for the same power company out of San Diego. Most of them had hunted this same field every dove opener for the last several years. I didn’t let on that I had found evidence of their previous year’s hunt. When I told them that they would all be charged with joint possession of 168 doves over the legal possession limit, the leader of the group spoke up again. He claimed that two members of their group had left earlier. This was a common ploy, for which Warden Szody and I were well-prepared. I explained that we had been watching them since 4:00 p.m. and no one had left during that time. We asked for the names and addresses of the hunters they claimed had left. That way we could have wardens contact them as they arrived home—probably carrying additional doves. Instead of eight, ten people would be charged for the obscene over-limit. When the men realized that their ruse had failed, they recanted and admitted that there were only eight of them involved.
The illegal 168 doves were seized as evidence, along with all eight shotguns. Surprisingly, not one of the hunters volunteered any type of excuse for their significant breach of the law. Based on what they had gotten away with during previous years, I figured they counted themselves lucky. In addition to a substantial fine, we would request forfeiture of the shotguns and revocation of hunting privileges for three years.
“Did you run into any snakes?” asked Szody, as we drove away.
“No,” I replied, “but next time, I drive the truck and you go wading through the brush. Have we got any water left?”
Chapter Five
Swans for Thanksgiving
I
Captain Reynolds had not exaggerated: the Colorado River was a virtual jewel in the desert back in the 1970s. During the August monsoon season, a bird watcher could expand his life list with species seldom seen north of the Mexican border or west of the Colorado River.
An avid birder myself, I was thrilled to spot vermilion flycatchers, summer tanagers, cardinals and blue grosbeaks for the first time. Every winter thousands of waterfowl and shorebirds crowded the river’s shallow sandbars. The most noticeable of those birds were the magnificent and graceful whistling (tundra) swans, which usually arrived in November and December. On a quiet day, you can hear them coming from miles away.
II
It was 2:00 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day, 1975, when the phone rang at Warden Dave Szody’s Blythe residence. Dave’s wife was getting ready to take a turkey out of the oven and Dave was setting the table. The weather was clear, reaching into the mid-seventies. “I’ll get it,” said Dave, as he walked into the other room and reached for the phone. Wardens who worked out of their homes in those days had only one phone line, which had to be used for personal and work-related calls. On this particular day, Dave Szody figured it was relatives, the neighbors or worst case scenario, the sheriff’s dispatcher calling. Had it been any other day, Szody would have welcomed a violation report and pounced on it like a chicken on a grasshopper. It was Thanksgiving, however, and guests from next door would be ringing the doorbell any minute.
“Hello,” said Szody, hesitantly. He could hear the familiar beeping in the background that le
t him know it wasn’t relatives on the other end of the line.
“This is Riverside County Sheriff’s Dispatch. Is this Warden Szody?”
“Yes.”
“We have a report of hunters shooting swans on the Colorado River.”
“Do you have a specific location?”
“The gentleman who reported the violation said it took place about a half mile south of Blythe, on a sandbar. The shooters were reportedly two older men in a small aluminum boat. I have the Arizona boat registration number and address information if you’re ready to copy.”
“Go ahead with the information,” replied Szody. “When did this happen?”
“The reporting party said the two men shot at least six swans and were retrieving them at approximately 9:00 a.m. He apparently just came off the river and couldn’t get to a phone before this. I asked for a callback number, but he wanted to remain anonymous.”
Szody looked at the clock and calculated that over five hours had elapsed since the incident. The dispatcher provided an Ehrenberg, Arizona address, which included a Space Number 12. Ehrenberg is located just across the river from Blythe. The space number indicated some kind of mobile-home park. Normally anything on the Arizona side of the river would fall outside of a California Fish and Game warden’s jurisdiction. Whistling swans, however, were protected under the federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act. California Fish and Game wardens were deputized by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to handle situations such as this, when no one else was available. In this case, there were no federal agents or Arizona Game and Fish officers within sixty miles.
Dave Szody wasn’t about to let anyone get away with killing swans in his patrol district. As he buttoned his uniform shirt and adjusted his holster straps, the dedicated young warden could hear their neighbors, Bill and Debbie, walking through the front door. “Pour them a glass of wine,” said Szody, “I’ll be back as soon as possible.”
A few seconds later, a beat-up dark green AMC Matador, with Fish and Game insignias on the side, roared out of the driveway and headed for Interstate 10. It took only ten minutes for Szody to reach the highway, cross the river into Arizona and head north into the tiny desert community of Ehrenberg.
A man walking his dog provided directions to the only trailer park in town, which was about five minutes farther down the road. Once inside, Warden Szody spotted an aluminum boat at the end of the first row of mobile homes. The boat was mounted on a trailer and attached to a Chevy pickup. Szody counted the space numbers as he slowly drove up the road. He stopped his patrol car in front of Space Number 10 and decided to go the rest of the way on foot.
With no search warrant or means of contacting the informant, Szody hoped to find some kind of physical evidence before knocking on the door. He peered into the boat, looking for any possible indication that swans had been killed. The deck was cluttered with empty beer cans, fishing tackle, a gunny sack full of duck decoys and several expended twelve gauge shotgun shells.
Reaching in, Szody picked up one of the expended shotgun shells. It was a BB load, smelling as if it had recently been fired. At the stern, lying next to a red removable gas tank, was the item Szody had been looking for: one snow-white down feather had lodged itself between the gas tank and the side of the boat. If this guy was trying to hide the evidence, he missed this one, thought Szody, as he picked up the feather and placed it inside his shirt pocket.
Unable to find any further evidence inside the boat, Szody slowly approached the residence. On his way to the door, he picked up eight more wispy white down feathers and noted a dozen or so blowing across the carport. It was fairly obvious that someone had recently been plucking swans.
Szody climbed the porch steps and knocked on the door. A sixty-plus-year-old woman answered, wearing a cloth apron and holding a glass of red wine in her right hand. Through the doorway, Warden Szody could see a portly, gray-haired man sitting at the kitchen table, drinking a beer. He was still wearing camouflage overalls from the morning’s hunt. Judging from the puzzled look on the woman’s face, she had no idea why this uniformed officer was standing on her doorstep. Apparently her husband had failed to tell her that the giant white birds he had brought home were federally protected and could not be killed or possessed.
“My name is Dave Szody. I am a California Fish and Game warden and a federal deputy. I’m here for the swans.”
“Chester, are you gonna to take care of this?” said the woman, giving her husband an angry stare.
“I guess we’re in some kinda trouble?” said Chester, as he set his beer on the table and stood up—his overalls splattered with blood and a tiny white down feather sticking to his left boot.
“You and another man reportedly killed at least six swans this morning,” said Szody. “I’m going to need all of them.”
“Two of ’em is out back and one is right there in the oven,” replied Chester.
“And the other three?”
“Ya need ta ask Bob, next door, about them.”
Chester’s wife started to pull the swan out of the oven, when Warden Szody told her to leave it there for the time being. He asked Chester to lead him to the other two swans in the backyard. Chester led Szody to a clothesline pole where two twenty pound swans were hanging in the shade. With their massive webbed feet dragging the ground and necks outstretched, the giant white birds were almost five feet long.
Chester took the swans down, grabbed them by their long necks and followed Warden Szody into the front yard. Szody asked to see identification and a current hunting license. Chester pulled out an Arizona Drivers License and an Arizona Hunting License. To his credit, he did have the appropriate state and federal duck stamps. Szody took the documents and advised Chester, whose last name was Claypool, to stand by while he went next door to pay Bob a visit.
Bob and his wife were just about to sit down to a swan dinner when Warden Szody knocked on their door. This time the bird was actually on the table when the door opened. Bob was four or five years older than Chester and had shaved and cleaned up since bringing the swans home. His expression quickly changed from elation, having just watched the Oregon Ducks score a touchdown on TV, to bewilderment and uncertainty. “Ah, we was just about ta eat,” he said. “Would ya like ta join us?”
Szody smiled and explained the situation.
“I already picked and cleaned ’em,” Bob said. “They’re in the freezer. I’ll fetch ’em for ya.” He followed Warden Szody out to the patrol car.
“I’m going to need to see your driver’s license and your hunting license,” said Szody. Bob, whose real name was Robert Wayne Tanner, brought out an Oregon Drivers License and a Non-resident Arizona Hunting License. Tanner and his wife were snowbirds, from Eugene, who came down from Oregon every year to escape the rain. Bob had also purchased the appropriate state and federal duck stamps.
Szody copied each of the men’s identification information and explained: “This is what’s going to happen. Technically I am seizing six unlawfully taken swans into evidence and returning one back to each of you. That is only because they have been cooked and would go to waste if I took them now. A U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent will receive my report and sometime in the next few months you guys will be notified to appear in federal court. That will probably be in Yuma or Phoenix.”
Szody might have taken a little more time to discuss the matter with the two men, but he was on a mission. He put the four swans in the trunk of his patrol car and drove away. The hungry warden raced back across the river to Blythe, making a quick stop at Captain Reynolds’s house to store the swans in an evidence freezer in the captain’s garage. Captain Reynolds invited Szody to stay for a “horn of corn,” but Szody knew that guests were waiting so he thanked him and continued on his way.
One hour and fifteen minutes after leaving the house, our hero walked in the front door and was handed a glass of wine by his wife. Everyone had plenty to talk about over dinner and the phone didn’t ring again for the rest of the day.
> The next morning, Warden Szody mailed his report to Selden Wright, the veteran U.S. Fish and Wildlife Agent, in Yuma. Agent Wright, whom Captain Reynolds jokingly referred to as “Seldom Right,” was more than happy to file a good swan case with the federal prosecutor.
Chapter Six
Crowley Trout Opener
I
The last weekend in April marked the opening of trout season in California’s Eastern Sierra Mountains. This annual spectacle rivals the Mardi Gras in New Orleans or spring break in Palm Beach.
Highway 395 out of the Los Angeles basin was jammed with a steady stream of cars, trucks, motor homes and trailers, all the way to Bridgeport. Every motel in Lone Pine, Bishop, Mammoth Lakes, Lee Vining and Bridgeport was booked and every campsite was full. What Christmas is to department stores, trout opener was to businesses in the Eastern Sierras. Fish and Game wardens from all over Southern California were commandeered to leave their own manageable districts and spend three days in virtual chaos.
Late one April in the mid-seventies, Warden Dave Szody and I were chosen to participate in this annual spectacle. It was an experience we’ll never forget.
Badges, Bears, and Eagles Page 7
