I watched several large salmon working their way upstream. All but one appeared to be male, displaying the striking deep red spawning coloration on their back and tail regions. The fisherman made nine or ten casts across the riffle before finally hooking a fish. It was a large male, weighing thirty pounds or more. The fish was hooked in the back, just above the adipose fin. Rather than allowing the salmon to put up a fight, the man horsed it toward the north shore and up on the rocks. Glancing in several directions, he walked into some high grass along the edge of the river and stashed his ill-gotten prize. I made a mental note of the hiding place and watched as the violator returned to the river and began the process again.
Scanning the area, I decided on the best way to approach the salmon snagger: I would need to cross the river and head downstream. A trailer park was located directly north of the violator, about one hundred yards away. That’s probably where this guy came from and where he’ll be taking the fish, I thought. Returning to my truck, I headed for the Market Street Bridge, a couple of blocks away. The first road on the north side of the bridge led to the trailer park.
Once inside the park, I maneuvered my dark green Power Wagon through several rows of older mobile homes. It didn’t take long before I attracted an audience. A group of older men sitting in the shade of a carport were particularly interested. “What are ya lookin’ for?” one of the men called out. I smiled and waved as I went by. Finally reaching the south boundary of the trailer park, I locked my truck and walked toward the river.
When I had gone about a hundred yards, I spotted the salmon snagger. It was the same man I had watched from the bluff, busy reeling in yet another salmon. Just as before, the salmon was foul-hooked in the back and horsed onto the rocks. “You can go ahead and carefully release that one,” I ordered, walking toward the salmon snagger. The startled suspect turned toward me, eyes wide and jaw slack with fright. Without missing a beat, he attempted to block my view and pull the large treble hook from the salmon’s back. “That won’t be necessary,” I said. “I saw where you hooked the fish. Now carefully return it to the water without injuring it any further.”
Before the snagger could think of any more evasive actions, I reached for his fishing rod and secured the treble hook to the tip. I asked to see his fishing license and identification. Both documents indicated that the man’s name was Ronnie Charles Webb.
“Now lead me to the salmon you hid in the weeds,” I said.
“I don’t have any salmon hid in the weeds,” he replied.
“Come with me,” I said.
We walked directly to the spot where I had seen the man stash his salmon. There I discovered not one fish, but three. All three salmon were still wet—one began flopping when I touched it. Bloody gashes covered their backs. I tried to save the flopping salmon by placing it back in the river, but it had been out of the water too long. After enduring a three-hundred-mile journey from the ocean, this fish was completely spent. By the time these exhausted travelers reach the upper Sacramento River, they are usually dark, covered with abrasions, and pretty beat-up—not likely to be very good for human consumption.
Many Fish and Game officers would have issued a citation for such a violation and delivered it directly to the court. I preferred to handle significant cases by submitting typed, long-form complaints through the district attorney’s office. That way I could do a thorough job of presenting the case, justifying the charges and documenting the evidence. This method would not only gain the respect of the district attorney’s office, it would ensure a more suitable disposition (fine/sentence). Professionalism was and is very important to me and I wanted to set a positive example for the wardens I would soon be supervising. My formal complaint charged Webb with the unlawful take and possession of three salmon in a salmon spawning area and with unlawful method of take—snagging.
Over the twenty-one years following that first incident, I made hundreds of similar salmon cases. I often asked myself, Am I really making a difference chasing violators around at all hours of the day and night? While my crew and I were saving a few salmon here and there, millions of these valuable fish were being destroyed every year. Fingerling salmon and steelhead were being diverted into irrigation ditches and out into fields. Water diversions were robbing streams of enough cold water to sustain fish. Dams and other manmade obstacles were cutting fish off from traditional spawning grounds. Pollutants were pouring into rivers, streams and the Pacific Ocean from a thousand different sources. A juvenile salmon has a one in a thousand chance of making it from a hatched egg, downstream to the Pacific Ocean and, three or four years later, back upstream to spawn. I felt that if one of those incredible fish somehow made the 300-mile journey back from the ocean—past all the predators, the obstacles, the pollutants and the legal fishermen—it deserved a chance to spawn and perpetuate the species. That’s if some outlaw didn’t snag it, net it, spear it, shoot it, club it or hit it with a rock.
All biological, statistical and practical reasons aside, I had to do what I could to increase each fish’s chances of survival, no matter how inadequate my efforts.
Chapter Eleven
Assault with a Deadly Salmon
I
Dave Szody eventually tired of 115-degree summer days and the smell of cotton defoliant drifting from the nearby fields. A warden’s district opened up at the other end of the state, where cool fog dripped from forests of redwoods and Douglas firs. Instead of bone-dry washes, there were rivers and streams filled with native salmon and steelhead. In 1980, when Dave arrived at his new Fortuna Patrol District, the local wardens regaled him with a tale so incredible, it had to be true.
It happened on the Eel River during the late seventies. At that time, the Eel River was producing some of the best Chinook salmon runs in memory. Salmon weren’t just plentiful; they were big, averaging over twenty-five pounds each. Word spread like wildfire and every outlaw in the country converged on this famous spawning stream.
In those days, Bob Taylor was the area Fish and Game warden. During the spawning season, he had his hands full covering not only the Eel but several other anadromous streams that flowed through his busy North Coast patrol district. One of the most popular poaching spots was the “Box Car Hole,” located just outside the city limits of Fortuna. Railroad tracks along the north bank of the river were threatened by erosion, so the railroad company buried a string of old box cars along the track to hold the bank together. The railroad’s erosion control plan created a couple of very deep pools at the base of the box cars, providing an ideal stopover for migrating salmon. Salmon will swim the riffles and shallower parts of a stream and stop to rest in the deeper pools. In this case, large concentrations of fish stacked up in the Box Car Hole and became targets for both legal and illegal fishermen.
During daylight hours, the Box Car Hole was usually crowded with “legal” anglers who did a pretty good job of policing themselves. If someone foul-hooked a fish, the other fishermen kept a keen eye on that person until he released the fish unharmed. After sundown it was a different story. The legal fisherman would go home, leaving the outlaws with the entire river to themselves. Like roaches scurrying from under the kitchen sink, dark silhouettes would surface along the riverbank. Instead of six legs, this particular species had two—each man carrying a rod and reel—outfitted with heavy-test monofilament line. Attached to that line would be a fist-sized three-pronged hook, weighted with a wrap-around pencil sinker. Wardens referred to this illegal setup as “snag gear.”
One moonlit night, Warden Taylor was out working his district’s spawning streams. He decided to check out the Box Car Hole before going home. It was approaching midnight when Bob grabbed his binoculars, locked his patrol truck and began walking the narrow foot path that led to his observation site. Once there, he began scanning the riverbank below.
“Oh no, not him again,” whispered Taylor, as he trained his binoculars on a pickup with a camper shell, parked at the water’s edge. Warden Taylor immediately rec
ognized the pickup as belonging to a local poacher named Alvis Musser. Most of the Eureka-area law enforcement officers were very familiar with this stereotypical Humboldt County dope-growing outlaw. Musser was a short, stocky, thirty-five-year-old with a three-inch scar on his right cheek. He wore the scar like a badge of honor, claiming he got it in a knife fight. In actuality, Musser had snagged himself in the face one night while carelessly casting a large treble hook. This pint-sized troublemaker had a big mouth and a huge chip on his shoulder. Ready to fight at the drop of a hat, Musser was always in trouble. Wardens would say, “If Alvis Musser put as much effort into doing things legally as he does doing things illegally, we would be reading about him in Forbes Magazine.” He was a thief, a dope-grower and a world-class poacher. When Musser wasn’t poaching deer or salmon, he was stealing redwood burls and shake bolts from the timber companies.
Musser and two other men stood knee-deep in the river. Taylor wasn’t able to identify the other two, but they were all attempting to snag salmon. “Here we go again,” mumbled Taylor. He recalled an incident that had taken place several weeks earlier, on a remote sandbar downriver. As was usually the case, Taylor was working alone that day with no backup available. He caught Musser and three of his outlaw buddies in the act of snagging salmon. Warden Taylor gathered identification from each man and began to issue citations. Dealing with four loudmouthed recalcitrants who have been drinking beer all afternoon is no easy task. Keeping one eye on the citation book and the other on the violators, Taylor continued to write. Meanwhile Musser and his three buddies became argumentative and increasingly belligerent.
“I’m going to seize your equipment and your fish as evidence,” announced Taylor, as he finished issuing the last citation. “It will be up to the judge whether or not you get your gear back.”
With that, the easily agitated Musser went into orbit, following Taylor to his patrol vehicle, shouting expletives every step of the way. The five-foot-ten inch, one hundred and sixty-five pound warden wanted to place Musser under physical arrest, but taking all four of these drunken Humboldt County hooligans into custody was out of the question. “If you ever mess with me again, it will be the last thing you ever do!” shouted Musser, as Taylor climbed into his patrol vehicle and drove away.
Warden Taylor considered his options as he continued to watch the three salmon snaggers in the river below. Given the late hour and what had happened during his last encounter with Musser and his associates, Bob decided to play it safe and request backup before moving in. The Box Car Hole being less than a mile from the Fortuna Police Station, he asked the dispatcher to try Fortuna PD first. Dispatch came back a few minutes later and advised Taylor that it was against Fortuna Police Department’s policy to respond to anything outside of the city limits.
Humboldt County Sheriff’s Deputy Phil Eastman was working graveyard shift that night and overheard the radio traffic. “I will be responding from Eureka,” said Eastman. “My ETA (estimated time of arrival) is thirty minutes.” Warden Taylor knew Deputy Eastman and considered him one of the best deputies to have at his side, should anything go wrong. A few years earlier, Eastman had responded to a call regarding a 5150 (psycho) and found himself staring into the business end of a twelve gauge shotgun. A cool head and years of law enforcement experience prevailed. Deputy Eastman was able to talk his way out of the situation and arrest the man without any shots being fired. Joining Deputy Eastman as backup for Warden Taylor was Patrolman Frank Chapin from the nearby Ferndale Police Department. Tiny Ferndale had only one officer and Chapin just happened to be on duty.
While Warden Taylor waited for his backup to arrive, he watched Musser and his companions land several salmon and stash them inside Musser’s camper shell. Meeting the two officers back at his patrol car, Taylor filled them in on the situation—explaining how Musser had threatened him a few weeks earlier. He advised them to be ready for a fight. Both Eastman and Chapin had dealt with Musser before and understood the potential danger. Eastman was an average-sized officer, standing about six feet tall and weighing 185 pounds. Chapin stood about five-foot-nine and, like so many small-town police officers, had become too fond of donuts and sweet rolls. He tipped the scales at 275 pounds and had a reputation for busting out the seat springs in patrol units.
As the three officers approached, Deputy Eastman focused on Musser while Taylor and Chapin confronted the other two poachers. “Department of Fish and Game,” announced Warden Taylor. “You are all under arrest for unlawfully taking salmon.” Taylor instructed the three subjects to hand over their illegal fishing gear. As Deputy Eastman reached for Musser’s fishing rod, the unpredictable Musser suddenly jerked it out of Eastman’s hand. They tussled over the rod for a few seconds before Musser released his grip, turned around and ran into the camper shell.
“He’s got a gun, he’s got a gun!” shouted Eastman, as Musser reappeared in the doorway of the camper shell, brandishing a loaded .25 caliber semi-automatic pistol. Deputy Eastman drew his revolver and aimed it at Musser: “Drop the gun and come out!”
Warden Taylor couldn’t see Musser from where he was standing and immediately assumed that all three subjects were armed. He and Officer Chapin drew their revolvers and ordered Musser’s two companions to drop to the prone position and not move. Meanwhile, Deputy Eastman and Musser seemed to be at a standoff—both pointing their weapons at each other. “Drop your weapon and come out of the camper!” shouted Eastman. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
The hammer of Deputy Eastman’s revolver was millimeters from reaching its apex and beginning its downward trajectory when Musser finally put his gun down and stepped out of the camper. “Turn around and place your hands behind your back,” instructed Eastman. Musser began to comply, then wheeled around and attempted to overtake the officer. With the other two poachers still lying prone on the ground, Taylor and Chapin ran to assist Deputy Eastman. Musser proved to be as strong as he was stupid: He was squealing like a stuck pig when Officer Chapin placed his right knee in the small of Musser’s back, applying the full force of his massive torso. Musser gasped for breath and quit resisting long enough for Eastman and Taylor to force his arms behind his back and apply the cuffs.
After all three poachers had been safely secured in the caged section of Deputy Eastman’s patrol unit, Eastman, Chapin and Taylor stood nearby.
“Damn!” exclaimed Chapin, brushing the sand off of his rumpled uniform. “You fish cops have a dangerous job.”
“That was just routine,” replied Taylor, laughing. “We do that every night.” Warden Taylor was just kidding, but contacting potentially dangerous subjects while working alone was very much a part of a Fish and Game warden’s job. This time backup had been available, but that wasn’t always the case.
Alvis Musser watched from the rear window of Deputy Eastman’s patrol car as Warden Taylor unloaded several unlawfully taken salmon from Musser’s camper shell. As Eastman pulled away, Musser couldn’t pass up the opportunity to show everyone how tough he was: “I’m gonna get you, Taylor!” Musser squeaked in his high pitched, irritating voice.
“Shut up Musser, you blithering idiot,” responded Deputy Eastman. “You’re in enough trouble already.”
Alvis Musser was charged with resisting arrest and felony assault on a peace officer. He was eventually tried, convicted and sent to state prison for several years. The other two subjects, who had not been armed and had cooperated with the officers, were charged the fishing violations, ordered to pay their fines and released.
II
Shortly after moving to the North Coast, Warden Dave Szody met Rio Dell Police Sergeant Pat White. Although White worked for the local police department, he cared deeply about preserving natural resources and frequently worked with Fish and Game on important investigations. While still in his early twenties, White had volunteered to go undercover and help take down a large commercial deer poaching ring. He proved so credible as an undercover operative that Fish and Game used his service
s again about a year later: this time Pat played the role of a sleazy sturgeon poacher. He was able to infiltrate a group of Klamath River commercial sturgeon poachers, leading to their eventual arrest and conviction.
White was born to be a backwoods cop. He worked on the family ranch, became an accomplished horseman, rode bulls in the rodeo and learned to fix anything with a wrench and a screw driver. Pat never went to college, but compensated for his lack of formal education with natural street smarts and an uncanny ability to read people. Standing five feet nine inches tall and weighing 160 pounds, this cop was tough as nails—the kind of officer you wanted with you in case of trouble. Dave Szody described White as being “steadfastly loyal.” “When you work with Pat White,” Szody would say, “you never have to worry about your back.”
During the fall of 1981, Sergeant White responded to a domestic disturbance report of a woman being beaten by her boyfriend. The victim, Mary Heath, told the dispatcher that her boyfriend—none other than Alvis Musser—had assaulted her. Heath was the classic fishwife, 185 pounds of piss and vinegar. She had such a foul mouth that the neighbors could hear her cussing from clear down the street.
“That son of a bitch hit me with a fish,” Heath shouted over the phone—her voice so loud that the dispatcher had to remove her earphones.
As White entered the house, the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke reminded him of the bar fight he had broken up the night before. He immediately noticed that Heath had been beaten to a pulp: her face and head were black and blue, covered with dried blood. One of Heath’s lower teeth was missing, but White remembered that from the previous time he had responded to a call at her residence.
“Are you all right?” asked White.
“I told him I was gonna turn his ass in this time,” replied Heath.
Badges, Bears, and Eagles Page 12
