Szody and I listened for a few more minutes before heading back to the patrol boat. As we climbed in, we heard the sound of a distant boat motor kicking over. “That’s it,” I whispered. Szody grabbed a powerful handheld spotlight and I started the engine.
Before the suspects’ boat could pull away from shore, we were bearing down on them. “Department of Fish and Game,” shouted Szody. “Turn off your motor and stay right where you are!” With the intense beam of our spotlight in their eyes, both men froze like the proverbial deer in the headlights. These spotlighters were ironically getting a taste of their own medicine. The deer, or whatever it was that they had just killed, probably saw much the same thing seconds before a bullet ripped into its body.
I ordered the two men to sit in their boat while Warden Szody climbed aboard. Unlike the local dirtbags that we might expect to encounter at that time of night, these forty-plus-year-olds were dressed like city slickers—Roughneck jeans, Filson coats and brand new $150 hunting boots.
Dave had to step over an assortment of fishing rods and a large object covered with a tarp. As Szody and I suspected, beneath the tarp was a freshly killed deer—a nice little three point buck. It came as no surprise that a deer tag had already been attached to the deer’s antlers. I looked at my watch and noticed that it was 1:45 a.m. The tag had been filled out to show the deer being killed at 6:30 a.m., later that same morning and after daylight. I noticed a spotlight much like ours lying in the bow section of the boat. Things were becoming increasingly complicated for the two poachers.
Our two spotlighters had Sacramento addresses. Because they weren’t locals, there had to be a houseboat nearby. The man who shot the deer finally admitted that they had come from a houseboat anchored up the Pit Arm, a few miles away. I said we would follow them and make sure they got back all right, although their well-being wasn’t exactly my primary concern—if they had poached one deer, there might be others. We had one of the men ride with us and the other operate their boat. Keeping the suspects separated would prevent them from coordinating stories, should we find additional evidence at the houseboat.
Operating in the dim moonlight, we took almost an hour to arrive at the houseboat. As we pulled alongside, I noticed a second skiff tied to the bow, with several fishing rods leaning over the gunnels. Now Szody and I knew that others were involved. Szody jumped onto the deck while I tied us off.
After we were aboard the houseboat with our two suspects, lights came on inside the cabin and two more middle-aged men appeared—eyes as big as saucers and features slack with shock. “I told them they were gonna get caught,” mumbled one man under his breath.
“We are tired and in no mood for shenanigans,” I said. My partner and I would like you all to sit here in your deck chairs while we search the boat for more deer. The sooner we complete our task, the sooner we get out of here and you guys can get some sleep.”
Based on the crimes we had already witnessed, we had no shortage of probable cause, giving us legal authority to search the boat and its contents.
I found several bass in one of the outside ice chests and a few more in a metal box-stringer hanging off the side of the boat. That discovery paled in comparison to what I found in the cabin refrigerator. When I opened the refrigerator door, a huge pile of bass spilled out onto the deck. Each licensed fisherman was allowed to possess one legal limit of five bass. These guys had a total of sixty-three, an over-limit of forty-three bass for the entire group.
The two deer poachers would be charged with possession of an unlawfully taken deer—during closed hours and with a spotlight. The owner of the deer tag would also be charged with license fraud—making false statements on a deer tag. All four men were charged with joint possession of forty-three bass over the legal limit. The deer, the rifle that was used to kill the deer and forty-three bass were seized into evidence.
As Szody and I maneuvered the patrol boat into our Bridge Bay Marina slip, the sun was just coming up.
“Not a bad night,” said Szody.
“Yeah,” I replied, stifling a yawn. “We made a good deer case, a good bass case and scared the daylights out of that group that was fishing. Why don’t we drop the deer at the rescue mission on the way through town. There’s usually somebody up all night.”
“I’ll take the fish to Mrs. Farmer tomorrow,” said Szody. “That eagle she’s rehabbing will have bass to eat for two months.”
Chapter Fourteen
Gill Netters
I
Man has devised many ingenious tools for catching fish. The simplest and best known is the hook and line. According to California’s freshwater fishing regulations, the only way a person can legally catch a fish is with a closely attended hook and line. That doesn’t mean people won’t try other methods, particularly when a profitable catch is the result.
Back in 1987, it wasn’t that difficult to knock on the back door of a north coast fish market or restaurant and sell a freshly caught twenty-pound salmon for fifty dollars or more. One of the more effective but highly illegal methods of catching salmon and steelhead is with a centuries-old invention called a gill net.
Modern day commercial gill nets are generally made of transparent monofilament fiber that is difficult, if not impossible, for fish and non-target animals to see under water. The mesh size depends on the species of fish the fisherman is trying to catch. The object is for the fish to poke its head in the mesh but not be able to fit its entire body through. When it tries to back out, its gills get stuck, hence the name “gill net.”
Some gill nets, such as the one referred to in this chapter, may be a hundred feet long or shorter. Such a net would be manageable from the shore or a small boat. Longer gill nets, such as those used by commercial fishing fleets all over the world, can extend for hundreds of miles.
II
California’s north coast is blessed with some of the most beautiful and productive salmon and steelhead spawning streams in the country. Sportsmen come from all over the world to fish the Klamath, Smith and Eel Rivers. Just as productive, but not so well-known are the Mattole, Van Duzen and Madd Rivers. The Madd River, fifteen miles north of Eureka, is reputed to offer some of the largest steelhead on record—and that’s where this story begins.
Our hero is California Fish and Game Warden Nick Albert. Nick was a member of the North Coast Squad, working out of Eureka. Like me, Albert had been hired by the California Department of Fish and Game in 1974. While I had drawn Earp as my first patrol district, Nick ended up in a significantly larger community called San Francisco, a few miles up the coast from his hometown of Monterey. Warden Albert was no stranger to law enforcement. He had been a patrolman for Seaside Police Department before being hired by the Department of Fish and Game. Seaside was a bedroom community for Fort Ord—one of the U.S. Army’s largest training centers—and had its share of enforcement problems. At five feet nine and 170 pounds, Nick Albert wasn’t a big guy, but this former high school wrestler was the kind of officer you wanted with you if an arrest had to be made.
San Francisco proved to be an ideal training area, with a little bit of everything: commercial fishing, sport fishing, fish markets, water pollution, stream alteration, animal welfare, falconers, pet shops and waterfowl hunting. Every day was a new adventure and the first two years flew by like a flock of canvasbacks racing across the bay. After two and a half years in the crowded Bay Area, Nick had experienced enough of big city life. He transferred to Humboldt County, the land of salmon filled rivers and trees that reach for the clouds.
On November 28, 1987, at 6:15 a.m., the telephone rang at the Eureka home of Warden Nick Albert. Nick already knew it was a work-related call when he answered the phone. At that time of morning it had to be the Humboldt County Sheriff’s dispatcher or a private individual reporting a violation—someone poaching a deer, spearing a salmon or operating a bulldozer in one of a thousand spawning streams.
“Department of Fish and Game,” answered Albert.
“Yeah
, I was walking upstream from the Hammond Trail Bridge when I saw a net stretched across the river,” said the adult male caller. “There was a little orange boat on the opposite bank, near the end of the net.”
“Are we talking about the Madd River Bridge, downstream from Highway 101?”
“Yes, I live not too far from there.”
“How far from the bridge was this?”
“Are you familiar with the Piling Hole, where those cement pilings are sticking out of the water?”
“Yes, it’s about two hundred yards up from the bridge, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. The net is right there.”
“Did you see anyone around?”
“No, but there was a green pickup parked under the bridge. I didn’t get close enough to see if there was anybody in it.”
“Can I get your phone number in case I need to call you back?”
“I would kinda like to stay out of this. There are some scary people around here and I live nearby.”
“I understand,” replied Albert, about to walk out the back door and climb into his patrol truck. “We appreciate the call.”
Just upstream from the Madd River Estuary was the so-called “Piling Hole.” The river deepened as it approached the estuary, slowing the current and creating ideal conditions for the operator of an illegal gill net. Many of the local outlaws were well aware of this situation and willing to risk going to jail for a pickup load of fresh-run salmon or steelhead. There were hundreds of places like this on North Coast rivers and streams, but only a handful of wardens to patrol them. Reports from private citizens were critical to the enforcement effort.
Warden Albert cut his headlights and slowed his patrol vehicle as he approached the Hammond Trail Bridge. It was still dark, but there was a glimmer of light in the eastern sky. He parked about fifty feet back and continued toward the bridge on foot. Just as the informant had described, a green Ford pickup was parked under the bridge, next to one of the south pillars. Albert made a cursory inspection of the pickup, which had no license plates in front or back. Inside the pickup bed he saw an upside-down wheelbarrow and a pair of brown, Hi-Tec boots.
Warden Albert decided to cross the bridge and approach the Piling Hole from the north bank. The thick riparian vegetation on that side of the river would provide ample cover, allowing him to survey the area without being seen. His heart pounding from the adrenaline rush, he continued a slow jog and then a fast walk upstream.
Through the leafless alders at the edge of the river, Albert could see the partially submerged pilings. He methodically scanned the area with binoculars and spotted a line of white, telltale gill net floats, stretched across the entire channel. The north end of the net was tied to a piling and the south end was anchored to something near the opposite beach.
“There’s that little orange boat,” mumbled Albert, continuing to scan the south shoreline. “And what do we have here?” Lying near the boat was a human figure inside a sleeping bag. “Did you get a little cold last night?” whispered Albert, as though the subject in the sleeping bag could hear him. Early morning temperatures had dropped below freezing, in spite of the ocean influence.
Warden Albert realized he was going to need help. He couldn’t be on both sides of the river at the same time. With the portable radio attached to his gun belt, he contacted Humboldt County Sheriff’s dispatch and requested an immediate backup from Fish and Game Patrol Captain Brian Replogle. Nick knew that it would take Replogle at least forty-five minutes to respond. He also knew that his best chance of reaching the net was on the south side of the river. Albert turned around and backtracked downstream toward the bridge.
By the time Albert reached the bridge, there was plenty of sunlight, so he dropped behind a railing and directed his binoculars toward the gill net. He was just in time to see a man paddling across the river in the little orange boat. A few minutes later, the same man was freeing the gill net from the cement piling.
It’s getting light, thought Nick. It figures that this guy might be getting ready to leave. Should I wait for backup here by his truck or move in now, catch him in the act and make sure he doesn’t get away?
Twenty-four years and two promotions later, now retired Patrol Captain Nick Albert provided me with a little insight into the decisions he made that day. “Catching a gill-netter in the act was so difficult and rare that I was desperate not to let the violator escape. On the North Coast it was one of our major violations. I had hoped to catch him before he made it very far but that isn’t what happened. Even though things worked out in the end, in hindsight I would have done it differently.”
Without waiting for backup, the young, enthusiastic warden crossed the bridge and began a slow sprint up the south side of the river. Most of the south shoreline was exposed sandy beach with very few hiding places—Nick would have to stay out of sight the best he could and hope for the best. Fortunately, the original suspect and an adult female were busy pulling in the gill net as Albert approached.
Warden Albert stopped behind a pile of driftwood and watched the two gill netters remove a large salmon from the net. The woman was medium height, thin and looked like she hadn’t used a hairbrush in weeks. She wore a bright red, full-length coat. Albert watched her pick up the salmon by the gills and carry it across the beach toward a patch of high grass. The adult male suspect was about Albert’s size, with short brown hair and a mustache. Both subjects appeared to be in their early to mid-thirties. The man continued to work on the net, removing debris and attempting to untangle a large steelhead.
I’ve seen enough, thought Albert. It’s time to end this thing.
Stepping away from his cover, Warden Albert walked across the beach toward the violators. The woman, later identified as Marla Kay Vinuchi, spotted the warden first and dropped the salmon she was carrying. “State Fish and Game!” shouted Albert. “Stay right where you are.” The male suspect, later identified as Ronald DeWayne Tucker, was preoccupied with trying to untangle the steelhead. When he finally saw the officer approaching, he jumped to his feet and stared, wild-eyed, back at him. Brandishing a large hunting knife, Tucker began walking toward Warden Albert.
“Drop the knife and stay right where you are,” ordered Albert. Tucker ignored the command and kept coming. When he had reached a point Warden Albert considered his minimum danger zone, Albert drew his revolver. “I am not going to tell you again, drop the knife!” Tucker finally came to a standstill and tossed the knife aside. His eyes still had the crazed look of a trapped animal. Although no longer armed with a knife, Tucker was clearly weighing his options. Albert flashed back to the suspect’s green pickup, which was missing both the front and back license plates; this scofflaw had little use for society’s rules and regulations.
“Show me your ID,” Warden Albert demanded, without lowering his gun.
“Gotta take off my chest waders first,” Tucker said in a gruff yet whiny voice.
“Go ahead,” Albert said, gesturing with the gun.
“That net ain’t mine,” said Tucker, as he took his time removing the chest waders. “Me and my girlfriend … we was just camping on the beach. We seen the net and thought we’d get it outta the river.”
“I’ve been watching you for the last hour. You’re both under arrest.”
Upon being advised that he was under arrest, Tucker jumped to his feet, dove into the river and began swimming toward the other side. Vinuchi ran off in the opposite direction.
With the ambient air temperature in the thirties and the water not much warmer, Tucker’s stunt took the young warden completely by surprise. Determined to prevent Tucker’s escape, Warden Albert threw all caution aside, dropped his radio on the beach and dove in after him—in full uniform, including gun belt, boots and jacket. He caught up with Tucker about a third of the way across the river. Already tiring, Tucker grabbed at Albert, trying to climb on his back. Warden Albert came to the wise conclusion that an arrest in ten feet of water could be extremely dangerous, part
icularly with a .357 Magnum revolver hanging from his waist and the overwhelming weight of boots and a wet uniform pulling him down in the brutally cold water. He pushed Tucker away and swam back to the south shore.
Albert reached the shore and sloshed his way toward the orange rowboat. Water gushed from the hole at the bottom of his holster and his soaked jacket weighed him down with every awkward step. Tucker had continued swimming across the river and was now crying out for help.
What a mess, thought Albert. Now that crazy son of a bitch is about to drown.
Albert picked up his portable radio, dragged the tiny row boat to the water’s edge and jumped aboard. With a single oar to use as a paddle, he thrashed across the river, fighting the fatigue overtaking his frozen, water-soaked body. A few minutes earlier, Warden Albert’s primary concern had been preventing the gill-netter from getting away. Now it was saving the man’s life.
Meanwhile, Marla Vinuchi had made her way to a nearby road, where she tried to pay a couple fishermen to drive her into town. One of the fishermen happened to be the original informant. When he told her that he knew she was involved with the gill net and the game warden was after her, she ran back into the brush and disappeared.
Tucker continued to swim toward the north shore, all the while yelling for help. He managed to reach the shore just ahead of the rapidly paddling warden. In his stocking feet, Tucker climbed the steep riverbank and, for a few minutes, was out of Albert’s sight. Warden Albert beached the boat and grabbed his radio.
Badges, Bears, and Eagles Page 14
