by Terry Grosz
I remember looking through the windshield as the car approached and observing a lot of people inside, maybe four or five.
I heard someone in the car yelling, “Kill him, kill him, kill him.” The unmistakable form of a head, arms, and a rifle that looked like a Model 94 Winchester came out the front passenger side of the onrushing vehicle. I heard the clackety-clack of a lever-action rifle indexing a round into the chamber and assumed I was the target of that lad’s intentions.
Being rather large of frame and with a more than sufficient center of mass, I decided that now was the time to apply all the training the state of California provided before this chap with the rifle let all the air out of me. I removed my .44 magnum pistol from the holster, holding my five-cell flashlight alongside and aiming it in the driver’s eyes, took dead aim at the driver of the onrushing vehicle, now about forty feet away, and shot at his head. The windshield exploded, and the automobile started to move erratically back and forth across the logging road. However, it continued to advance rapidly, and the lad with the rifle was still trying to get a bead on me as the car wove violently. When it was about twenty-five feet away, I aimed dead center for the radiator, which I knew would lead my bullet to the engine, and let another round from the magnum sail on its way. Whomp went the 250-grain bullet as it hit the engine block. The heretofore smooth-running engine suddenly sounded as if it had a bad case of the trots. Apparently, tomorrow wasn’t an option for that engine.
Stepping off to my left to avoid being hit, I calmly indexed another round into my pistol to take care of the lad with the rifle. Not realizing how close I was to the edge of the steep-banked logging road, I found myself dropping over the road’s edge and carried several feet down the bank. Quickly regaining my balance, I turned back to face the vehicular threat, realizing at the same time that my “trip” over the bank had lowered my perspective by several feet so that I was now looking at the center of the fenders and doors as the car passed by on the road above. Looking up, I saw that the chap with the rifle was still trying to change the shape and form of what God had given me, so up went the magnum, and as the car went by I set it off for the third time, right through the center of the front passenger door. Ka-boom went what at the time was the world’s most powerful handgun.
Boy, did the crap hit the fan with that entry of a high-speed lead projectile! The barrel of the magnum must have been very close to the side of the car as it raced by because I got a faceful of paint chips, unburned powder, and flames. My ears went dead to sound, not to mention the fact that I couldn’t see for all the flying debris. In fact, for a second I thought the chap with the rifle had shot me through the head. But my training paid off. As the car went on, I could feel the recoil of the magnum as each succeeding round was fired and sailed into the side of the offending vehicle. Being that close to the scene of battle, I could tell from the screams and human movement that I was surely getting everyone’s attention. The car quickly passed me, careened off the right side of the road, and went crashing into the canyon below with a loud roaring and gnashing of metal against the rocks and trees. By now my hair, what little I had in my crew cut, was standing straight up as if it wanted to see better.
I hurriedly jumped back up on the road and after a few moments of frantic rubbing could finally see out of my right eye, or master eye. God, it was a great feeling not to be blind but able to see again. This was my first shootout, and needless to say, I was more than a little nervous. Running down the road toward where the car had gone off the edge, I tried to reload my pistol from the two drop pouches on my gunbelt. Since I had expended all six rounds into the front and side of the vehicle, I thought it only proper that I arrive on the scene capable of taking care of myself and any of the bad guys who still had a little fight left. Drop pouches surely were properly named. I think that of my twelve extra cartridges, I got only six into the cylinder while running down the road. The rest were scattered along the road as I ran to where the vehicle had gone over the edge. About that time I saw Bill staggering along the road toward me on what turned out later to be just badly bruised legs, yelling, “Kill the sonsabitches, kill the sonsabitches.”
Good, he was OK—I could tell by the way he was giving me instructions on how to treat my fellow human. Reaching the edge of the road, I shone my flashlight down over the edge, trying to locate the vehicle and its occupants. The air was still full of dust, and I had to wait a few moments for it to clear. Fearing the worst, I saw that the car had gone down a long talus-like slope on its wheels and struck a huge Douglas fir dead center. The hood was up, the
trunk lid was up, all the doors were open, and in the distance I could hear people clattering down the rocky slope and off into the cover of night.
I waited a moment for Bill to arrive and asked him, “How you doing, partner?”
“I hurt like crap, but I guess everything is OK,” he wheezed. I looked him over, and what he said appeared to be true, so I headed down the rocky slope to the vehicle to see if anyone needed help or if anyone was left alive to arrest.
“Cover me,” I yelled.
As I cautiously approached the car, it dawned on me that my instructions to Bill may not have been the best choice at a time like this. At that range, with a shotgun, how in the hell was he going to provide cover for me? Hell, we are all going to die if he starts shooting, especially in his mad-as-a-hornet state of mind, I thought. Oh well, I guess if he has to shoot we will just let God sort out the survivors.
Arriving at the car, I found it empty. There was blood all over the front seat behind the steering wheel along with glass from the shattered windshield. There was a bullet hole in the windshield in line with the driver’s head, but no body. I guess the flying glass did the damage that produced all the blood, not the bullet. There were also bullet holes in the engine and through the front passenger door, one in the door post, one through the back door, and one in the trunk area that had “killed” a gutted and iced salmon. Looking into the trunk of the car, I found about five hundred pounds of salmon in a specially designed, open-topped stainless-steel fish box. The fish were all iced down, and every one of them had net marks across the opercula, a sign that they had been taken by a gill net.
Well, here we were, with a vehicle without license plates, vehicle identification number, or any other way to trace it. A trunkload of fish, a bloody car, and not a body to be seen. It seemed that the lads driving the car had left to go change their shorts! That was fine by me. In Bill’s frame of mind, if anyone returned they were likely to be murdered! Seeing that there was nothing else I could do, I spent the rest of the night transporting gill-netted salmon up the hill to be loaded into our patrol car for disposal. Several times while catching my breath I chanced to look at the bullet holes in the door of the
car. In both cases, the hole was about leg high and the bullet had lodged in the opposite-side door. There was no way those chunks of lead should have failed to hit someone. I think someone was really looking out for those guys that night.
We never did get those bad guys. Closer examination of the vehicle in daylight showed a machine composed of many parts, none traceable to any one owner. The informant left the area for good shortly after the incident for the sake of his personal health, and the fish stopped going over the mountain to the fish houses in Eureka. Hank returned, and because Bill had been working in Hank’s district without really asking permission, Bill ordered me to keep what had occurred on that mountainside to myself. Not wanting to create a rift between the two senior officers, I did as I was told. The users of the vehicle never raised the issue of that night, and because of the hasty departure of his informant, Hank never found out that we had tangled with those men on that mountain. He continued to work the area in the hope of catching the lads running the salmon, and I went my way to other assignments.
In 1978, as a special agent for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service, I was assigned to the Klamath River along with a gang of other special agents to stop the Indians from ille
gally running their gill nets in those waters. Basically, the Indians felt they had a right to run their nets along the entire length of the Klamath River, from the mouth to all points upstream. It appeared to be nothing more than greed and ego destroying their heritage, and most seemed to not give a damn about preserving the fish population and the river. The
U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Division of Law Enforcement was pressed into action to hold the line until the biologists and senior managers could determine what the Indians should legally be allowed to do. It didn’t take long for our lads, though outnumbered and initially poorly led, to clean up forty miles of river and allow the salmon an escapement that far surpassed any that had occurred before. I was assigned as the riverine operations officer on that detail for two weeks, and it didn’t take me long to see that the work done to protect the salmon was a real tribute by those special agents who served in protecting that segment of our national heritage under the worst of conditions. Once the Fish and Wildlife Service officers regained the Klamath and the Indians realized that to cross swords was to invite a knot on the head, things quieted down and opportunities arose to view the overall situation. One of those opportunities allowed me to fly over the area looking for gill nets missed by our lads on the ground or in the jetboats.
Just for kicks, I had the pilot fly me over the place where I had had my first shootout as a state Fish and Game warden in the 1960s. Sure as hell, there sat the old Buick with the hood, trunk, and doors still up and open. The tires and part of the engine were missing, but otherwise there she still sat in all her past glory. A memento, if you will, of times gone by, of a game warden’s first shootout, of a carload of Indians and a trunkload of fish.
As far as I know, the illegal flow of salmon didn’t start moving again through the mountain passes for some time after that event. According to Hank, word on the reservation was that the Indians all of a sudden started running the fish to Eureka at night down Highway 299 instead. I wonder if those men got religion or whether it was the 250-grain, .44 magnum bullets tearing through the car doors, skimming past sweating bodies and out the other side at 1,400 feet per second. It is amazing what can be achieved by using just a little “mettle” —or should I spell it “metal”?
I guess I will never know.
Chapter Two
Gold Beach
The sun of another day lifted its rays over the mist-shrouded Pacific Range, giving the magnificent redwoods below an ethereal crest. As the sun’s golden fingers continued to race across the treetops and down the ridges to the sea, they fell upon a tired face expectantly scanning a dirt road half hidden by a long bluff created many millions of years ago. Though I was tired, I thanked God for another day and then just stood there for an hour and enjoyed the morning. The steady rolling thunder of the Pacific Ocean surf beating against the beach sands to the west and the pleasant smell of the salt spray told me I was a small part, but very much a living part, of His creation. Around me were rolling sand dunes covered with tall salt grasses, wild strawberry plants hugging the ground, a few stunted red alder trees, driftwood from past violent storms, and a hundred or so quietly resting and feeding Roosevelt elk. This variety, the largest living species of elk in North America, is found on the North Pacific Coast and a short distance inland from northern California all the way to Vancouver Island.
Surveying my small part of the world on that day, I wondered if I would make a difference. The elk were safe for another day, but night would come again, and so would the most efficient and savage predator on earth. Then how would my charges fare? That thought slowly moved through my mind, mixed with the clutter that came from limited sleep and the invading damp chill from spending a night as a lone sentinel in the sand next to the surf. That thought of death to come from humankind vanished as quickly as it had appeared, like the foam from a receding wave on the beach. My stomach was telling me it was time to eat something before the little guts were eaten by the big ones. Surveying my latest field of battle and satisfied that all was well for now, I picked up my gear and shook off the ever-present sand.
I slowly walked, letting my stiffness work itself out, to a hidden patrol car parked among a copse of brush and stunted red alder trees along a small creek that was finishing its run to the ocean. My muscles spoke to me as they were wont to do after a long period of inactivity coupled with the damp that comes from lying in the wet sand. Surveying my resting elk one more time and satisfied of their well-being, I headed from my stakeout point to the highway and then south toward home for some much-needed sleep.
Letting my mind wander as the miles sped by, I ran through the scenario that had brought me to my area of the beach and the elk herd I was trying to protect. Steve Logsdon, one of my fellow graduate students at Humboldt State College in Areata, California, had always complained that poachers kept killing the Gold Beach herd of Roosevelt elk that made up part of his master’s degree study group. At that time there wasn’t much I could do other than helping him clean up the animal parts left as a result of that poaching for academic study of sorts, but I never forgot those episodes. After graduation and my subsequent acceptance of a commission as a California state Fish and Game warden assigned to that same north coast area, I had the tools and time to address the problem. Shortly after I returned from the Fish and Game academy, I found myself heading to the home of Dr. Archie S. Mossman, a brilliant mammalogist, an outstanding wildlife professor at Humboldt State College, and a close friend.
I met this old friend in front of his home, and we warmly shook hands. “Terry!” called an excited voice from the house, and out stormed Archie’s diminutive wife, Sue. Into my arms she went as I gave her a hug and greeting. Sue was also a dear friend and an exceptional academic herself. After a few pleasantries, in response to my serious questions Archie told me that the poachers were still killing the Gold Beach herd of Roosevelt elk as if there were no tomorrow. In fact, the latest kill, a seven-point bull, had been discovered just a week earlier. The animal had apparently been wounded by a poacher and had crawled off to die in agony among his living brethren on the beach. The poachers, scared off when a couple of kids who had parked in the area instantly turned on their headlights upon hearing the report of the rifle, had made no attempt to follow the animal. The bull died without making a sound, as most wildlife does, ultimately bloating and rotting where he fell.
That report from the kids, Archie’s informants, coupled with my next window of opportunity, led to my staking out the Gold Beach area of Humboldt County. This unique and beautiful area is a narrow strip of land between the Gold Beach bluffs and the Pacific Ocean just north of the town of Orick, California. The entire area was within the boundaries of Prairie Creek Redwoods State Park, and its resident herd of elk, like the land base, was strictly protected by the state of California. The elk, like the ancient redwoods, are magnificent. They are the largest elk in North America and once roamed all through the Pacific coast forests during their historical period of greatness. Today they are just a remnant population of what was once part of the magnificent redwood ecosystem. Thanks to humankind’s destruction of habitat and overharvesting of the animals, both legally in historical times and illegally today, they have been relegated to a fraction of their former greatness. The Gold Beach herd is unique because more often than not it frequents the beach area instead of the dark timber characteristic of a climax coniferous redwood forest. In that uniqueness came danger from the muzzle of a rifle because of the herd’s accessibility in the sand dune area and the remoteness of its home from the eye and ear of those sworn to protect the elk.
That is where I personally and professionally came into play. I love the earth and the wild things living on it. As a young warden I wasn’t what one might call a “tree hugger,” but I had a newfound respect for what nature had to offer as I began to mature in my job and as a person. I had cultivated that respect partly because of the wonderful wildlife education I had received at Humboldt State College, partly because of the silver star
I now wore on my chest, and partly because of the responsibility that star required of me in providing resources for the enjoyment of those yet to come.
I had caught my over-limits of fish and killed my over-limits of game throughout my younger days. Those kills were never wasted, but all in all my actions were wrong. With the weight of the silver star came the realization of what I owed and what was due. I guess one could say I was doing penance for my earlier days.
Pulling into my driveway in Eureka, I was met by my bride, Donna. She unsuccessfully tried to hide her concern and relief as I tiredly stepped from the patrol car, only to fly into my arms for a bear hug such as only I could give. I believed God had never made a woman quite like this one, and I was very fortunate to have her as my mate. I sometimes think God had taken her aside and told her that if she took that heathen under her wing, she was assured a place at His right hand. I don’t think she knew what she was letting herself in for, but I ended up with the grace of her presence in my life. Refusing an offer of a large home-cooked breakfast, I grabbed some homemade bread (made for me every day of my life by my bride) and slapped some peanut butter on it; that would have to suffice for the moment (typical game-warden fare!). Off to bed I went, with visions of poachers on Gold Beach falling into my grip the following night.
* * *
The sun began to set below the perennial fogbank offshore, throwing its red fingers skyward as a last act of defiance. Turning my eyes landward, I again scanned my quietly resting, or in some instances feeding, elk herd. God, what an evening. The smell of salt was in the air; the crashing of the surf came to my ear; and the pungent smell of elk drifted from nearby and mingled with the damp smell of the earth, all served up with a mild, moisture-laden offshore breeze. The coolness that is the Pacific Northwest began to manifest itself as I drew my jacket more tightly around my neck. Here we were again: the elk and I against an unknown assailant, a predator who would return again. The assailant knew the time, the place, and the method. All I knew was that the assailant was coming, sometime. The odds seemed just about even. The poacher had the upper hand on timing and I the upper hand on patience—not to mention the bracelets for his hands when he reached into the cookie jar containing the elk “cookies.”