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

by Terry Grosz

  As I “fought” my final few feet to shore, the lads were really getting excited. One lad said, “This is the biggest fish I ever caught; it must weigh at least one-fifty!”

  Another fellow said, “Get ready, here he comes.” Well, they had that right: here he comes. Standing up, I turned my flashlight on and shone it directly into four expectant faces, and they weren’t disappointed in their surprise at the size of their “catch.” Shaking off my welder’s glove with the lure firmly attached, I said, “Good evening, gentlemen. State Fish and Game warden. You are all under arrest!”

  You can’t imagine the looks on their faces, illuminated by my flashlight. Two of the lads were frozen in their tracks upon seeing this thing rise from the river. The fellow with the fishing rod bent double from the hook caught in my glove dropped into the river as if he had been hit with a hammer. He started to wheeze, choke, and grab at his chest as if he were having a heart attack. I had apparently scared him so badly that he peed his pants, dropped into the river, and, being scared so badly, couldn’t get his breath upon being confronted with this apparition from the river. I couldn’t imagine what went through his mind when he expected a salmon and instead ended up with a huge man dressed in a wetsuit. The fourth fellow took two steps back and sat down hard on the riverbank, unaware that his wide tail end had just crushed his own fishing rod. Needless to say, it was an outstanding evening long remembered by all, especially by the one who had caught the big one that didn’t get away. I gathered up all the fishing gear and issued them all citations for late fishing after the lad who had dropped into the river recovered. Then I thanked the gentlemen for being gentlemen, walked back out into the black of the Eel River, and quietly disappeared as I drifted to the opposite bank and out of sight. My little group of fishermen just stood there on their bank of the river as I crawled out of the water on the opposite side, trying to figure out what they had done to God to make Him so mad.

  It wasn’t long before word went out that the game wardens were swimming in the rivers at night, catching those who dared to violate the fishing laws. As a result of this night action, for the next month Herb and I couldn’t make a salmon case along the Eel River if we tried, especially in the Singley Pool area. Herb’s nature was such that he didn’t say much about my little venture, but I could tell from the occasional approving look in his eyes that I had done well.

  Fishing is truly a magnificent sport. No one holds an edge unless they cheat. But in cheating, you run the risk of discovery, and therein lies the problem. You never know what you will catch if you break the law long enough. But if you break the law while fishing, you may hook the biggest of fish—and it may be the one that doesn’t get away.

  Chapter Five

  The Gunnysack

  One June I was patrolling on foot along a small salmon-spawning stream off the Mad River in Humboldt County at midday. I was there to provide protection to the spawning salmon that had recently returned from the ocean to their ancestral home. Basically, my job as a state game warden was to identify the spawning grounds and make sure unscrupulous wildlife thieves were not in those areas spearing, snagging, or gaffing the fish as they tried to spawn. On that particular day I discovered that the stream was devoid of salmon on the lower reaches but loaded with them higher up. As I continued my rounds the coolness from the forest and stream and the intense quiet made a moment to remember. I always enjoyed the out-of-doors, and this moment helped to cement that love. A few bird calls added to the quiet, and the damp, rotting floor typical of a temperate rain forest made me move as softly as an early American primitive. Using that stealth, I quietly walked up on riffles that looked like good spawning areas, and the mad rush of the salmon across those riffles to deeper pools at either end for security told me the fish had already crossed humans in these reaches and had nothing but bad memories as a result. Piles of fish guts in the bushes and spear marks on the sides of some of the spawners told me these fish needed some top cover, and I was just the lad for that type of assignment—or so I thought. Noting that I was not far from several lumber mills in the Blue Lake area, and knowing the penchant of many of the lumber workers to slide around and bend the Fish and Game laws, especially by spotlighting deer and spearing salmon, I decided a little more work in this important spawning area might be in order.

  Hiking another mile upstream, I happened on a black bear feeding on salmon and was able to leave without the bear ever knowing I was there. On the way back I watched a pair of river otters killing and sharing a spawned-out male silver salmon. They too did not seem aware of my presence as I faded back into the cover of the forest. Circling widely around the areas most important to spawning and keeping the quiet needed for success, I hotfooted it for home. I figured I would take the rest of the day off and let the night find me on the salmon-spawning grounds, alone with nature and what it had to offer. I also figured that if humans entered that scene in my presence and did not honor the ritual currently being performed by the salmon, then I would count them as a bonus.

  The next three nights found me on foot patrolling those areas of the stream I had identified as loaded with spawning salmon. I was dressed in black, wore tennis shoes for extra speed, and silently stalked the edges of the stream looking for any errant humans spearing or gaffing the fish. It was great sport, quietly moving over the damp forest floor and creeping up to the areas most likely to lure in the most dangerous game, as humankind is sometimes called. I used no light of any kind, just my senses and quiet, deliberate movement. I figured I would not disturb the fish, and if I ran across any man I wanted to be on him before he realized he was being stalked. That way, I figured, when I grabbed the offending soul, the scare would go a long toward keeping him off the salmon-spawning streams for a long time to come. Being grabbed by a six-foot-four, 320-pound man in the dark when you believed you were alone had to have an effect on the soul, or at least on the sphincter. That thought of protecting the salmon and possibly finding a lad along the stream who needed finding provided the spice for my detail.

  About midnight one evening as I was making the rounds, I quietly slid up on one big, long riffle that earlier had held at least one hundred spawning salmon. Sneaking up to the edge of the bank that overlooked this feeder stream, I slowly drew my frame up to its full height and, standing alongside a grand fir, stood there in the cool and quiet of the night, watching the salmon play out the ritual that had been part of their destiny for eons. I could hear them running up the stream, hear the splashing as one male ran another off from his territory, and hear the females working to clear out redd, or spawning, sites with their tails, all going on under a full moon over the forest canopy. Fingers of light shafted down into parts of the forest and stream itself. At that moment parts of my world were black as a bucket of dark velvet, while others were draped in silver as only the moon can do. It was absolutely beautiful, not to mention very restful. I sat down under the tree, resting my tired back against the deep moss on the bark, anticipating a few quiet moments with my fish. I had sat there for about ten minutes, completely absorbed in the drama being played out below me in the stream, when all of a sudden I realized I had company! Across the stream, not thirty feet away, stood a huge form. Now, I am a rather large fellow, but the outline on the other side of the creek was even bigger then I, and by a very large margin.

  I sat there fascinated by the ability of a person that large to move through the temperate rain forest understory in the manner of a tiger. After a few silent moments, this man-mountain moved into the middle of the stream among the salmon, carrying what appeared to be a long-handled fishing spear. The stream exploded with fish reacting to this intruder as the unmistakable sound of a metal spear striking the rocks reached my ears. At that point the instincts that came with being a game warden, a hunter of humans, took over, and I silently rose to my feet, using my tree for cover. I waited until this man successfully speared a fast-moving salmon, removed it from his spear once he reached the bank, and deposited it in what appeared t
o be a gunnysack after knocking it on the head to reduce its struggles. Good, I thought, I now have enough evidence to rack his old hind end in court in Areata. My judge hated those who took the salmon in such unfair ways, and I couldn’t wait to get this mountain of a man in handcuffs for his appearance before “the man.”

  Waiting a few moments on the bank for the fish to settle down, the poacher stepped back into the stream for another salmon. Since I had the evidence I needed to prove my case beyond a reasonable doubt, I didn’t see any reason for this chap to keep on killing such a valuable resource, so I checked my gun to make sure it was fastened tightly in the holster. Knowing there might be a footrace or fight, I didn’t want the pistol to fall out or be loose enough for this chap to grab it and use it against me. Stepping out from my place of concealment, I turned the beam of my flashlight directly on him and observed a huge man in bib overalls with his back to me, standing in the middle of the stream. Even from behind his massive red beard was readily apparent, sticking out on both sides of his face.

  I thundered, “Hold it right there! State Fish and Game warden. You are under arrest.”

  The man instantly put his hands up into the cold, damp night air, still holding the spear, and began to plead with me: “Please, mister, don’t shoot! I’ve got three little kids! Please don’t shoot.”

  Feeling confident that I had this situation well under control, being immortal and all, I walked down the bank into the creek to handcuff the lad. He didn’t move, just kept his back to me with his hands and spear held high.

  Mistake number one. What he was doing was keeping the light out of his eyes and echo-locating me as I approached, splashing through the stream. He knew exactly where I was and exactly what he was going to do. Looking back over that incident today, after thirty-plus years of experience, I now know that I should have had him walk backward to me rather than walking up to him. As I drew near, I told him to hand me the spear. Mistake number two. Instead he slammed the butt of the spear backward, catching me right between the eyes. The blow knocked me down into the water, stunning me so completely that all I could see was purple, green, yellow, and orange flashes racing around in my head. I quickly struggled up and out of the water to defend myself against any other attack, which turned out to be unnecessary, for he was running toward the bank of the stream from which he had come. I drew my pistol to shoot and then realized I couldn’t see well enough to take aim because I was still temporarily blinded by the impact of the spear. Needless to say, I was steaming! I should never have lost a man that large, not to mention one with the destructive potential to the salmon resource that he had shown.

  My eyes eventually cleared, as did my head. All I had to show for my efforts was a knot between the eyes, a wet ass, and a severely deflated ego. Home I went with my knot and a small cut that was not enough to alarm my wife. I told her I had walked into an overhanging limb in the dark. I did not tell her that I had screwed up badly. I walked away from this encounter a wiser man, and determined that if I were faced with a like occasion in the future, the outcome would be very different!

  Several days later I talked this episode over with the senior warden in charge of the district where the incident had occurred. He was a good friend and teacher of young game wardens who had been assigned to that area for more than thirty years. After hearing my story, he looked at me and then commenced to really chew out my ass. He said, “That’s the trouble with you college kids; you’re dumb as a box of rocks. You’re a goddamned German hardhead, and that’s dumber still.” He went on to tell me that in the “big war” he had been in the South Pacific killing all the Japanese there, and he had had plans to go next to the European theater and kill all my countrymen for creating a goddamned big world ruckus, but he ran out of opportunity because the war ended. I didn’t know what that had to do with the current situation, but that kind of violent xenophobic commentary was Joe’s way of showing affection. Damn, with the hind-end chewing he gave me, he was saying he loved me! After five more minutes of friendly abuse, he looked me over once again and, satisfied that I would live, asked me to repeat the story and not leave anything out.

  I patiently told the story again, and I was sure I detected in his eyes a look that told me he not only knew who the bad guy was but how and when to get even. Joe was quiet for few minutes and then said, “Tell you what, I’ll call you in a couple of weeks and show you how to handle this kind of situation so it is not repeated in the future, by either party.” There was no more explanation than that, and I sure missed the clue at the tail end of his sentence.

  I said, “Okay, but I want to go along with you and make the arrest.” I noticed a strange look overtake Joe’s Irish eyes again, but he said, “Sure, no problem.”

  Just by the way he said it I could tell something was not right, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. Friendly mistake number three.

  Two weeks to the day later, Joe called me and said to be at his house at six o’clock. When I got there, Pam, his lovely wife, had prepared a spaghetti dinner that I hadn’t planned on, but I went ahead and ate anyway. One doesn’t get my size by turning down good grub, and Pam was one hell of a cook. About nine o’clock we went out and checked for some reported illegal fishermen along the Mad River, citing most of them for fishing after hours, and then the two of us just generally dinked around. All the while I was getting more and more anxious to get going and get to the bottom of what Joe had in mind. About midnight Joe said, “Let’s go,” and man, I was more than ready.

  Joe had been in his district so long and had developed his intelligence system to such a fine point that he knew exactly when to roll a wheel and when not to bother. Once we were on the dirt road next to the stream, we drove without lights almost to the same riffle where I had tried to apprehend the giant. I noticed when we quietly got out of the patrol car that Joe reached into the back seat to pick up a rolled-up gunnysack and brought it with us. I didn’t think much of it except to assume he might plan to use the sack to carry back any evidence salmon we might seize. We quietly moved up to the edge of the stream adjacent to my riffle and lay down. Joe laid the gunnysack along his right side, and we waited.

  About twelve-thirty a.m. we heard somebody quietly moving along the creek on the other side of the spawning riffle. Soon the noise broke out into the half-moon light, and it was the man-mountain, the same fellow who had thumped me between the eyes with the butt of his spear. I whispered to Joe that he was mine and started to get up so I could run off that bank, zip across the stream at a high rate of speed, and put a tackle on him that would break him right in half. Joe rested his hand on my arm and whispered in my ear, “That’s the trouble with you young guys; you don’t have the sense to just lie still.”

  I whispered back, “What the hell are we going to do?”

  He said, “Watch.”

  I lay there on the cool stream bank, watching my target, hoping I would get a chance to put a tackle on him that only his gizzard would appreciate, all the while aware that Joe was rustling that damn gunnysack. The next thing I knew, the whole damn world blew up. There was a tremendous explosion and a bright flash rolling off our bank toward the man-mountain that totally ruined my night vision. The next thing I heard was the target of my affections in the middle of the stream screaming louder than the devil himself.

  I went up in the air about ten feet! In those days I had a crew cut, and it was standing straight on end! Then there was another roar and flash and more screaming from the man-mountain as he thundered out of the creek and went crashing through the brush like a bull moose.

  Man, by now I didn’t know what the hell to do. I had placed my hand on the butt of my gun and didn’t know if I should draw, run, or shoot. About that time Joe solved my problem by yelling, “Run!” I was still standing there as if my feet were growing in the soil as Joe ran by. He slowed down just long enough to grab me by the shirt and get me going in his direction. It’s amazing how fast you can run when you don’t know why you are running, but e
veryone else is! We jumped in the patrol car and were out of there in a flash.

  Bouncing down the dirt road like there was no tomorrow, I said, “What the hell happened?”

  Joe pointed toward the back seat of the car, and lying next to the gunnysack was a 20-gauge auto-burglar double-barreled shotgun. He had loaded two shells with rock salt and seen to it that man-mountain was the backstop.

  “Man,” I said, “isn’t that illegal?”

  “I don’t know,” said Joe, “but nobody is going to know except you and me, and I don’t plan on telling anyone.” Another of those senior-warden things, I thought as my mind madly spun around the night’s events. Joe headed for home, refusing to answer any more questions, and dropped me off at my patrol rig. “Nothing to nobody,” said Joe. His tone was one I had not heard before but sure had little trouble understanding. We parted company, and I thought about the events of the evening all the way home. For the next four days I continued to stew about that night, but then I began to chuckle as I replayed the incident in my mind. Man, I bet that chap will think a long time before he goes salmon spearing again, I mused. What a shock. Pain right out of the darkest night just as you are having fun and filling your freezer with salmon. I began to laugh about the giant’s misfortune until the tears came. That should teach him to whack a game warden in the head even though the dumb-ass game warden deserved it, I thought. Whoops, I just drove by a guy attempting to snag a salmon. That brought me back to reality, and off I went to address that problem.

  On about the fifth day after our little “hoorah,” Joe called and asked me to assist him in serving several warrants, and I told him sure, be right there. I met him a few minutes later, and out we went on Highway 299 to one of the area’s mills called the Blue Lake Lumber Company. He pulled into an area of the mill where green lumber was pulled off a conveyor belt and stacked on pallets so it could air dry. Much to my surprise, there in all his glory pulling this “green chain” was my man-mountain, still wearing bib overalls but all wrapped up in swaddling gauze to control the running sores on his body from the rock salt. What little hair I had went up, and I was ready to fight again. But good old Joe laid a restraining hand on my arm and said, “Just listen and try to learn something that will serve you down the line.” I hauled in my hackles and followed Joe’s lead.