by Terry Grosz
All the lads were from California, and none needed to be told that possession of a loaded firearm in a motor vehicle was illegal. It was just the opposite in Nevada. They could possess a loaded firearm in a motor vehicle in Nevada, that is. But if they stepped across the loaded-gun-in-a-motor-vehicle line into California, the Nevadans were zapped the same as their California counterparts.
I asked for and received everyone’s driver’s licenses and hunting licenses. All my California hunters had Nevada nonresident hunting licenses, so they were legal in the hunting department. However, they all received citations for possession of loaded firearms in a motor vehicle on a way open to the public. They were a rather surly lot, and I had the feeling they were outlaws incarnate, but since everything else checked out I just issued their citations and let them go. I did not seize their firearms as I routinely did with Nevadans because they were all from California and I could pick them up on warrants if they failed to show up for court or pay their fines. With a wave of the hand and an admonition regarding the laws of the state, I watched them disappear into the dust that was State Line Road.
It was getting hot as the sun reached its zenith, and I now became aware that my small breakfast (the one half eaten by the magpie) was causing the big guts to eat the little guts inside my rather large carcass. I was not far from a little spring called Granite Spring and decided to go there for lunch. Several miles down State Line Road, I turned west onto another even rougher road. Dad had brought me here when I was a boy after a fishing trip on a small stream not far from here. The spring was nothing more than a trickle of water coming out of a pure biotite granite bluff. The water was icy cold, and if you drank too much at one sitting you would get a headache like you get when you eat ice cream too fast.
I pulled up in a little grassy area next to the spring but somewhat out of sight, and as I stepped from the patrol truck I spooked about twenty chukar, a kind of partridge, from the weeds where they had been drinking and resting. A smile crossed my dust-and-sweat-covered face. It was always nice to see wildlife in their environment doing what they did best. After a long stretch, I took out my ice chest, moved over to a small juniper alongside the spring’s run-off area, and sat down in the shade. Digging out my lunch of Donna’s fried chicken (eat your heart out, Colonel), some of her fine homemade bread with butter, and a piece of spicy homemade pumpkin pie, I was set. Adding a cold cup of Granite Springs water, I had a repast fit for a king and felt as if I were one for the moment. I sat there quietly, eating my lunch and enjoying what God and Donna had provided for me. As I savored my food, I let my mind wander back to the times Dad and I had sat in this exact spot and he had filled my head with the history, both Indian and Anglo, of the area I now roamed. Moments like that are few and far between for most common folk, but not for a game warden. They occur daily if one is a part of the “thin green line” and is out every day in the elements one calls home. The air was full of the calls of hundreds of unseen chukar waiting for me to leave so they too could drink the cold, clear spring water. I saw a covey of sage grouse carefully skirting my truck as they marched to the spring overflow for a drink of life. Then two mourning doves whistled in and, after a careful look-see, also headed for the spring overflow not twenty feet from me. It doesn’t get much better than that!
I sat there with my mouth full of good food, ears full of the sounds of nature, and heart full of gratitude for another day of life, but my special moment was soon to be trashed. The grating growl of a couple of dirt bikes (there were no ATVs in those days) broke the spell as I realized they were coming my way. As my world filled with the unmuffled growl, my training went into high gear. Two lads soon swung into view, moving down the road toward the spring. They wore hunting garb, and each bike had a rifle in a scabbard across the front. As they pulled around behind the spring and into view of my patrol rig, I saw a slight hesitation before they continued on to the main spring. Rising up from my disturbed meal, I walked over to the two lads as they dismounted to get a drink.
“Morning, lads. Doing any good?” I asked.
They said they hadn’t seen anything that morning and were just getting a drink before leaving the area to head for another that might have a few more deer. Well, I couldn’t figure why they hadn’t seen any deer, with their noisy dirt bikes and all! I tell you, some of these lads are as dense as hardwood posts. As they drank from the spring, I sauntered over to their bikes and asked if I could examine their rifles.
“Why?” asked the heavy-set one.
“Because in California it is illegal to carry a loaded rifle in a motor vehicle on a way open to the public,” I responded.
“Are we in California?” the other biker asked hesitantly.
“By about two miles,” I answered. “May I check your rifles?” I asked again.
The men looked at each other and then nodded. Pulling the first gun out of its scabbard, I opened the bolt to find a live .264 round in the chamber. Holding the live round in my hand, I returned the unloaded rifle to the scabbard and reached for the other rifle. “It’s loaded,” blurted out the balding bike rider. I acknowledged his statement with my eyes and then removed the second rifle from its scabbard. Opening the bolt, I removed a live .243 round. Closing the bolt on a now empty chamber, I replaced that rifle in its scabbard.
Turning to the two men, I told them they had violated the laws of California (not to mention ruining a perfectly good lunch) by transporting live rounds in the chambers and were each going to receive a citation for the error of their ways. They began to complain about not knowing the laws of California and not knowing they were in California, but I brought them to an abrupt halt with a sweep of my hand.
“Lads,” I said, “it is your responsibility as hunters to know the rules of the road in this sport. This law is for your own safety and good, and it is strictly enforced in this state. Besides, the road is clearly marked with large wooden signs when you are crossing into Nevada or California.”
Blank looks followed that bit of information. I asked for and received their driver’s licenses and sat down to issue them citations. As it turned out, both lads were majors from Stead Air Force Base (now closed), and after the initial complaints they were fairly cordial. Since both men were active military, I did not seize their rifles because their military connection made it a piece of cake to guarantee their appearance in any court of law. After they received their citations, the two bikes growled their way away from the spring and out of sight and sound. Sitting down under the tree again to finish my lunch, I noticed that all was quiet around the spring. The noise from the bikes had pretty much driven away the wildlife.
I hurriedly finished eating, put my ice chest back in the truck, and re-covered my four deer with the tarp to keep the road dust and flies off them. Crawling back into my beast of burden, I started the engine and headed back the way I had come. When I reached State Line Road, I drove across it onto another trail-like road instead of heading north or south. The little road I was now on led up over a small rock bluff toward an expansive rocky table that ran east to west for about five miles. I had heard a vehicle laboring its way up this road when I first sat down for lunch and thought it might be a good bet for catching someone out of line once I finished eating.
My patrol truck carefully crawled its way up the bluff and onto the rocky table, only to be met with nothing. There wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Getting out of my rig and crawling up on top of the cab to increase my view, I swept the miles of landscape in front of me with my binoculars, looking for the vehicle I had heard earlier. Seeing or hearing nothing, I crawled down off the top of the cab into the bed of my truck. As I checked the tarp over my evidence deer, I was surprised by the sound of five shots from the area of Granite Springs. The shots weren’t from rifles but shotguns! I continued to listen and was rewarded by three more dull thumps characteristic of the sound made by the discharge of a shotgun. Sure enough, they were coming from Granite Springs—two shotguns, I would say, based on the discharge i
ntervals and thumping sounds. The chukar! Someone was shooting the chukar at Granite Springs! Damn, season was closed on chukar, and some son of a bitch had the audacity to shoot my birds at my spring area.
Well, I would put an end to that piece of horse crap! Jumping back into the cab, off I went down the steep bluff as fast as I could push the old truck without tearing out the transmission on the rocks. Once on the road to Granite Springs, I stopped to listen some more. Since there was only one way in or out, I now had control of the destiny of the lads shooting the chukar during the closed season, and that knowledge gave me a good feeling. I heard two more shots, only this time they were coming from the ridge that surrounded the spring area. It seemed the lads had taken off from the spring area where they had jumped the chukar as the birds came in to water and were now pursuing them across the adjacent hills.
Driving a little way down the Granite Springs road, I blocked the road with my vehicle at a constricted point and walked the hundred or so remaining yards to the spring to discover a Dodge 4x4 parked next to the grassy overflow area with both doors flung wide open.
It was apparent that the two occupants had leaped out hastily in order to kill as many of the unsuspecting chukar as they could before the birds fled to the less accessible hills and cover. I moved off to one side, sat down under a juniper, and waited for my quarry. I knew they had to return to their truck, so I was in no hurry. In about twenty minutes a lone lad returned empty-handed to the truck. He looked around and, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, left only to return a few moments later with his shotgun and four illegal chukar. He quickly threw these birds behind the front seat of the truck and then sat down to wait for his buddy. I wasn’t more than twenty yards away, now lying behind the juniper tree and watching him, but the lad never saw me. Then I heard another person coming from behind me and slightly to one side. The nearby crunch-crunch of his footsteps told me not to move for fear of being seen. Soon I saw another lad arriving with six or seven chukar and a shotgun. He paused a few yards from the truck and spoke softly to his buddy.
“Is it all clear?” he asked.
“Yeah,” replied his buddy, “there isn’t a game warden within miles.”
I just grinned. With the all clear, the second lad walked to the vehicle and also put his ill-gotten gains behind the truck seat. Then both lads put their shotguns into their scabbards and placed them in the front seat of the pickup. With that, they went to the spring to get a drink and wash the chukar blood off their hands. While their backs were turned, I crept down to their truck and leaned casually against the front fender as if I belonged. The lads were discussing the morning’s hunt in excited voices as I stood there not thirty feet from them. Finishing their business at the spring, they headed back to their truck, still excitedly talking about their morning’s exploits. When they were about ten feet away, they suddenly became aware of the rather large fellow leaning against their pickup and what agency he represented. Damn, you talk about two sets of eyes going from happy-excited to big as dinner plates—we had it here in a heartbeat!
“Morning, lads,” I boomed. “How is the chukar hunting?”
Instant eyeball and body-language panic! Neither could talk for a few seconds, so I filled the hollow air space. “I’m sure glad there isn’t a game warden within miles,” I said.
Boy, did their day turn to that brown, smelly stuff! “How long have you been standing there?” asked the smallest of the two.
“Long enough to watch you two stuff about ten closed-season chukar behind the seat in your pickup,” I responded.
They just looked at each other.
“Lads,” I said, “why don’t you just fish those birds out from behind the seat and hand me your shotguns.”
Without a sound, the lads dug out the chukar from behind the seat of their pickup and lamely laid them down at my feet. Then, without a word, they handed me their shotguns. I found a live shotgun shell in each chamber, another violation of the law. Picking up the chukar and shotguns, I asked the lads to follow me to my patrol truck, where I issued them citations for the illegal possession of chukar and possession of a loaded firearm in a motor vehicle on a way open to the public. I could not write them up for taking game birds during the closed season because I had not actually seen them take any of the birds. But I had seen both lads in possession of closed-season chukar; hence the citation for possession. I seized eleven chukar, the live shotgun rounds, and both shotguns since they were Nevada residents. When the two lads left, they fairly had their tails tucked between their legs. Boy, this day was sure turning out to be a peach. Everyone I had crossed trails with so far had been issued a citation for screwing up. I had a truckload of illegal deer and now chukar and a front seat full of seized firearms. I began to wonder where this adventure would end. Little did I realize this whirl of opportunity would not end until dusk had settled in for the night that followed.
Pulling back out onto State Line Road, I noticed a vehicle up on the rocky bluff I had searched earlier, probably the one I was looking for just before I pinched my chukar hunters. It was now coming down the steep road in front of me and would soon pass very close to where I was parked. Quickly pulling my rig into a copse of trees, I got out and walked to a spot where I figured they would be too preoccupied with the rough road as they drove by to be looking for the long arm of the law. Hiding in a bushy thicket right next to the road, I waited. I didn’t have to wait long. The laboring truck engine told me they were still coming my way, and they weren’t far off either.
When I figured they were close enough to stop and control, I rose from my hiding place and stepped out into the road. They were about fifteen feet away when the driver noticed me standing there holding my hand up in a “stop” position. On went the brakes as he hollered something to his passenger, who was busily looking out the window on his side of the pickup for deer. The passenger looked out the front window at me and then bent over as people do when they are unloading a rifle in the cramped front seat area of a motor vehicle. Bang went his rifle, and flying rock particles stung my legs as the bullet slammed down through the floorboards of the pickup and into the road under the truck, throwing rock chips in my direction. The cab instantly filled with blue smoke, and both men bailed out of the truck holding their ears as the truck growled and ground to a stop. I noticed transmission fluid running out over the ground as the men continued to desperately rub their ears to get rid of the ringing from having a rifle go off in close quarters. I just stood there shaking my head as I rubbed my sore legs where the rock and metal fragments had struck me.
“Morning, lads,” said the always happy game warden. “I hope that explosion wasn’t a loaded rifle going off inside your motor vehicle.”
Well, of course it was, but there is nothing like rubbing a little (or a lot) of salt into open wounds. Neither man answered. Neither could hear worth a damn, so I let them continue to dance around a bit as they tried to fix their poor ringing ears. After a few moments they settled down, and I guess the ringing got about as quiet as it would get. It was obvious that both men could have used an aspirin about then. I walked over to the pickup and removed both of their rifles from the front seat. The one from the passenger side smelled like it had just been fired and had an empty brass .270 cartridge in the chamber. I gave the passenger a questioning look, and he nodded and lowered his eyes. Checking the other rifle, a 7x61 Sharpe and Hart (a rather unusual caliber), I found it to be loaded as well. Removing the empty cartridge from the .270 and the live round from the Sharpe and Hart, I placed them in my pocket.
“Gentlemen,” I said rather loudly to offset the ringing in their ears, “we have a violation of Fish and Game laws with the loaded guns in the motor vehicle and all.”
They nodded in acknowledgment, and I continued, “I am going to issue you both a citation for a loaded gun in a motor vehicle, and I will need to see your hunting licenses and driver’s licenses if you please.”
While they dug those out, I looked in the back
of the truck for any game and, finding none, checked out the cab area for game as well. Finding none, I knelt down and looked at the transmission. Yep, it was dead all right! That rifle bullet had gone clear through and left a hole you could drive a truck through. The damage that 130-grain bullet had done was amazing!
Getting back on my feet, I took the licenses from the lads and asked them to accompany me to my vehicle. Once there, I issued citations for the loaded-gun violations and, since they were Nevada residents, seized their rifles, brass casing, and loaded Sharpe and Hart round. I then called a wrecker from Sierraville at their request. When all was said and done, the wrecker driver agreed to come get them in that remote part of the world for $250, which was a lot of money in those days! That expense plus a new transmission would certainly make this trip memorable for these lads, not to mention the icing on their cake in the form of a Fish and Game ticket for their loaded-gun violations. I guess the only consolation they got, if consolation is the word, was being written up by the world’s largest game warden.
Leaving them there to await the arrival of the wrecker (with a promise that I would check back on them at nightfall in case he hadn’t found them), I moved off to another long, sloping ridge that gave me a view of a zillion square miles below me and just sat there. The time spent awake the night before was now clashing with my youth and common sense, saying a little sleep was needed. I had been awake, more or less, for the past thirty-five hours, and it was telling. Moving into a small group of pines to camouflage the truck and shade my evidence, and with a view of all eternity below me, I let the heat of the day and sleep take over.