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

by Terry Grosz

  Some time later I heard the faraway sound of a vehicle being driven over a rough road. Opening my right eye, not wanting to lose the sleep that had taken hold of me, I quickly glanced at my domain below. Nothing. I let the long fingers of sleep again reach out for me, only to be disturbed again by the sound of a vehicle still moving somewhere below me. The hunter of men in me this time made me sit up and take note. It was amazing what this intoxicating feeling of hunting my fellow human could do for my physical being. I was not sleepy anymore, and for some reason known only to God and game wardens, I was now fully alert and on the trail.

  Below me and about half a mile away a blue pickup slowly moved toward a small stand of trees where I remembered an old deer camp had once stood. Watching the truck through the binoculars as it climbed a small hill, I could look directly into the bed. There appeared to be a deer and another kind of animal in the back of the pickup. I thought there were three people in the cab. Damn, with just my 7x50 binoculars and the angle of the sun, I couldn’t for the life of me make out what the mystery animal was. It sure as hell wasn’t a deer, but what the hell was it? Both animals kept sliding around in the back of the pickup as it moved up and down and from side to side on the rough road. Finally the truck arrived at the old deer camp, and then I could see why they had gone there. The camp still had an old game pole, a pole or log tied horizontally high between two trees that allows the hunter to hang his game off the ground so he can gut or skin his kill more easily.

  The pickup backed up to the game pole, and the lads emptied out of the truck and commenced to take the mystery animal out of the pickup and over to the game pole. They hurriedly tied a rope through its legs, hoisted it up on the cross pole, and began to skin it. Just the speed with which they worked on this animal told me something was wrong, not to mention the color of the critter. Antelope! The goddamned thing was an antelope! Another look with my binoculars confirmed my guess. It was an antelope all right!

  My mindset had been on deer because that was why I was in this area, to work the deer hunters, and deer was the quarry of the day. It took a few moments to get my gears right. Damn, Terry, that’s a sure sign of getting old, I told myself. Quickly pushing that thought out of my mind, I began to formulate a plan on how to approach the lads without losing them or the illegal animal in the process. The season was closed on these critters, and the antelope herd in California was closely guarded by state Fish and Game in order to allow it to expand from its current low numbers and limited area of habitation. Where in the hell did they get this critter? I wondered. Not in this area. They must have killed it somewhere on the flats below the mountain range I was now working. This was not antelope country.

  I returned to the problem at hand: there was no easy way into that deer camp where the lads were industriously skinning their ill-gotten prey. They had chosen their ground well. I would have to cross easily a mile of open sagebrush on an extremely rough road just to get to the deer camp they presently occupied. In addition, another road led out the other side of the deer camp, off the ridge and onto State Line Road, with dozens of little feeder roads from there. If they got there, catching them would be very difficult, if not impossible. Patience was the name of the game, and I suppressed my overwhelming desire to roar forth like the Roman legions of old and just held the high ground.

  Once finished with their task of skinning the antelope, the lads took what appeared to be two five-gallon cans from the bed of their pickup and, after cutting the antelope into pieces, stuffed the meat inside the cans. They placed what looked like several deer bags (cloth bags used to sack a freshly skinned animal carcass so it can cool while the dust and flies are kept off the meat) on top of the meat in the cans and carefully replaced the lids. With that, they placed the cans back in the bed of the pickup among the rest of their camping gear, hauled the antelope skin, hooves and all, about one hundred yards from the deer camp, and buried those remains under a large rock. Good, that would make it easy for me to find, I thought. The lads cleaned up their work area, washed their hands, and then dragged out the deer and commenced to prepare it for hanging on the same meat pole so they could skin it. Great, I now had my opening.

  I waited and watched until they had this deer about one-third skinned. Then I left my hiding place on the hill and moved my patrol rig slowly down the rough and rocky road toward the deer camp. About halfway down, I stopped and looked over the scene. They had seen me and did not seem to be very concerned about my arrival. They just continued to skin their animal, and their lack of concern told me that more than likely the deer was legal. I continued on, arriving after the lads had finished skinning their deer and were sacking the meat in a deer bag. Pulling up to the camp slowly so I wouldn’t raise any dust that could get on the deer meat and piss them off, I shut off the patrol-truck engine and stepped out of the cab.

  “Afternoon, lads,” I said as I walked over to the deer hanging on the meat pole. “Looks like someone had some luck.”

  “Yeah, Bob here, after some lousy shooting, finally got his deer,” a bearded man answered.

  I lifted the deer’s head. It was a nice five-by-four-point buck and was properly tagged in accordance with Nevada law. Since I hadn’t seen what state the deer had come from, there wasn’t anything I could do but consider it a deer lawfully taken in Nevada. I checked all the lads’ licenses, and all was in order. Since they all had Nevada hunting licenses, I informed them that they were in California and would not be back in Nevada until they crossed State Line Road, some four miles to the east. They thanked me and said they knew where they were and had no intention of violating California laws. It was great! They had a secret and were enjoying themselves tricking the stupid local game warden. I also had a secret, and it was just a matter of time before it came out!

  Turning slowly and taking about twenty seconds to look my chaps over like a lion selecting a plains antelope, I said, “Why are you guys here?”

  Every lad visibly changed his expression.

  Without waiting for the lame answer I was expecting to follow, I said, “You guys are really off the beaten path, something people do when they have something to hide.”

  The silence was absolute. All I could hear was a grasshopper fiddling the last song before the winter of its life.

  Finally one of the lads chirped, “We just thought we would go and see some country since we were here and all.”

  Looking him in the eye with a knowing expression, I said, “That doesn’t make sense. Think about it, way out here in the middle of nowhere, over a very rough road and in blazing heat. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

  The lads just stood there, huddled like shorebirds in a storm. I gave them my best steely-eyed look. Turning slowly back to the buck hanging on the meat pole, I slowly shifted my stare to the ground beneath the animal. I could see a few antelope hairs on the ground, mixed with deer blood and bits and pieces of their previous skinning and cleaning process. Kneeling so I was facing the three mute lads (wanting to keep an eye on them in case they tried anything), I reached down and picked up the antelope hairs, spent a measured amount of time examining them for effect, and then raised my eyes to theirs. I could see the cracks starting in their original fearless facade.

  “Antelope hair,” I said, “and fresh, I might add.”

  They were now watching me like cornered prey and wishing, I would bet, that they didn’t have a secret like the one they held inside. I continued to look at the lads and said to myself, I’ll bet you not a one of them could pass a turd right now if he had to. I arose holding the antelope hair and said, “Gentlemen, my dad taught me to track as good as any Indian that lived.” I was lying, but how were they to know?

  I continued with my tall tale, saying, “He also taught me to smell out game, and I am very good at that too. You can either lead me to this illegal antelope or I will find it myself. Your call.”

  I let the words sink in and watched for a reaction. Damn, this was fun, and full of that rush that comes from hunti
ng your fellow man. I know I shouldn’t enjoy it so much, but I did and do.

  The bearded one, apparently the leader of this group, awoke from his fear and said, “Go ahead; we have nothing to hide. It’s just like we said, we were looking the country over, but you can bet this is the last time we will if this is how the law treats us nonresidents.”

  I waved my hand in a huge gesture of showmanship to move them off to one side. I walked back to the pool of blood and hair under the hanging buck, knelt down, and made a big show of smelling the ground. Boy, what a story they would have to tell their buddies and children about the game warden that was part Indian and part cat when this was all said and done. Rising into a crouch, I looked across the ground as if I were examining it for any sign. I didn’t see anything, but I made sure they believed I had seen something bad. Moving slowly across the ground toward their pickup as if I were following a trail like the Indians of old, I headed directly for the bed area where they kept their camping equipment and ice chests. A quick glance told me I had their undivided and terror-stricken attention. I don’t think there was a heartbeat among them at that moment.

  I wiped an imaginary spot of blood off the side of their truck with my finger, smelled it, pretended to lick the blood off my finger, and said, “Yep, that’s antelope.” Turning back to the lads, I said, “Do you want to tell me about the antelope, or do you want me to continue?”

  The bearded guy said, “Be our guest, we have nothing to hide.” His voice sure betrayed him, though, and from the looks the other lads gave him, I think they thought so as well.

  “OK,” I said, “have it your way. I don’t mind practicing my tracking skills. They haven’t let me down in a dozen like situations, and I don’t think they will now.

  “Gentlemen,” I went on lying, “I picked up fresh antelope hair under your deer, and I can tell the degree of freshness from its brittleness. I have a BS and an MS in wildlife management, and I learned during those programs that antelope hair remains brittle for up to forty-five minutes after the hide is removed from the body. So, I know an antelope was here sometime in the last forty-five minutes.

  “Second, I smelled antelope blood mixed in the deer blood. It has a very pungent smell and can’t be mistaken for deer blood, which in this country has a very strong sage smell.” I hate to say it, but I lied again. I hope my mom doesn’t read these stories, because if she does she will rinse my mouth out with soap.

  “Then, gentlemen, I saw three sets of tracks leading to the side of the pickup. The footprints were sunken in the soil as if the owners were carrying something heavy. I was able to judge the depth of the footprints by the depth of those you are making now versus those by the truck.” All the lads looked at their footprints as if they would be able to see something graphic. Hell, I only said that because I had read numerous times about Indians distinguishing loaded from unloaded animals or people by the depth of their tracks.

  “Then I found that drop of blood on the side of the pickup that smelled and tasted like antelope blood. That tells me the antelope is in the bed of the pickup somewhere among your other camping gear. How am I doing, guys?” I asked.

  There was utter silence.

  “OK, let me continue.”

  I moved over to the bed of the pickup and looked at the two five-gallon metal tins. They were old lard tins, probably from some restaurant, cleaned out and converted to carrying containers used during hunting trips. Damn, there was blood on the rim of one of the lard containers! What a God-given break!

  Looking over at the bearded one, I said, “Come here.” He moved to my side, and I lied, “I can smell antelope blood in this area.” Then, pointing to the lid of the lard can, I said, “Look at the bloody handprint on the top of the can.”

  The lad just froze and then, after looking and seeing, nodded acknowledgment. “I would bet you a ticket that can and probably the other one contains the remains of the antelope. Am I right?”

  Of course I was right, I had seen the whole thing, but it was a lot of fun playing with my mice and showing them the unique powers of a game warden! Before he could get his feet under him I said, “I would like to look in that lard can, if I may.”

  The lad hesitated, then grabbed the can and took the lid off as if there were nothing in it but deer bags. I could tell it was his last act of hope and defiance. Quickly showing me the deer bags, he said, “See, nothing,” and with that put the lid back on and placed the can back in the bed of the truck.

  I reached over, picked up the lard can, and set it down between us. I said, “This sure is a very heavy can for just deer bags, and with the heavy smell of antelope and all, I think this is where I will find the meat.”

  I opened the lid, removed the deer bags that had been placed on top of the meat, and exposed the goods to six plate-sized eyes. The lads were dead, and they knew it. Their frozen look and bad cases of the big eye just confirmed that fact.

  “Well, gentlemen, why don’t you get the other can and let’s put it into my truck instead of yours for safekeeping.” I took the first can over to my truck, and one of the lads was not far behind me with the other. I asked for and received their driver’s licenses, got out my citation book, and commenced to write all of them tickets for illegal possession of an antelope. Since none of them wanted to tell me where the critter came from or how it came into their possession, illegal possession was the safest way to go with a citation. I seized the rifles to assure the men’s appearance in California court, seized the antelope and the lard buckets for safe carrying of the meat, and asked if they had any questions.

  They all looked at each other, and finally the bearded one asked how I was able to smell out the meat. Giving him a dead serious look, I told him it was a secret Indian trick my dad had taught me and I was unable to share that information with them for obvious reasons.

  He just shook his head and said, “We really thought we had it made on this one, and then some stinking half-Indian game warden had to come along. No offense, officer, but being caught in a situation like this is a once-in-a-lifetime situation.”

  I said, “No offense taken, and yes, it is a once-in-a-lifetime situation.” It really was. I have yet to make a similar case during the rest of my career. With that, we parted ways. They were somewhat amazed at what a game warden could do, and I could just imagine the stories they told when they got back to where they came from. It wasn’t every day one was apprehended by a game warden who had the hands of a surgeon to test the brittleness of hair, could track footprints across rocks, could smell antelope meat even when it was hidden in a can with a lid on it, and was built like a bear—and, after all my long hours in the saddle, probably smelled like one as well. For me it was just another opportunity to slide home a lesson, between the third and fourth ribs, as we would say in the profession, to those who chose to violate the wildlife laws. Somewhat skewed, but a lesson nonetheless.

  I let my lads move off and out of sight before I retrieved the buried hide, head, and feet of the antelope. I figured if I needed an ace in the hole in court, the hide and other parts would provide the evidence needed. Besides, it would give me a questioning point, under threat of perjury, if this case ever went to trial and the lads lied about what had happened that day. Loading my new evidence into the truck, off I went to another part of my chosen patrol area to see what more I could run across in my efforts to ruin anyone else’s day. I stopped along another portion of State Line Road about ten miles from my last contact, pulled off into a pine and brush thicket, got out of the truck, set up a lawn chair in front of my rig, and tiredly sat down. Damn, what a day this one had been. In a period of about twelve hours I had met sixteen people and written every one of them a ticket and had seized four deer, one antelope, eleven chukar, and eleven rifles and shotguns. No wonder my tail end was dragging.

  Sitting there in the last heat of the day watching the sun move to the tops of the mountain range to the west was really relaxing. I let my mind wander over times and events past, but not
so far that I couldn’t bring it back at a moment’s notice if something illegal occurred. The air was quiet, bird movement was nil, and hunting traffic appeared to be checked by the lad in the lawn chair. Dark followed dusk, and with it came thoughts of going home to my wife, Donna, and her fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, and garden-fresh peas. Damn, I was starting to get hungry, especially after I realized how little I had eaten throughout the day of adventures along State Line Road. Pulling my tired frame up and out of the lawn chair, I became aware of how stiff my old carcass was. A smile started across my face as I loaded up. Reaching down to a switch on my dash, I set off the siren and let its sound splash across the ridges and valleys around me. I was instantly rewarded as the echoes diminished by the new sound of “song dogs” (coyotes, as the Indians named them) as they ran up and down their musical scales from every point of the compass around me. There truly is something to be said for the opening of a man’s soul during moments like that. I had worked hard all day for the world of wildlife, and now, during the last vestiges of daylight, the world of wildlife was singing to me its song of life and praise.

  Heading down the dusty main road toward Sierraville, I took the time to enjoy the beautiful red, gold, and gray sunset. I never tired of what God was able to splash across the skies for those of us who cared to notice, and tonight was no exception. I smiled and thanked Him for another good day. Using the available starlight and moonlight, I practiced my sneak technique with the patrol vehicle by running down the backcountry roads without any lights. It was always a challenge, but I always found it exciting to run along the edge, and tonight was no different. Several times I had to brake suddenly to avoid hitting a surprised deer or a porcupine ambling down the road, but all in all I found my skill in running the dirt roads without lights to be more than adequate. Rounding a high turn in the road, I was able to overlook a small grass-and-sagebrush meadow below. I stopped to enjoy the quiet of the moment my high-ground position offered only to be disturbed by a set of tail- and headlights moving slowly down the road below me. The way the driver was riding the brake, I wondered if he would have any left by the time he got to the bottom of the grade. Then the vehicle stopped. The backup lights came on, and the vehicle backed up the road and swung its headlights out across my little meadow. It stopped with its headlights illuminating the field, and my evening was destroyed by the quick double boom-boom of two rifles going off. From my position high above, I could see that the rifle flashes associated with those shots had come from the back of the vehicle below me. A pickup, I guessed, with two shooters in the back shooting over the headlights. Down the road I went without lights toward my shooters. I had to get closer.