by Terry Grosz
I walked back to Bob to find that our young lady was back in the Chevy with another chap. This was too good to be true. I placed the rocket on the launcher, aimed it high over their heads so it wouldn’t hurt anyone when it went off, and told Bob to light it. As I stood behind the willows, Bob lit the fuse, and after a second of burn-down the rocket ignited. As the rocket roared off the launch rod, horror of horrors, it clattered through some willow branches directly in front of our position that we hadn’t seen in the dark of the night. The branches deflected the damn thing downward so that instead of going up in the air over the target and exploding harmlessly, the rocket streaked across Butte Creek right into the back end of that ’58 Chevy, roared over the two “lovers,” and hammered into the windshield in a sea of sparks!
The rocket, with plenty of burn time left, continued to roar back and forth across the inside of the windshield like a trapped mosquito, only with a lot more punch. In abject terror, Bob and I watched that rocket just a rattlin’ and a clangin’ on that windshield, still going full bore! Needless to say, the rocket had scared the living hell out of our two lovebirds, who came bailing out of the car nude as jaybirds. The rocket skittered back and forth for several more seconds, then went to the explosive stage and detonated like a hand grenade right in the car. The whole car lit up like there was no tomorrow—and there wasn’t for the windshield, which shattered into a million diamondlike pieces. Blue smoke poured out both ends of the car, and the crowd of fishermen was now coming to life. The whole riverbank was alive with running, scared people. They were whoopin’ and hollerin’ as if a bear were in camp. I guess I couldn’t blame them, but goddamn, it was funny! One minute they were happily fishing and fornicating, and the next their whole damned world blew up! Just imagine, they were sitting there contentedly when all of a sudden this roaring monster with one eye came across the creek, slammed into the car, attacked the windshield, and then blew up the car, not to mention wrecked a happy “love” affair.
It was the goddamnedest “hoorah” you ever saw. We had people running everywhere, trying to start their cars and get the hell out of there without running over their friends. We had a fat woman trying to find her underpants and put them on at a dead run. No luck on that one! The other of the “lovers” was hopping around on one leg trying to put his pants on when a fleeing car hooked one pants leg and dragged this chap through a campfire, all spread-eagled, before letting him go. Now that fellow was really hopping about trying to get the hot coals out of his shorts before disaster set in, if you get my drift. Another driver took off forgetting there were several fishing rods tied upright to his bumper, and these were dragged through the rapidly exploding camp in fine style, one with a flopping carp still on the line. I could imagine that when that car stopped running down the highway, all that would be left of that fish was the lips. Another car, backing up to miss one fleeing out ahead of it, backed over a large ice chest, crunching it underneath the frame. When that car fled, the ice chest was still firmly clamped underneath it and “growling” about its plight as the car moved out of sight. By now Bob and I were rolling around on the ground just roaring with laughter as the “hoorah” on the other side of Butte Creek continued to unfold.
About then two of the men from the fishing camp moved to the creek’s edge and started shooting across at the location where the one-eyed monster had come from. Branches snapped off overhead, bullets walked across the creek to where we were lying on the ground, and mud splattered all over us from what seemed a zillion near misses. No longer did we find the chaos going on across the creek all that funny! Bob and I were up and running in less than a flash and, like twins, dove into a partially filled ditch at the edge of the road on which we had been lying earlier, laughing our insides out. To say they had our undivided attention at that moment was an understatement. To say the ditch had our undivided attention also was an understatement. Boy, were we a delightful mess after coming up out of the rotten soup we landed in. That ditch was partially full of nature’s delight, a soup not normally not found in any French kitchen. It was, I’m sure, Mother Nature’s recipe reserved for those special people who screw with other people’s fishing pleasure and lives. Crawdads, twenty-seven species of fish, snakes, turtles, and other unidentifiable decomposers had all been dumped into the ditch and then drawn down to about two inches of a water-like solution. Add 100-degree Colusa County heat for a week, along with all the aforementioned dead critters, and you have what I would call a game warden’s stew—especially when you add two fast-moving game wardens.
We were armed only with handguns, and we knew better than to return fire with that piss-anty armament. So we took off running down the half-filled ditch full of dead frogs and other things that smelled in the night for our patrol vehicles as the noise of rifle fire faded in our mud-covered ears. The fishermen were rapidly abandoning their camp under the covering fire of the two shooters, and two very smelly game wardens were also fleeing their position in the dark of the night. After a short run to our patrol rigs, I called the Colusa County sheriff’s office in an attempt to have some officers block the road and catch the lads with the guns. The dispatcher agreed and scrambled several units in order to try to head off the fleeing fishermen. Bob and I jumped in our patrol vehicles and tried to cut off these folks as well.
As it turned out, everybody missed everybody. I don’t know where in the hell those chaps went, but they flat got away. After the futile chase, Bob and I returned to their fishing camp, and what a scene greeted our eyes. There were still thirteen fishing rods out, baited and all. The Coleman lanterns were still all over the place, happily glowing, and ice chests full of food abounded.
I turned to Bob, who had a dead crawdad in his holster. “There are hundreds of dollars of gear here. I bet they will return for it, and when they do, they are ours,” I said through a set of smelly lips. Bob agreed, and we staked out the area until late in the morning, but the lads and their lady never returned. I wonder if the strong odor Bob and I were emitting had something to do with it. Boy, did we smell, and talk about sticky—brother! Bob and I gathered everything up and took it to the Colusa County sheriff’s office in the hope that the lads would claim the equipment later. No such luck, so the next time the sheriff’s office had a seized-equipment auction they sold all that gear and kept the money to use for Christmas gifts for needy kids in Colusa County.
Over the years I have often wondered what went through that chap’s mind when the rocket hit the front windshield in their love nest. He must have thought that was the best woman he had ever had because about halfway through the experience the whole car blew up. I’ll bet the next couple of times he had sex, he sure as hell looked over his shoulder to see if that screaming, one-eyed thing were coming at him again. Of course, then again, maybe he kind of hoped it would.
Chapter Fourteen
Now We Are Even
I moved from Humboldt County to Colusa County in the summer of 1967 and began living in the small, historic Sacramento River town of Colusa as the resident Fish and Game warden. I had been assigned the northern half of Colusa County, an area of approximately 1,100 square miles, which I discovered was a veritable natural resources treasure house. There were salmon, striped bass, sturgeon, and steelhead in the Sacramento River, which passed through part of my enforcement district. There were largemouth bass, two species of crappie, bullfrogs, crawfish by the bucket load, and catfish in the Sacramento Valley waterways, with trout in the high country. The valley floor was loaded with quail, pheasants, coots, snipe, and in the fall clouds of waterfowl that spoke of days long past. There were black bears, mountain lions, turkeys, tule elk, mule deer, and band-tailed pigeons in the mountainous western part of the county. Throw in the mule deer dwelling throughout the valley floor along with the muskrats, beavers, raccoons, and bobcats, and you had a westering man’s delight. Looking back on it now, I think this had to be one of the best districts, if not the best, in which I’ve ever had the opportunity to go forth and practice
my trade.
Unfortunately, when natural resources are so concentrated, varied, and well known, one tends to find members of the human race inclined to take more than their share. Colusa County, with its historical record of being a haven for waterfowl commercial-market hunters, started right off giving the resources and me fits.
While learning the geographic reaches and peculiarities of the wildlife in the county in 1967 and 1968, I also had time to discover the resident good, bad, and ugly personalities of the local people. One man within this outdoor arena was probably one of the most efficient and dedicated poachers and killers I have ever known. Let’s just call him Harry.
Harry was an unusual individual. He was a combat veteran of Korea and had picked up a steel plate in his head for his troubles. As a result of the war and the steel he carried in his skull and throughout his body, it was not unusual to find him in the state mental institutions trying to get right. If my memory serves me correctly, he had been in and out of mental institutions some fourteen or fifteen times before our paths first crossed. He was an excellent, dedicated poacher and a crack shot with either a rifle or a shotgun. Harry was also into drugs in a big way, and that influence often colored his personality and actions. He was not the kind of person you wanted to cross. I always felt that if he said he was going to kill you, you should say your prayers because he meant it. It was that simple.
As the days and months of learning sped by, I ran across Harry many times in the outback and began to learn his methods of operation, how he thought, his favorite haunts, wildlife likes, and many of his dislikes. I could see conflict coming: on one hand the aggressive game warden working the enforcement district like there was no tomorrow, and on the other the poacher killing all he could as if the devil were riding his coattails. Now when I think back on Harry’s behavior, I believe the devil really was close at hand. Hunting Harry was hunting the most dangerous game, and I lived for the opportunities he gave me for the hunt. Months passed with many close capture calls by the game warden but no brass ring. My lack of success just intensified my pursuit of the man, and I was getting better.
One hot July afternoon I was working my way along Lett’s Valley near the Art Andreotti Ranch. While slowly patrolling on the Leesville-to-Ladoga road, I felt nature’s call and stopped on an old concrete bridge that crossed over a dry creek bed. Stepping out of my patrol truck, I listened to the sounds around me while my eyes swept the adjacent oak- and grass-covered foothills. The Leesville-to-Ladoga county road I was standing on ran in and out of the foothills through several small, dry alfalfa fields. The country was mostly deserted now, and the ranches that dotted the area were all but abandoned. The coolness from the shade of the tall oak trees felt good, as did the fresh, hot air on my sweat-soaked shirt. Glancing around one last time to make sure I was alone, I walked over to the edge of the bridge to relieve myself. Starting to urinate over the bridge rail into the dry creek bed below, I noticed, much to my surprise, the urine stream almost hitting an elbow sticking out from under the bridge! The elbow hurriedly withdrew out of sight, and I heard a faint scuffling below me that sounded like someone repositioning himself.
Quickly placing everything back where it belonged, and pissed because that’s exactly what was trickling down my leg, I hollered for the owner of the elbow to come out from under the bridge. Nothing happened. Again I called for the person or persons under the bridge to come out. Again nothing. Tiring of this little game, I reached into my shirt pocket and took out two cherry-bomb firecrackers. Dropping one over the edge of the bridge so the mystery person could see the little engine of destruction, I hollered, “I have one of these I plan on lighting and dropping over the side next unless you come out, and right now!” There was a moment’s silence while the person below thought over my proposition and the deafening act that would follow noncompliance. Then I heard a shuffling as the elbow appeared with Harry attached! Surprised, I quickly went into a cautious combat mode and ordered him up onto the road.
Harry crawled up the bank and stood in front of me, fixing my eyes with a stone-cold stare. I said, “Harry, what were you doing under that bridge?”
He matter-of-factly said, “My wife threw me out of the car, and while walking home I figured I’d rest in the cool under the bridge before continuing on.” Not believing that story for a moment, I looked down at his hands and saw that they were covered with dried blood! Harry noticed my glance toward his hands and slowly placed them behind his back in such a manner as not to bring attention to them or his movement. I thought, This killing son of a gun had his wife drop him off to hunt on foot and arranged for her to pick him up at a later time and place. How clever. No wonder it was so hard to catch him illegally killing deer. Looking at him the same way he was staring at me, I asked, “Harry, what is under the bridge?”
Knowing full well I was going to look no matter what he said, he replied, “A deer.”
Keeping my eyes on Harry, I reached into the patrol truck, took the radio mike off the holder, and called the Colusa County sheriff’s office. The dispatcher responded, and I informed him of my location, that I was with Harry, and that the two of us were going under the bridge by the Art Andreotti Ranch to recover an illegal deer Harry had shot. The dispatcher acknowledged the message, and I signed off and replaced the radio mike on its holder. After my action of reporting in, I could see the resignation well up in Harry’s eyes. Whatever thought he might have had on his mind before that had certainly changed now.
Looking Harry directly in the eye, I said, “Let’s go.”
We started down the steep bank that led to the dry creek bed and the space under the bridge. Sure enough, there lay a field-dressed three-point buck in the cool sand under the bridge. I turned and looked at Harry, and he just shrugged. With hardly a word, I grabbed the antlers, Harry the hind legs, and we carried the deer up the bank, loading it into the bed of my pickup. I then told Harry to assume the position, searched him, handcuffed him, and placed him in my truck after informing him that he was under arrest for the illegal possession of a deer. After that I asked, “Harry, where is your rifle?”
Harry just looked at me, and a repetition of the question drew the same lack of response. Seatbelting Harry in so he couldn’t escape (his hands were cuffed behind his back), I went back under the bridge to look for his gun. A quick glance up under the bridge rafters produced a bolt-action 30-06 rifle and a bloody hunting knife and sheath. With that discovery my case was completed, and I returned to my vehicle for our drive to the Colusa County jail. The trip to Colusa was uneventful except that we passed Harry’s wife on the road in their vehicle, obviously looking for him. I could also tell from the background voices in the radio room every time I used the radio that my trip and prisoner were starting to create quite a stir at the sheriff’s office.
The booking of my semi-famous prisoner went without any problems as he called his equally semi-famous attorney, Bert Thompson, for rather belated counsel. Bert’s arrival at the lockup was the usual staged show. He huffed and puffed Fourth Amendment rights concerns until, having a gut full, I addressed the fact that I had found Harry on a public road, under a public bridge, rather than invading his curtilage. The subsequent trial went like clockwork. Harry was found guilty and sentenced to a surprising three months in the county jail. Normally the Colusa County judges did not levy jail time for most wildlife violations, so I was surprised, to say the least. I had already given the plump deer to a needy family in Colusa, one with seven kids, so no one had been hurt except Harry and the deer. I had caught the meanest son of a bitch in the valley, and as I stepped out of the courthouse that day into the hot Colusa sun, all was good. Then it hit me. Harry had a wife and three little kids. They didn’t have any source of income but Harry and the money he made from poaching and odd jobs. Harry didn’t believe in welfare and wouldn’t take a dime of public assistance. I knew his wife, no matter how bad it got, would honor her husband’s wishes and not take a nickel of public support in his absence. Damn.
The day quickly went from smooth sailing to a rock in the road.
As I got into my patrol vehicle, I decided I had better check on the welfare of Harry’s wife and kids. Arriving in front of Harry’s crackerbox house, I saw Mary, Harry’s wife, working in the yard. She had changed from the simple print dress she had worn in court to jeans and a work shirt and was now busy sweating over hard work in her garden. I got out of the truck and walked over to her. She looked up from her gardening, and a clouded look instantly flew across her face. It was pretty obvious that she was in no mood to talk to the son of a bitch that had just gotten her husband sentenced to three months in the county jail.
I said, “Good morning, Mary.” The accelerated pace of her weed chopping told me that if I had been a weed, I would have been history. Refusing to be ignored, I said, “Mary, I didn’t break the law; Harry did. I did my job, nothing more, nothing less.” The weed chopping continued at a furious pace. I said, “Mary, do those little kids have enough to eat?”
She whirled with the hoe in hand and then, thinking better of her actions, placed it on the ground. Then, with a look as intense as any Harry could have given me, she said, “What the hell do you care, you bastard? You just threw my husband into that damn county jail for three months!”
I asked again, “Mary, do those little kids have enough food?”