by Terry Grosz
Joe was a stern but good teacher. I guess desperation on my part to slow down the terrible carnage in the rice fields after dark made me a good student. He taught me how to read subtle signs left along the dirt roads after a drag. He taught me the details of duck behavior, how to read the weather, and how to read the ducks in conjunction with particular weather patterns. He taught me the factors that would lead to a duck slaughter, when to expect it, how to intercept those involved, and what parts of the valley the ducks favored during different times of the year. He taught me market- hunter terminology; where existing markets were located; names of buyers, shooters, and middlemen; favored methods of transport by the various clans in the valley; and the names of those storing ducks for mass pickups and where. He gave me personal insights into those I was hunting and told me how to be prepared for ambushes. Basically, he gave me an opportunity to look into the past with a set of eyes from the present. He also, not through words but through actions, allowed me access to himself. A hunter of humans does not really draw a line of distinction: a target is a target, and Joe was looming larger than life, something we both realized early in the relationship.
After one winter season of meeting clandestinely so people wouldn’t know Joe was cooperating with the law, the training ended. He had taught me the commercial market hunter’s trade— how well only time would tell. Joe met me at our usual meeting place one evening and said, “We’re through with the lessons. You have a handle on what needs to be done, and I suggest you get cracking.”
About that time a small flock of graceful pintail went over en route to their chosen field for the evening, and as Joe followed their route, his eyes and voice softened.
“Terry,” he said, “people are changing, the ducks are declining, and the history that was once mine is just that. I am getting too old to commercial-market hunt like I did when I was a young man fifty years ago.”
There was a long pause before he spoke again, and I did not intrude. “Once a year from now on, I will drag enough ducks to fill my freezer for a year and keep me young. I will call you and let you know when I am going. If you catch me, fine. If you don’t, that’s your problem.”
With that and a wave of the hand, off he went, basically out of my life because of who we were and what we each represented. Sitting there watching him drive off, I wondered. If he was getting too old to hunt commercially anymore, then why had he taught me the tricks of the trade? I began to get an unusual feeling that there was more to this than met the eye. Was I being set up, or was he setting himself up? I didn’t have a sense of the answer but figured I would know when it came.
The following winter during duck season, I received a call from Crazy Joe. He said, “I think I will be going out this evening. Good luck.”
He hung up before I could ask him a single question. Minutes later, out I went into the night. I was going out anyway because the time, ducks, and cycle of the moon were right for the draggers to do their thing. So Joe’s call did nothing more than get me another sandwich for dinner as I left my home. Using his teaching and what I’d learned since then, I picked an area that suited a commercial shoot, hid my vehicle, walked into the area, and dug in for the evening’s events. The area was one just loaded with bunches of ducks, mostly pintail, and all were hungrily feeding. I figured if anyone had any bad intentions, this is where they would expend those energies. About two in the morning, my hunch proved correct. Lying against my rice check, I saw three men walk right by me, heading in a crouched position toward my bunch of feeding ducks. They moved right up to my check, just a few feet north of where I lay, and then went to earth and commenced to crawl the rest of the distance, about forty yards, toward my feeding ducks. Rolling over on my right shoulder so I could mark their progress better, I thought with a grin, Well, lads, at least one of you will be mine tonight. Then a rattle of shots from the northeast shook the morning stillness, spooking the ducks feeding in my field. Up they went with a roar before the lads sneaking toward them could get a shot, and back to the Delevan National Wildlife Refuge immediately to the east they scampered. Damn, I thought, come on, God, give me a break here.
I could hear the soft roar of fleeing waterfowl from the shoot to the northeast. I counted about ten rapid-fire shots that ripped the morning quiet like the noise of a tearing sheet. I was too far away from that action to do any good and just lay there clenching my fists and teeth in frustration. Just too far away for me to catch that chap, I thought; only one gun doing the shooting, but just too far. I knew from past experience and from Joe’s teachings that if I wasn’t within forty yards or less of the shooters, I could kiss off any hope of fruitful action on my part. The shooters would just melt away into the night. A combination of shadows, knowledge of the area, and luck would allow them to escape as the ducks lay flopping and dying on the ground. Damn, two opportunities and I was not in the right place to be effective for either one.
At that time, the three lads who had been sneaking up on the ducks I had been watching walked by, heading back in the direction from which they had come. I recognized one of them by his shape and voice and said to myself, “Someday, Maxwell, you will not be so lucky. I don’t care if your wife and mine are good buddies—someday, someday.” I waited until daylight on my rice check and then moved northeast, using my knowledge of the area to find the kill site. Talk about frustrated: the kill site was on the north end of Delevan National Wildlife Refuge. A goddamned national wildlife refuge! That took the work of a master. Then the wheels began to turn. I had worked with the master; surely he wouldn’t shoot the refuge, but then again...
About three days later Joe called and said, “Where were you?”
I told him I’d been several miles from where I actually had been to see if that might draw a comment about where I should have been. He said, “Well, I didn’t shoot that area. Better luck next year.” You could almost hear the relief in his voice. He said, “See you next year,” and hung up. That call provided an answer to my instincts about who might be my master shooter on the national wildlife refuge. I had heard no other shooting that evening for miles around, so it must have been him—but then again, was it?
The following year, just about the same time as the year before, Joe called and said, “It’s a good night; I think I will be out and about.”
In a teasing voice I said, “Where are you going this time?”
He said, “Good luck,” and hung up the phone.
This time the birds were feeding over toward the west side of the valley, from Link Dennis’s property all the way across the interstate. As I slowly moved through the dark, thick night on farm roads, I tried to echo-locate every bunch of ducks I could in order to make my choice for the night’s activities. My selection had to be a good one this time or I would be rewarded again with dead and crippled ducks. I finally decided to sit to the east of the main flocks of ducks strung out across the valley and just south of a large bunch happily feeding on the north end of Delevan National Wildlife Refuge, Link Dennis’s property, and the Newhall Farms property. About two a.m. somebody blew up the ducks immediately north of my stakeout location on what appeared to be the national wildlife refuge. Again, I was hidden just too far away to try to intercept the shooter. Dammit anyway, that was twice the same thing had happened to me. I sat there in my hiding place just off the south end of the refuge as many of the ducks nearest to me took to the air in alarm, trying to figure out how to work this problem more successfully in the future.
About an hour passed as I sat there in frustration, and suddenly I noticed that bunches of dead pintail ducks were floating past me in the canal that bordered the west side of the refuge. That canal ran under the Maxwell Highway and stopped at a small dam on private property. I watched in utter amazement as the bunches of pintail floated down the canal and under the highway and lodged gently against the headboards of the small irrigation dam. Looking back up the canal through my Starlight Scope, I could see more dead ducks coming down in what appeared to be an end
less stream. Then it dawned on me! Whoever had shot the ducks on the refuge earlier that morning had tossed them into the canal for two reasons. First, it relieved him of the need to pack them any distance, and second, it relieved him of any evidence that might be held against him if he were stopped on his way out of the rice fields. Only an old master in the commercial market hunting arena would think of such a plan. It was now apparent that the shooter had planned this raid very carefully and would be along shortly to pick up his birds, carry them a short distance to the road, throw them into a waiting pickup, and be gone. The idea was as slick as cow slobbers, with one exception: the student in the ointment. I hurriedly hid right next to the check dam, using a thick patch of tule as my cover. Sitting down, I could look right at the headboard area of the dam and plainly see the bunches of ducks stacking up. I sat there quietly waiting.
By three-thirty a.m., I estimated that at least three hundred ducks had quietly floated down the canal and lodged against the check dam, with more still coming. Then I heard someone coming from behind me. I froze so as not to alert the person approaching and intently waited. Pretty soon the unmistakable shape of a man emerged from the darkness, examined the area around the check dam, then walked over to its edge and began to stuff bunches of ducks into a gunnysack. I let him collect about three bunches of ducks and then quickly stood up and stepped out from my hiding place. I said, “Good morning, state Fish and Game warden. You are under arrest.”
Without showing any surprise or emotion, as if he had expected me to be there, the man kept stuffing ducks into the sack, and when he had filled it moved it off to one side. He then picked up another empty gunnysack lying by his feet and, in the unmistakable voice of Crazy Joe, said, “Terry, give me a hand with the rest of these, please.”
I had caught my teacher, one of the best draggers in the country. I was speechless. Without a word, I dropped down by his side like an old friend and helped him load that gunnysack and others with dead ducks. Without any conversation we finished cleaning up the ducks around the dam. Walking over to my hidden patrol truck, I started the engine and drove it back to the check dam. Joe and I loaded eight sacks of dead ducks into the back of the truck, still without a word passing between us. When we finished loading our cargo, we got into the truck and drove in silence north along the canal bordering the refuge on the west, picking up the bunches of ducks that had hung up in the overhanging bushes as they floated down toward the dam. After completing that task, I turned to Joe and said, “Where is the kill site?”
He pointed toward a field to the northwest, about fifty yards from the canal. By now daylight was showing in the east. The dawn of another day for all of us, except the ducks in the bags and those dotting the field in front of us. The ducks in the field numbered another seventy-three, which were picked up by two rapidly tiring friends. When we got back to my truck, I said, “Joe, I’m going to have to cite you for all of this.”
Looking me dead in the eye he said, “I know.”
I said, “Well, I don’t believe in that without a full stomach, how about you?”
Joe grinned and answered, “Let’s go. I could go for some of that food I hear you cook.”
With that, the game warden and the outlaw drove to the game warden’s house and, side by side in the kitchen, cooked up spuds, steak, and eggs topped off with some of my wife’s homemade bread (which, by the way, is the world’s best), coffee for Joe, and milk for me. After breakfast I sat down at the kitchen table with my citation book and issued citations to Joe for a monster over-limit, taking migratory waterfowl before legal shooting hours, wanton waste, and use of an unplugged shotgun. Joe accepted the tickets without a word and then asked for a lift home, which I was happy to give him. When I got back home, I gutted all the ducks and placed them in my evidence freezer, located on Sacramento National Wildlife Refuge, for use in court. However, there was no need for courtroom preparation. Joe paid $500 per charge, or $2,000 total, and as far as I was concerned he was square with the government and me.
Several days later I saw Joe in the field and told him no offense, I had just done what I was trained to do.
He said, “I didn’t expect anything less of you. If you had done anything less than what you did, I would have been terribly disappointed in my student. However, I want you to understand that my days as a dragger ended when you apprehended me at the check dam. The days are gone when one can kill large numbers of birds and expect large numbers of them to return the following year. I have watched the demise of our waterfowl and am partly responsible. As self-imposed punishment, I will never again hunt ducks the rest of my life.” The look in his eyes confirmed what he had just said. I could see something else in those eyes as well. It was like seeing a tremendous loss of personal history, almost as if a flame had gone out.
I said, “Joe, that isn’t necessary; you can hunt the rest of the days of your life—just stay within the limits.”
He looked at me with those hard blue eyes and said, “Terry, I don’t go back on my word. The ducks need a reprieve. I for one have taken more than my share and now, seeing what that has caused, will hunt no more. Seeing all the cripples the other morning just brought that point home, and that is it. No more.” There was a real finality in the way Joe spoke, a passing of an era—a bloody era but historical as well.
Until his dying day, I never knew Joe to take a shotgun into the field to smell the curing hay from the rows of rice straw left by the combines, to hear the whir of wings overhead, to feel the tule fog on his face or the dampness in his feet as he crawled up on the ducks. He flat-out simply stayed home. He was an unusual man from a unique time in history. He was also a man who was smart enough to take the knowledge gained from that history and pass it on. To this day, I still use some of the tricks of the trade that Crazy Joe taught me. I grew up a lot in those formative years, but that night at the check dam, I learned to read history and perhaps became part of it myself.
Joe is dead now, and the personal diary he kept from age eleven until that fateful day on the canal, listing all the ducks he had killed and sold for over fifty years, was tossed into the trash by his unknowing daughter after his death. With it went a piece of history.
I went on to catch sixteen draggers in the valley over the time I remained there carrying a badge. All but five were locals, and all were very surprised that I was there when they pulled the trigger.
Thank you, Joe.
Chapter Nineteen
Two Strikes and You Are Out!
Reaching across as slowly and quietly as I could, I placed my hand firmly but gently over Vince DePalma’s mouth. We were lying in a rice-straw pile next to a farm-road berm, and Vince had been quietly sleeping until that moment. He awoke with a start, but the firmness of my hand kept him from moving or making any noise while telegraphing to his enforcement-trained mind the message, “Don’t move!” Realizing what I was doing and why, he nodded and then froze as I slowly removed my hand, returning it to the cold steel butt of the Colt .45 on my hip. I assumed Vince was doing the same. Standing on the road were two quiet figures. They had walked right up to our position in the darkness of the Colusa County winter night, and I had not heard their footsteps or known they were there until that moment! For the longest time they said nothing, totally unaware of the presence of two state of California conservation officers lying at their very feet in the rice straw trying to keep still. They were so close I could have reached up and grabbed one of them by the leg!
It was three o’clock on a cold November morning in John Hardy’s harvested rice field just a mile or so north of Williams, California. Vince and I had been working these Colusa County rice fields once the dark of night settled in, trying to put a stop to some of the illegal and very destructive commercial-market hunting, or dragging, of ducks that was an ever-present problem in the Sacramento Valley. Dragging was a time-worn tradition in this valley and, although past its prime, was dying hard in the souls of some the traditional shooters and their children. These
lads for the most part waited until the mantle of night fell before they ventured out to conduct their bloody business. The same cover of darkness that allowed the ducks safety in feeding allowed human predators to feed upon the ducks. Once harvested by the practice of shooting them while they fed in great numbers on the ground, the birds would then be sold to nearby markets or stuffed into home freezers for excellent rice-fed duck dinners throughout the year. The markets in San Francisco, Sacramento, Yuba City, and other Sacramento Valley and Bay area destinations demanded the wild, rice-fed, back-shot duck for the traditional duck dinner.
By the very nature of their trade, market hunters had developed a tradition and methodology that was uniquely their own. Using harvested rice fields as their slaughter grounds, their understanding of duck feeding behavior to close the shooting distance, and shotguns modified to shoot thirteen to fifteen shells each, they plied their trade for the ever-hungry markets. They traditionally sold only to those they trusted, many times the same people who had purchased ducks from their grandfathers and fathers. It was a cold, cruel business, and they were very good at what they did. It was not without risks, but, as with all wildlife law enforcement, the odds against getting caught were low enough to foster the effort for the rush and the monetary rewards it offered.