by Terry Grosz
Knowing they were not looking back, I lightened up my gear, getting rid of my coat and Starlight Scope, and began to crawl toward them via a convenient muddy tire rut cut into the rice field by a Hardy Harvester when the farmer had pulled the rice out of these fields. The muddy rut allowed me to crawl to within maybe thirty-five feet of the two lads without being seen. As I lay there in the mud, gun side up, I was hoping the ducks would hurry up and get there. It was November, and not all the mud in the rut had frozen.
As wet as I was now getting, I could not lie there for too long without affecting my ability to run because of the cold seeping into my body. Hurry up, ducks, I said to myself through chattering teeth. A coat would have been nice, and I was having second thoughts about leaving it so I could fly like the wind in a chase. Well, maybe not like the wind, more like a cattle truck. Then the din created by ten thousand approaching feeding ducks became louder and the adrenaline started to flow because of what was to come, so I partly forgot the cold. Pretty soon ducks were flying into the area at the head of the feeding swarm and landing all around me. Knowing I now had to lie perfectly still, I concentrated on my two lads and ignored the ducks landing and starting to feed just feet from my inert body. I noticed the horde of ducks starting to flow over a lower portion of the dike and figured the killing was about to start.
A few moments later I heard one of the lads whistle, and the ducks became instantly quiet. Then came the simultaneous roar of shotguns being rapidly fired into the masses of ducks. This sound was instantly followed by the roar of thousands of wings beating frantically in an effort to escape the terror in front. The happy feeding of a few moments before had turned into terror, and every duck, except those already lying inert on the ground, made frantic efforts to escape. The roar of the twin shotguns continued, as did the racket of fleeing wings. I almost got up at that point and went for one of the shooters, but I held my position in an effort to develop a battle plan that would enable me to catch both of them. The thought went through my mind as I lay there among flying shot and feathers that if I got too greedy everything would turn to crap!
After the barrage ended, the lads dropped out of sight next to the levee and began to look all around to see if the game wardens were after them. Realizing what they were doing, I held my position, all the while listening to the two lads hurriedly reloading their shotguns. Food for thought for any game wardens who attempted to take them for what they had just done, I said to myself. Ducks still flew every which way, including bunches other than the one the lads had just shot into. Cripples were walking by me by the dozens in an attempt to escape to some form of cover to avoid capture.
“Let’s do it,” came the command from one of the lads as they jumped to their feet and, laying their shotguns down on the levee, began to run around to pick up the dead and dying ducks. I waited until the lads were fully engrossed in this activity before I started to crawl toward the levee and the two shotguns left behind. When I reached the levee, I peeked over and confirmed that they were still picking up dead ducks as if there were plenty more to gather, and there were! The ground, though they had been collecting ducks for a few minutes, was strewn with the efforts of their illegal labors! Damn, I thought as I reached the shotguns, they wouldn’t be using these to kill any more ducks if I had my way. Both guns were Model
11 Remington semiautomatic 12-gauge shotguns, a market hunter’s weapon of choice, to say the least. Taking both guns, I removed the magazine caps and slid the barrels forward a short distance so that if they somehow got back to these guns they would not fire until the barrels were pushed back and locked into the blocks. Putting the magazine caps in my pocket, I inched my head up over the levee to see what the lads were doing. They were still picking up the ducks and appeared to have killed quite a few from the looks of the piles of broken bodies they had created. Stopping and looking around every few minutes, the lads continued their detail until they had picked up every duck they could see. With that, they both knelt down to rest and being only fifteen feet away, I was privy to their entire conversation.
“Why don’t you go and get the truck, and while you’re doing that I will drag them over to the road so we can load them up and get the hell out of here.”
“OK, but keep your eyes peeled, and if you see someone coming, meet me at our meeting spot. Also, watch out for that skunk; I can smell him again.”
Skunk! I thought. You haven’t seen anything yet.
The tallest of the two took off toward the west. He soon was out of my sight, and I let him go. I still had at least one of the lads and both of their shotguns. That was a start, and with a little luck I would have them both if everything went according to plan.
Getting back to the business at hand, I continued to watch the lad in the field picking up ducks, tying them together in bunches, and stacking them for hauling to the pickup site. When he was finished, he grabbed several bunches of ducks and rapidly walked over the rice check to the road I had previously lain behind and deposited them alongside the berm. He returned along the same route and repeated the operation for several more trips. On one of his trips to the road with a load of ducks, I crawled over to where he had been crossing the dogleg rice check and set up an ambush. When he came back, he stepped over the rice check en route to the pile of ducks and right into my arms as I quickly rose up from my hiding place.
“Ho-ho” was his scared response to being grabbed by another human he had never figured was that close to him.
“State game warden; you are under arrest,” I boomed as I grabbed him even more tightly. I could feel him start to run and tripped him in an instant to preclude any such adventure. Down we both went, and my handcuffs went on the wrists of the struggling lad in about two heartbeats. Weighing over three hundred, when I got my hands on you and perched my weight on top, you were mine! This case was no different.
After the handcuffs went on, the man ceased to struggle and just lay there getting his breath back from the fright he had just suffered. Rolling him over, I was surprised to find that I had an Asian man in bracelets! Not recognizing the lad as being from my neck of the woods, I asked for his name. Silence. I asked again with a little more “umph” on my request, and “Kam Fong,” came his reply.
“Where you from, Fong?” was my next question as I kept my eye on the road still dimly lit by the moonlight for the arrival of his partner.
“Yuba City,” came the reply.
“What are the ducks for?” came my next rapid-fire question. I didn’t get a rapid-fire response. In fact, I didn’t get any answer to that question. The rule of silence now prevailed. I figured the ducks were for sale in a Yuba City market, probably the Tong Society. Later in the week I heard that several members of the Tong had contacted a white market hunter from the town of Sutter for ducks on a hurry- up basis. It seemed that their usual Asian market-hunting sources had been tapped by the long arm of the law in Colusa County a few nights earlier! My friend Tom Okimoto supplied the missing pieces about a month after my encounter with my two Asian shooters. He informed me that there were plans for a large gathering of the Tong in San Francisco to celebrate a historical occasion. Several members of that group had initiated the request for wild ducks for the traditional duck dinner via the shooters from Yuba City, another historical Tong center. It seems that a “bear” got in the way, though, and apprehended the Chinese duck shooters out to supply the basic centerpiece for this festive dinner. The only thing that got munched in that “hoorah” were those pulling the triggers!
Picking up my shooter by the shoulder, I requested his driver’s license and in short order put it in my shirt pocket for safekeeping. Then I filled his hands with ducks, and the two of us hauled ducks to the pick-up spot near the farm road. Still not seeing the other lad returning with the vehicle, we returned for another haul of ducks. They had killed a bunch, 303 to be exact, and we had a way to go before all the ducks were moved to the road. Grabbing two more armloads, we moved back to the road area. I had Kam sit
down in the tall grass alongside the road while I moved the piles of ducks to the center of the road to mark the spot for the vehicle to stop when it arrived. Retrieving my Starlight Scope, I panned the area, looking for the vehicle driven by the other lad responsible for the ever-growing pile of dead ducks. As I continued looking, I heard a rattle of about twenty shots to the west.
Beauchamp’s property, I mentally noted, gritting my teeth! Well, I knew where I would be later this day doing my perpetual dance with the draggers! Damn, the ducks just didn’t have a chance. Come to think of it, neither did the game wardens! About that time, I heard the rattle of a vehicle coming down the dirt road. The noise was behind me! Whirling around, I was surprised to find the vehicle being driven by my other shooter coming in from the side opposite the one on which they had originally entered the rice field. Damn, I had forgotten one of the rules of market hunting driven into my head by Crazy Joe: to avoid being caught, enter from one side, leave by another. Maybe that is why we Germans have never won a war since 1870! Locking on to the oncoming rig, I could see that I still had a few minutes before contact. Moving over to Kam, I told him to lie down and not to move or try to warn his buddy unless he wanted to spend a lot of extra time in jail for interfering with the duties of a peace officer.
Seeing that my message had more than registered in his memory banks, I hustled across the road and hid on that side in the tall road- berm grasses. That way, when my lad stopped in front of the pile of ducks barely observable in the pale moonlight, I would be on the driver’s side. When he stepped out to load the ducks and his buddy, all he would get was a load of me!
Nearing the pile of ducks, the lad coasted to a stop using compression so he wouldn’t disclose his position to anyone watching by using his brakes. I heard him use his emergency brake to stop the rig, shut off the engine, and open the door. Then I rose out of the tall grass right next to him. Hitting him with my flashlight beam, I said, “Good morning, state game warden; you are under arrest.”
With that, the fireworks started! He instantly dove back into the pickup and tried to start the engine. That was really hard to do with the right hand of a three hundred-pound game warden on his neck and left hand on his left arm, pulling in a way opposite the way he wanted to go! It was amazing how fast the lad came out of that pickup with my little assist! Whump he went, headfirst on the ground, and being stunned by the velocity at which he had hit, he just lay there for a few moments getting his wits about him. I would imagine the first thing he saw after the stars was the huge shape of a game warden standing over him advising him that to resist further would add another charge to those he had already accrued during his evening’s work. He lay there on the ground, rubbing his now very sore neck, while I identified myself again on the off-chance that he had not heard me properly the first time and then asked him some questions. As it turned out he was Bob Chu, also from Yuba City, and like his partner he had nothing to say after that.
That was OK; I had them with the goods, and before that night was over they would learn a lesson about our courts here in the valley that I was sure would stick with them for a long time. Dragging Bob to his feet, I asked for and received his driver’s license and Social Security card. With those, and with just the one set of handcuffs, which were already in use by his partner, off the three of us went to haul ducks from the field to their truck. For the next half hour or so we hauled several hundred ducks from the field and spent some time catching cripples as well to avoid the waste associated with a shoot such as they had enacted. Loading all the ducks into Bob’s vehicle, I loaded Kam in the bed of the truck and Bob in the front seat, passenger side.
Driving out of the field to where my truck was hidden, we transferred the ducks from their truck to mine. Locking up their truck in preparation for Joe Willow’s wrecker, I loaded the lads into my vehicle for the ride to the Colusa County jail. Calling the Colusa County sheriff’s office on the radio, I advised the dispatcher that I was on the way with two prisoners, identified them, and headed in. Upon arrival, I booked the two lads on the usual state charges and then got Joe Willow out of bed and sent him with his wrecker to fetch the lads’ vehicle for impoundment in the sheriff’s office impound lot. I then got Angelo Jaconetti, a commercial duck picker, out of bed and put him to work on the 303 ducks so they could be salvaged for later distribution to the needy. In those days Angelo charged only fifty cents per duck, but he was only too happy to get out of bed for the cash this effort would bring. Besides, he was a true sportsman and a damn good hunter-safety instructor. He didn’t mind one bit doing his part to help the wildlife officers in their far- flung endeavors and was always there to assist in any way he could. Wherever he is now, may God rest his soul. He was a good man who came from a family with a unique history in the valley.
I spent the rest of the morning writing out the lads’ citations for early shooting, use of unplugged shotguns, taking over-limits of waterfowl, wanton waste, and illegal possession of an over-limit of waterfowl. I figured those charges would relieve them of plenty from their wallets, not to mention the shame of being apprehended. Then I went home for breakfast, showered, and went back into the field where the lads had pulled off their shoot with my dog, Shadow. After several hours of combing the ditch banks, clumps of grass, and other possible hiding places for wounded ducks, the dog and I picked up ninety-six more ducks as mute testimony to the destructiveness of such night-shooting practices! These too were turned over to Angelo for picking and preservation.
* * *
About two weeks later my lads had their day in court, both pleading guilty to the charges as read. Old Judge Weyand was not usually known for being a hanging judge, but on that day he held each lad accountable for $500 per offense, or $2,500 apiece. After a really swell tail-end chewing, the judge told them that this time he would not send them to jail, but if they were apprehended in the future they could expect to spend a long time behind bars as guests of Colusa County. The judge then asked the lads if they could pay right then. Both lads dug out their wallets, took out hundred-dollar bills, and paid right on the spot. I didn’t say anything, but that was one of the first moments in my career that I began to realize I was fighting a losing battle and that ultimately the poacher would have his way with the resources of the land. As long as money is involved, wildlife will lose.
It is not often that a law enforcement officer in my business is able to catch a real outlaw more than once. Even more rare is the opportunity to have an informed second chance at someone as I did with these chaps after missing them that first time with Vince. They didn’t get the usual three strikes before being put out this time. I kind of like the notion of “two strikes and you are out.” Only one other time in my career have I had an opportunity like this one, and I took that lad out in two strikes as well. After all, the only voice the world of wildlife has is that of the wildlife law enforcement officer. If that person isn’t really raising hell with the outlaws, then the officer is nothing more than part of the problem and no better than the poacher.
Suffice it to say that over thirty-two years as an enforcement officer in the world of wildlife, I have run down every son of a bitch I could find who crossed that line. As you can probably tell, I don’t believe in waiting for that third strike.
As far as I know, the Tong Society did not get its rice-fed wild ducks for the historic dinner because the long arm of the law got in the way. I guess they had to eat “flaming filet of yak, Peking style” instead—or was that “crow”?
THE END
Now look for Wildlife on the Edge, also by Terry Grosz…
Special Agent Terry Grosz (ret.), U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Law Enforcement Division, as he pursues wildlife outlaws in the overt and covert arenas, running those to ground committing crimes against wildlife who have little or no voice. A heartfelt, sometimes gut-wrenching but always exciting journey into the never-ending war on poachers, smugglers, and market hunters. Terry Grosz was a conservation officer for California and the U.
S. Fish and Wildlife Service for more than 30 years.
Purchase your copy of Wildlife on the Edge, here.
About the Author
Terry Grosz earned his bachelor’s degree in 1964 and his master’s in wildlife management in 1966 from Humboldt State College in California. He was a California State Fish and Game Warden, based first in Eureka and then Colusa, from 1966 to 1970. He then joined the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, and served in California as a U.S. Game Management Agent and Special Agent until 1974. After that, he was promoted to Senior Resident Agent and placed in charge of North and South Dakota for two years, followed by three years as Senior Special Agent in Washington, D.C., with the Endangered Species Program, Division of Law Enforcement. While in Washington, he also served as Foreign Liaison Officer.
In 1979, he became the Assistant Special Agent in Charge in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Two years later in 1981, he was promoted to Special Agent in Charge and transferred to Denver, Colorado, where he remained until his retirement in 1998.
He has earned many awards and honors during his career, including, from the U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service, the Meritorious Service Award in 1996, and Top Ten Award in 1987 as one of the top ten employees (in an agency of some 9,000). The Fish & Wildlife Foundation presented him with the Guy Bradley Award in 1989, and in 1993 he received the Conservation Achievement Award for Law Enforcement from the National Wildlife Federation.