We waited near the entrance for about two hours before the first vehicle came down the hill. It was a beat-up blue utility van with no rear or side windows. The second vehicle was still up the hill and out of sight. Warden Slaughter turned on his red spotlight and quickly turned it off when the van came to a complete stop. We did not want the occupants of car still up the hill to see the red spotlight and ditch anything illegal they might have.
As the van stopped, I stepped from behind a bush and identified myself to the surprised driver. His window was down so I told him to turn off his motor and keep his hands away from the CB radio. I could see a five-gallon bucket on the passenger side floorboard and several pillow cases on the passenger seat, along with a set of snake tongs.
“Looks like you’ve been out collecting,” I said. “Would you please step out of the vehicle?”
With an audible sigh, the reptile collector opened his door and stood next to his van. Although his skin was weathered by the elements, I guessed his age at mid-thirties. He was reed thin and tall—about six foot three—and sported a scraggly red beard. Dressed like a typical herper, he wore a filthy white T-shirt and cutoff Levis, the threads dangling over his knees. His left hand was bandaged.
“What happened to your hand?” I asked, as Warden Slaughter approached. The man remained silent until he saw Warden Slaughter reach for the snake tongs.
“I got bit by a sidewinder last night,” he said.
“And you’re back out collecting tonight?” blurted Slaughter.
“I’ve been bit before,” said the man, with a careless shrug.
“Do you have some identification?” I asked.
“It’s in my glove compartment,” the man replied.
Due to the late hour and the potentially dangerous situation, Warden Slaughter peeked inside the glove compartment before allowing the reptile collector to reach in. Seeing no visible firearms, I told the reptile collector to go ahead and retrieve his identification. Again, I advised him to keep his hands away from the CB radio.
The man produced a Nevada Driver’s License, indicating that he was from Las Vegas, so I asked to see his Non-resident California Fishing License. He gave me a blank stare. I advised him that a California Fishing License was required to collect reptiles and in his case, he would need a non-resident license. At that moment, a voice came over the suspect’s CB radio.
“Crotalus to Sidewinder.”
“No need to answer that, Mr. Sidewinder,” I said. “You just sit down on that rock right over there while we conduct our business.”
Warden Slaughter jumped into his patrol truck and backed it around the corner and out of sight. The beam of approaching headlights lit up the road behind Sidewinder’s van. An older-model sedan stopped behind it and a small, slender man got out.
“What did you find?” shouted the man, as he walked around the van in our direction. His voice was gruff and high-pitched.
“Department of Fish and Game,” I announced. “Please come over and join us. You must be Crotalus.”
Crotalus looked like a five-foot-six-inch version of Sidewinder, very thin and also sprouting a scraggly beard. I wondered, Do all reptile collectors look alike? This guy sure picked an appropriate CB handle. Crotalus is the genus for American pit vipers (rattlesnakes).
While I kept an eye on the two herpers, Warden Slaughter examined the sedan. Snake tongs were lying on the front seat and the backseat contained three five gallon buckets. Warden Slaughter returned and asked Crotalus for his driver’s license and California Fishing License. Crotalus produced a Nevada Driver’s License, showing a Henderson, Nevada address. Like Sidewinder, he did not have a California Fishing License.
While the two suspects continued to slouch despondently on a nearby rock, I opened the side door of the van and prepared to search the contents. I counted seven five gallon buckets, including the one in the cab, all bearing lids. Not anxious to be bitten by a rattlesnake, I tapped on the side of each bucket before carefully loosening the lid and shining my flashlight inside. Bucket number one contained four desert iguanas. These large, fairly common desert lizards were found in washes and sandy areas. California pet shops were full of them until regulations changed and the sale of native species was prohibited. Desert iguanas are diurnal, an indication that Sidewinder and Crotalus had been collecting elsewhere.
Bucket number two contained one chuckwalla, another diurnal species. Chucks were harder to find since they never strayed far from a protective rock crevice. Collectors sometimes resorted to using crowbars to pry them out, causing considerable damage to their habitat. This large and very interesting lizard was also prominent in the pet trade. It became clear to me that these guys had been collecting all over the country and not just there at White Water.
Bucket number three contained a shovel-nosed snake and two rosy boas. Rosy boas were probably the most sought-after species of native California snakes. Prior to the regulation change, they were widely sold in pet shops. This beautiful and completely docile Southern California species was being seriously exploited.
Bucket number four contained a half-grown desert tortoise. Take or possession of a desert tortoise was strictly prohibited. Like countless others, this one was probably found crossing a desert highway. Over the years, hundreds of desert tortoises have been picked up by people traveling through the desert. Thinking that these slow moving reptiles would make interesting pets, they transport them back to their homes, located in cooler and damper climates. Their new “pets” generally survive on lettuce and backyard vegetation, but soon contract pneumonia or some type of respiratory ailment. The symptoms include a discharge coming from their nostrils. Desert tortoises are burrow diggers by nature, able to wreak havoc with a typical backyard. Some dig under fences and escape, later to be run over by cars. Others may be injured by domestic animals or picked up by someone else, beginning the process all over again. Bottom line—leave them in their native habitat where they belong.
When I tapped on bucket number five, the response was a loud buzzing. That bucket was put aside for more careful examination later. Bucket number six offered a faint, barely audible buzz; it was also put aside. Bucket number seven was empty. Under the seats were two cloth bags. One contained a half-dead pair of California king snakes, the other, a tiny ring-neck snake. Of all the reptiles found in Sidewinder’s possession, the ring-neck snake bothered me the most. This harmless, beautiful little reptile would have surely died before reaching anyone’s collection.
Crotalus was lucky. He had apparently been transferring whatever he caught to Sidewinder’s van. Only two reptiles were found inside his vehicle, a gopher snake and a common king snake. He was charged with unlawful collecting without a California Fishing License.
All of the reptiles were seized into evidence. A later examination of the two buzzing buckets produced a six-foot red diamond rattlesnake and a sidewinder. The red diamond was collected in the San Diego area, probably in or near Anza Borrego State Park. The eighteen-inch sidewinder could have been found anywhere in the desert where sands have accumulated. Apparently this little rattler didn’t appreciate being handled and bit his namesake. A formal complaint was filed against Sidewinder, better known as Jerald Phillip Hicks. He was charged with unlawful possession of protected reptiles, over-limits and collecting without a California Fishing License. All of the seized reptiles were eventually released back into their native habitats.
Chapter Nine
Saving Lake Mathews
In 1939 Franklin Roosevelt was midway through his twelve-year presidency. Hitler was pushing his way across Europe. Baseball fans said good-bye to Lou Gehrig and Joe Louis was the heavyweight champion of the world. It was also in 1939 that the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California dedicated Lake Mathews. Located six miles from the city of Riverside, Lake Mathews would provide drinking water for Southern California.
This thirty-two hundred acre reservoir, with twenty-six hundred acres of surrounding land, was fenced and lite
rally cut off from the outside world. As the years went by, Riverside County changed from a semi-rural county of orange groves, rolling green hillsides and vast, unoccupied deserts to one of the fastest growing areas in the United States. Most of the rolling green hillsides have since been buried under housing developments and shopping centers. The once thriving citrus industry is now remembered in the form of California Citrus State Historic Park, inside the city of Riverside.
Like an island spared the effects of time, Lake Mathews and its surrounding lands remained virtually untouched in the late 1970s. Its undisturbed grassland plant community contained hundreds of native plant species, many of which were difficult, if not impossible, to find elsewhere in Southern California. Every spring the entire enclosed area was blanketed with wildflowers, reminiscent of days long past. Thousands of ducks and geese flocked into the lake during winter months, followed by as many as thirty southern bald eagles. With an abundance of fish, waterfowl and small mammals to prey on and virtually no human interference, golden eagles, ospreys, prairie falcons, and a dozen other species of hawks and owls were commonly seen there. Reptile populations that had been decimated throughout Southern California still thrived within the confines of the perimeter fence.
In 1979, the Metropolitan Water District of Southern California signed a memorandum of agreement with the California Department of Fish and Game designating 2,565 acres of land surrounding Lake Mathews for wildlife mitigation purposes. This was intended as partial compensation for wildlife losses from the massive State Water Project. According to this agreement, “any use of these lands that would impinge upon the maintenance of wildlife populations would not be allowed.” Aware of the rare and priceless value of this oasis of life amidst an ever-growing metropolitan area, my squad of wardens and I patrolled Lake Mathews on a regular basis in an effort to hold back the tide of human encroachment.
It seems like nothing good lasts forever, particularly when it comes to our natural resources. Someone always comes along wanting to change things, or as developers like to say, make them better. I have never believed that man can improve upon nature and Lake Mathews was no exception. In January of 1981, the director of the California Department of Parks and Recreation announced plans to turn Lake Mathews into another recreational lake, open to public waterskiing and fishing. He offered to pay a substantial sum for Metropolitan Water District lands outside the Lake Mathews perimeter fence in return for the right to open and develop the area inside the fence.
When I heard about this plan, I was outraged. My wardens and I had protected this special place for several years and were not about to give it up without a fight. I contacted biologists from the Department of Fish and Game’s Wildlife Management and Fisheries branches, intent on heading off this idea before it gathered steam. We formed a committee, including local educators and representatives from nearby conservation groups. Everyone agreed that opening this precious area to recreational uses would drive away its birdlife forever. Instead of poppies, lupines, daisies, lilies, horned lizards, king snakes, rosy boas, and Stephen’s kangaroo rats (a threatened species), there would be cars, boats, pollution, erosion, litter, beer and loud parties. The healthy fishery that eagles and other birds depended upon would be depleted within weeks.
Our aim was to permanently designate Lake Mathews and its surrounding lands as an ecological reserve, under the protection of the California Fish and Game Code. I gave slide presentations all over the county and gained the support of every major conservation organization in Southern California. In our meetings we agreed that the Lake Mathews area should be opened only to carefully supervised nature study and educational tours. Local university professors referred to the area as a “natural museum.”
On March 14, 1981, we met with the Director of the California Department of Parks and Recreation. The room was filled with conservationists and educators—all expressing their concerns about losing this precious resource to recreational use. After all, three water-oriented recreational areas already existed in the Riverside area—Lake Perris, Lake Elsinore, and Lake Skinner. The State Parks Director was clearly not expecting so much opposition. Rather than give up, he formed an ad hoc committee to evaluate the resources of Lake Mathews and make recommendations. Dr. Wilbur Mayhew, of the University of California, Riverside, was appointed to head the committee.
On May 9, 1981, Dr. Mayhew and six prominent scientists presented their findings—based on firsthand knowledge and published studies—to the State Parks director, in the form of a five-page letter. Speaking for the committee, Dr. Mayhew stated, “We are unanimous in our strong opposition to any attempt to open Lake Mathews to boating and fishing.” Dr. John Moore, world-famous professor of biology and member of the National Academy of Sciences, submitted the following written statement:
Some decisions set in motion a train of events that cannot be reversed or remedied easily. Such would be the decision to make Lake Mathews freely available to the public. Every body of water that the public has touched has been ecologically degraded and polluted. Lake Mathews is the last fully protected large body of water in Southern California. It is the only remaining true sanctuary for thousands of waterfowl that spend their winters with us. It supports the largest winter population of the bird that is our national emblem. Is it unreasonable to ask that this small bit of nature remain inviolate? It is surely immoral if we do not.
Shortly after this meeting, the plan to develop Lake Mathews was dropped and the area designated as an ecological reserve.
When I retired in 2002, I looked back on the thousands of cases I had worked on during my thirty year career. The accomplishment I was most proud of was my role in saving this special place.
Chapter Ten
Redding
In September of 1981, a lieutenant’s position opened up in Redding. Redding is located in Shasta County and sits at the north end of California’s Great Central Valley. I had grown up an hour south of there, in Orland, so this would be as close as I would ever come to going back home.
I had hoped to secure a position with lots of open space and plenty of waterfowl, but those lieutenants’ districts were already occupied by senior lieutenants with no interest in changing locations or retiring. Activity in Shasta County would center on Shasta Lake, the Sacramento River, lots of tributary streams and mountains full of deer. September was a great month to jump right into the action: the fall salmon run had just begun and deer season was in full swing.
They didn’t exactly roll out the red carpet on my first day in Redding. After meeting my new supervisor, Captain Jack Weaver, at the regional office, I asked about my patrol vehicle. Weaver handed me a set of keys and said my Dodge Power Wagon was parked somewhere out in the back parking lot. The truck was a wreck; the windows were clouded over with dust and the battery was dead. Apparently this worn-out pile of metal, with a hundred and twenty-five thousand hard miles on it, had sat there all summer in the hundred-degree Redding heat.
It was 4:00 p.m. by the time I replaced the battery and got the old clunker running. The Sacramento River, which ran right through town, was full of spawning salmon, and there was enough daylight left to make my first salmon case. I had already mastered the local regulations and felt quite at home in my new surroundings. After all, I had spent my teenage years sixty miles down the road and paid my way through college working summers at a nearby state fish hatchery.
Most of the Redding-area fishermen were after Sacramento River trout, which were legal to catch as long as no more than three were taken and restrictions on hook size were observed. The upper Sacramento River contained some of the most beautiful trophy-sized rainbow trout in the country. Sections of the river above and below Redding were legally classified as “salmon spawning areas—fishing for salmon was strictly prohibited.” Any salmon that was hooked had to be returned to the water immediately, unharmed.
There were people who chose to ignore the law and take salmon anyway. Some rigged their lines for trout, knowing they would
“accidentally” hook salmon. The illegal fish were usually hidden in the weeds until the violator could make a safe getaway. Serious salmon poachers didn’t bother with bait or a lure. Instead they used large, weighted treble (three-pronged) hooks. As salmon swam upstream through the shallow riffles, poachers would cast these fist-sized hooks across the fish’s path. It usually took a couple hard yanks on the rod before one of the sharp hooks sank deep into the flesh of a spawning salmon, usually in the back or tail region. People who engaged in this activity were referred to, by Fish and Game wardens, as “salmon snaggers.”
Driving through downtown Redding, I decided to check out a few streets that dead-ended on a bluff overlooking the Sacramento River. My first stop was at the end of East Street. Parking my patrol rig away from the bluff, I walked to the edge with binoculars in hand. As luck would have it, East Street ended directly above a popular spawning riffle. I immediately noticed a fisherman below and ducked behind a nearby blackberry bush. Focusing my binoculars, I zeroed in on a dark-haired man of medium build wearing a white, V-necked T-shirt. Instead of rubber hip boots or waders, he wore blue jeans and tennis shoes. I wasn’t quite sure about the man’s age, but his lack of appropriate footwear and his ability to withstand the extremely cold water led me to believe he was in his twenties or early thirties.
Standing knee-deep in the river, the fisherman held a heavy-duty fishing rod that seemed better suited for tuna or marlin than trout. I directed my binoculars toward the end of his line as he retrieved it. Even from forty yards, I easily recognized a very large, silver, spoon-type lure. No self respecting trout is about to bite on that damn thing, I thought.
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