Badges, Bears, and Eagles

by Steven T. Callan

  Law-abiding California bear hunters send their hounds out into the woods to locate a fresh scent; then they begin the pursuit. There is no limit on the number of dogs, as long as bear season is open and the general deer season is closed. During deer season, no more than one dog may be used. Unfortunately, a few bear hunters opt for the easy way; they cheat. They bring garbage—decaying meat and other food items—into the woods and hide it in secluded places where the local game warden can’t find it. The garbage attracts bears, and the outlaws pursue the bears directly off these “bait piles” or indirectly off of the fresh tracks (scent) the recently fed animals leave behind.

  II

  Sometime during the week of October 24, 1994, Loretta Chappell pulled up to the loading dock behind a well known Crescent City butcher shop.

  Loretta was a stocky, average-height woman in her early forties—garrulous and strong enough to make her living as a lumberjack. She clearly had no use for womanly wiles. Her features were plain and unadorned by cosmetics. Her clothes might have been purchased in the Menswear department at Peterson’s Feed and Grain. She was driving a beige-colored Toyota pickup, with a dog box mounted in the bed.

  “Where do you want this?” asked the shop attendant.

  “Just throw it in back, behind the dog box,” replied Loretta.

  With that, the attendant lifted a large feed bag, filled with cow bones, skulls, fat, and meat scraps into the bed of Chappell’s pickup.

  “Thanks,” said Loretta, as she drove away, “I’ll see you again next week.”

  Harley and Loretta Chappell had convinced the butcher shop operators that the weekly bag of tallow they were picking up was being used to feed the Chappells’ hungry hound dogs. That wasn’t entirely true. A few bones may have been thrown to the dogs, but most of those butchered cattle and pig remains were being driven twenty miles down Highway 101 to a secluded location on Simpson Timber Company property—a large tract of private land south of Redwoods National Park. Hunters were given written permission to pursue game inside this private landholding as long as they respected the area and adhered to state hunting regulations.

  On October 29, 1994, Fish and Game Warden Rick Banko received information that someone had unlawfully placed a bait pile on Simpson Timber Company property. The informant couldn’t provide an exact location, saying only that the bait pile was somewhere off the H-200 logging road. That afternoon, Warden Banko headed north on Highway 101, from Klamath. He turned east, near Wilson Creek, onto Simpson Timber Company property. This was rugged country, heavily vegetated with second growth timber. Reaching the H-200 Road, Banko scanned the area for any sign of recent human or bear activity.

  Warden Banko had driven a few miles down the H-200 road when he noticed a heavily used bear trail, leading uphill. “Wow!” exclaimed Rick, as he stepped out of his patrol truck. “That’s not hot biscuits I smell.” He recognized the unpleasant, pungent odor of rotting flesh. It was 2:00 p.m. when Banko began following the bear trail up the hill. He hadn’t gone fifteen yards, when he came upon a three-foot-high pile of skulls, bones, meat and scraps. The pile was so white that it might have been mistaken for a patch of snow at a distance.

  Dodging the swarming yellow jackets, Banko took a close look at the huge pile of tallow. Some of it had been there for several days, but on top there was a significant amount of fresh cattle remains, possibly dumped that morning. Not wanting to be seen at the site, Banko quickly returned to his truck and grabbed his camera. After taking several photographs of the scene, he covered his footprints and drove away.

  Gene Fuller was the Simpson Timber Company security officer. A sixty-year-old retired LA cop, Fuller had come to the North Coast on a fishing trip five years earlier and decided to make his home in the area. He and Banko had a good working relationship and kept each other advised of anything suspicious happening on the Simpson property. Warden Banko drove to Fuller’s office on the afternoon of October 29th and told him what he had found. Together, they returned to the bait pile and set up a hidden surveillance camera to monitor the baiting station. The timber company did not allow violations of state law on the property and was particularly intolerant of anyone disposing of garbage there.

  During the week that followed, Banko and Fuller returned each day to check the camera. Each time they turned on the playback mechanism, nothing happened. Convinced that the battery had gone dead, Warden Banko removed the camera from its casing and prepared to replace the battery.

  Suddenly the playback function began to work. It showed a beige-colored Toyota pickup with a dog box mounted in the bed—hounds milling about excitedly atop the box. The pickup was parked on the H-200 road, next to the trail leading to the bait pile. Warden Banko was surprised to learn that the camera had also recorded the vehicle’s license plate. Although already familiar with Harley Chappell’s hound rig, Warden Banko confirmed his suspicions with a record check of the plate. As if that were not enough, the camera had also recorded Loretta Chappell walking up the bear trail to the bait pile. The date on the screen was Sunday, October 30, at 7:30 a.m. Based on what the camera had recorded and knowledge of Harley Chappell’s normal work schedule (weekends off), Warden Banko surmised that the next bear hunt would probably take place on Saturday, November 5.

  Before daylight on November 5, Warden Rick Banko and Simpson Timber Company Patrolman Gene Fuller began a stakeout of the bait pile. Hiding Banko’s patrol vehicle some distance away, they had climbed to a location on a ridge, overlooking the H-200 Road. With the aid of binoculars, Banko and Fuller could clearly see the bait pile and the road.

  It was exactly 6:44 a.m. when things began to get interesting. “We’ve got company,” whispered Banko, focusing his binoculars on an exceptionally large, black-colored bear slowly lumbering up the road. “He’s a pretty one,” commented Banko, noticing an almost blue sheen reflecting off of the bear’s jet-black coat. California black bears come in a variety of colors, including several shades of brown. Seeing a robust, black individual was not unusual, but it didn’t happen every day. The curious bear stopped and sniffed the air several times before finally sauntering up the hill to the bait pile.

  At 7:30 a.m., the entire canyon erupted with the echoing sound of baying hounds. As quiet and peaceful as the canyon had been a few minutes earlier, it was now in chaos. The terrified bear bolted into the woods. Banko and Fuller could hear branches shattering as the four hundred pound bruin crashed its way down the canyon. Two pickups appeared on the H-200 Road, headed in the direction of the bait station. The first was a beige Toyota—hounds standing on the dog box. Warden Banko did not recognize the second pickup, a light green Chevy, with a dog box mounted in the bed.

  Both pickups came to a stop below the hidden officers. Loretta Chappell climbed out of the beige Toyota and walked up the bear trail to the bait pile. A burly, middle-aged man exited the driver’s side, wearing light brown, suspendered overalls. Warden Banko immediately recognized him as Harley Chappell, a well known houndsman. Like male and female bookends, Harley and Loretta had the same, moderately rotund body shape and each stood about five-feet-seven inches tall.

  Two adult males stepped out of the Chevy pickup. The driver was later identified as Harley Chappell’s twenty-three-year-old nephew, Cletis Chappell. There was a slight family resemblance, although Cletis was several inches taller than his uncle, much thinner and still had a healthy crop of hair. Melvin Chappell, Harley’s seventy-year-old father, was an older version of his son, also bald and wearing faded, blue denim overalls.

  “Something’s been here!” echoed a high-pitched, ear-piercing shriek from the bait pile. “Let ’em loose!”

  Loretta came thundering down the hill toward the Toyota pickup. Warden Banko watched as she released the hounds from the top of the dog box. Harley and Cletis did the same with the hounds from the Chevy’s dog box. Free to roam, all of the baying hounds dashed up the hill toward the bait pile before running off in the direction of the bear that had recently fled.

>   Warden Banko and Patrolman Fuller had seen enough and began making their way down the ridge, toward the action. They approached the H-200 Road just as both pickups started up. The vehicles headed north for a short distance before turning around. When the beige Toyota had reached a point adjacent to the bait pile, Banko stepped out into the road and stopped it. Harley Chappell was driving and Loretta was sitting in the passenger seat. Both of them had slack-jawed expressions of shock on their faces. The green Chevy pulled up behind the Toyota, with Cletis driving and Melvin sitting in the passenger seat.

  “What are you guys up to?” asked Banko.

  “We’re just h-huntin’,” replied Harley, stammering slightly and avoiding Banko’s eyes.

  “Harley, I’d like you to step out of the truck and walk up the hill with me,” said Banko, pointing in the direction of the bait pile.

  Both men were hiking up the bear trail when Chappell stopped.

  “We don’t need to go any farther,” said Chappell. “There’s no sense in lying to you. I have bait up there and we just released our dogs after a bear.”

  Chappell admitted to releasing three hounds from his truck and three more from Cletis’s truck. Up to that point, his account had been fairly truthful. When Warden Banko asked him how long they had been baiting, Chappell replied that they had just started that day.

  “I found bait here last week,” countered Banko.

  “I meant that I added more bait today,” replied Chappell.

  “Do you have more bait in your truck?”

  “Yeah, there’s another sack in there,” admitted Chappell, reluctantly.

  Warden Banko inspected the bed of Chappell’s pickup and found a feed sack filled with fifty pounds of butchered meat scraps and animal fat.

  Banko began checking all the subjects’ hunting licenses and bear tags. Everyone had a valid California Hunting License and everyone except Loretta, who had already killed a bear that season and tagged it, had a valid bear tag. Banko suspected that Loretta’s bear had been illegally taken off the same bait pile, but knew that without proof, pursuing the issue would just lead to an unwinnable argument.

  Sitting on the front seat of the Toyota pickup was a .30-30 lever action rifle, belonging to Harley Chappell. There were five live rounds in the magazine—none in the chamber. Another .30-30 lever action rifle, belonging to Cletis Chappell, was sitting on the front seat of the Chevy pickup. There were six live rounds in its magazine—none in the chamber.

  “I’m responsible for the bait pile,” Harley proclaimed loudly, before anyone else could speak. “None of the others had anything to do with it.”

  Banko shook his head before countering, “Gene and I just watched Loretta walk up to the bait pile and yell out instructions to release the dogs. We also saw Cletis help you release the dogs from his pickup.” Warden Banko did not want to reveal the existence of the hidden camera, so he did not mention their filming Loretta replenishing the bait pile a few days earlier.

  All four subjects were issued citations for unlawfully “using bait for the purpose of taking or pursuing bear.” Both rifles and the bag of bait found in Chappell’s truck were seized into evidence.

  As Harley Chappell was about to leave, Gene Fuller spoke up. “One more thing,” he said. “As far as hunting on Simpson Timber Company property, you’re done.”

  Later that week, Warden Banko contacted all the Crescent City butcher shops, in an effort to find out where the Chappells had been getting their bait. He found one shop that said Loretta Chappell had been coming in once a week to pick up tallow—claiming it was to feed their dogs.

  III

  Nearly a year later, on the afternoon of October 19, 1995, Wardens Rick Banko and Don Kelly were sitting in an unmarked boat near the mouth of the Klamath River. Although the river remained open to the take of silver (Coho) salmon, it was closed to the take of king (Chinook) salmon. Fresh out of the ocean, it’s difficult to tell the two species apart, except for the fact that kings average over ten pounds—some are much larger—and silvers usually weigh six or eight pounds. There is one surefire way to tell the difference and it was up to every fishermen to be aware of it: the inside of a king salmon’s mouth is completely dark, while silver salmon have white or “silver” gums surrounding their teeth.

  Banko and Kelly were dressed in civilian clothes, pretending to be fishermen, all the while watching others who were fishing from boats or along the shoreline. It was about 3:15 p.m. when Warden Kelly trained his binoculars on a bank fisherman who had just hooked a fish. Based on the way this man’s fishing rod was bent over, it was a fairly large one. “This guy’s got a good sized fish on,” said Kelly.

  Warden Banko directed his binoculars in the same direction and began watching, as the heavyset man, who looked to be in his mid-forties, continued to play the fish. “That guy looks familiar,” said Banko, in a low voice.

  The fisherman finally landed a ten or twelve pound salmon. Banko and Kelly suspected that it was a king. “Let’s see what he does with it,” said Banko. As the wardens continued to watch, the fisherman walked over to some calm water and began cleaning the fish. By this time, Warden Banko recognized the fisherman.

  “Ya know who that is,” whispered Banko. “That’s ol’ Harley Chappell!”

  When he had finished cleaning his fish, Harley Chappell walked eastward for about a hundred yards and met with another man Warden Banko recognized as Chappell’s nephew, Cletis. Cletis was carrying a feed bag with two salmon inside. Harley removed a smaller salmon from the bag and replaced it with the salmon he had just caught. He then returned to his fishing spot, carrying the salmon that he had just removed from the bag.

  Warden Banko radioed Captain Steve Conger, who was nearby in a patrol unit, and asked him to intercept Cletis Chappell and inspect the bag he was carrying. Conger had actually checked Cletis and his two legal silver salmon earlier in the day. Apparently believing that Cletis would not be checked again, Harley had decided to make the switch.

  Banko and Kelly drove the boat across the river and contacted Harley Chappell. Although Chappell scowled at the sight of Warden Banko, he was happy enough to show off the silver salmon he claimed to have just caught. Leaving Harley with his “fresh catch,” Banko and Kelly walked up the beach to where Captain Conger had just contacted Cletis Chappell. Inside Cletis’s bag was a silver salmon and a considerably larger king salmon.

  “Is this king salmon the one that your Uncle Harley just caught?” asked Banko.

  Realizing that their little game was over, Cletis answered, “Honestly, yes.”

  Warden Kelly walked to the river and asked Harley Chappell to return to the area where his nephew and the other officers were waiting. When Kelley and Harley Chappell reached the others, Kelly advised Harley that he and Warden Banko had seen him switch the king salmon with the silver salmon in Cletis’s bag. Kelly said that Cletis had confirmed the switch.

  “Cletis, you know that ain’t true,” Harley said, putting his fists on his hips and jutting his head forward to give the younger man the evil eye. “Admit it, now. That king salmon is yours.” Harley had reason to be concerned that the judge would throw the book at him: he was still on probation for the bear bait pile conviction, eleven months earlier. When Cletis refused to change his story, the furious Harley Chappell turned to Warden Kelly and said, “Just write the damned ticket!”

  Warden Kelly issued Harley Chappell a much-deserved citation for unlawful take and possession of a king salmon during the Klamath River king salmon closure. As Wardens Banko and Kelley climbed back in their boat and pulled away from shore, they heard Harley Chappell cry out, “Banko, I hate your guts!”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Not in My Stream

  I

  One of the most important duties of a California Fish and Game warden is keeping pollutants out of state waters. Some wardens avoided these types of cases because they were generally complicated and required a considerable amount of sample taking, investigation
and report writing. The good wardens saw that pursuing these cases was not only their duty but also a very important part of protecting the resource.

  During my years in the Redding area, I organized a task force of city, county and state investigators (Water Quality Control Board, County Health Department and City Sewage Treatment) to contact local businesses that were disposing of pollutants incorrectly and in some cases, illegally. These businesses were encouraged to clean up their acts or be prosecuted.

  Radiator shops were a classic example. One shop, located in downtown Redding, had been in business for over fifty years and had been dumping their toxic waste on the ground behind the shop the entire time. The fear was that harmful chemicals would eventually end up in the ground water or travel down one of the city storm drains and into the Sacramento River. Although it was more interesting catching individual poachers, we probably saved a thousand times more fish by performing these more prosaic duties and keeping pollutants out of the Sacramento River and its many tributaries.

  II

  Summer was the slowest time of year for Redding area Fish and Game wardens. Temperatures soared into the triple digits and it was sometimes difficult to find anything of consequence going on. Warden Dave Szody referred to this as “the time of year when you have to kick over rocks to find a good case.”

  One hot July morning in the 1990s, Szody was patrolling a series of logging roads near the tiny foothill community of Manton. A set of fresh tire tracks led him down an unnamed road to a pristine little trout stream. This was one of those streams that was too small and too isolated for the Department of Fish and Game to stock with trout, but it supported a healthy population of native, six-inch, beautifully parr-marked rainbows.