Wildlife Wars: The Life and Times of a Fish and Game Warden Read online

  I said, “Pardon me?”

  “Your ticket load is a disgrace. You haven’t written enough tickets since you arrived to pour pee out of a boot.”

  Though I knew just the opposite to be true—not only was I the number-one ticket writer in the squad but I had a 100 percent conviction rate to date—I just looked at him and said, “Yes, sir.” He continued to stare at me through those ever-bloodshot eyes and then said, “I got just the detail for you. Hoopa—that’s it, Hoopa. Maybe a few days out there will bring you to your senses and get your ass in gear.”

  Again not able to stay with the man, I said, “Pardon me, sir?”

  “You are going to the Hoopa area to work those bastards snagging the sturgeon in the Klamath River near Ishi-Pishi Falls, that’s it; that’s where you’re going. Maybe with a whole lot more effort in that area, you will bring in a citation load that is more representative of a game warden in my squad. Use the undercover truck, and now get your ass out of here!”

  I answered, “Yes, sir,” whirled, and left his office.

  Passing Joe Devine, a senior warden of thirty-plus years who had turned out to be a great friend and father figure in the hall, I said, “Joe, got a minute?”

  He said, “Sure, what do you need, Tiny?”

  I explained my assignment of working undercover on the Klamath River to go after sturgeon snaggers. Joe couldn’t overlook the tinge of excitement in my voice. After all, this was the first real, non-crap detail Captain Gray had given me—or so I thought. But Joe, looking me dead in the eye, sadly shook his head. “Tiny,” he said, “Gray just signed your death warrant!”

  Not really believing what I was hearing, I said, “Come again?” Joe took me by the arm and, looking over his shoulder at Gray’s office said, “Come with me.” We went downstairs into the state parking garage, where Joe filled me in on the history of what used to be part of his old district when he was a younger Fish and Game officer.

  “Tiny,” he told me, “that area he is sending you into is never worked today by less than two wardens at a time because of the isolation and physical danger. You have to drive through the Hoopa Reservation, where the last law is located, then on to Weitchpec (another twelve miles farther into the bush), then on to Orleans (another sixteen miles), and then finally on to Ishi-Pishi Falls (another eight miles to where the road, in those days, ended at the Klamath River).The only law out there is God, and he is in short supply in that neck of the woods. Additionally, the undercover truck Gray wants you to use is known to everyone out there, and Gray’s source of information on the sturgeon snaggers is a crock. Knowing Gray, he probably has already told his buddy out there that you are coming and more than likely has supplied him with your physical description.

  “The nearest medical help, if you can call it that, is at Hoopa on the Indian reservation, and the overall area you will be working is full of loggers, Indians, and construction workers, who I think are currently building a bridge across the Klamath River. You’d better let me talk to Gray and see if he will assign another officer to help you. Hell, you’re just out of the academy and don’t know your ass from a hand axe.”

  Knowing what Captain Gray’s reaction would be if a subordinate approached him with a suggestion for an operational change, and starting to feel excitement over the impending danger (not to mention the delusion of immortality I was clearly beginning to develop), I said, “Joe, you’d better let this one alone. Gray gave me this assignment, and if I don’t follow through, it will give him ammunition to make my life impossible under the first-year probationary rule.”

  Joe knew I was right, but I could tell he didn’t like what Gray was doing to a green officer, especially a newfound friend and potential ally against the captain. The look on Joe’s face and his body language put me on the alert, which gave me the edge and probably saved my life over the next month or so.

  Without another word, I walked over to the parked Fish and Game undercover truck, crawled under the dash, and removed several ignition wires while Joe smiled knowingly and approvingly. Walking back to Joe, I put my arm around him and thanked him for the fatherly advice and warning. As I walked away, I turned back to tell Joe I owed him. His answering smile told me, “Naturally.” I then went back upstairs to the captain’s office and knocked on his door. I was instructed to come in, and a look asking what the hell I was doing there crossed Gray’s face. Before he could say anything, I said, “Captain Gray, I know you wanted me on the road posthaste in reference to this sturgeon-snagging detail, but the undercover truck is deader than a hammer. I’ve tried everything I know, but something is wrong with the ignition system, and from the sound of this assignment I need to be going now.”

  Gray acknowledged this turn of events with a nod, so I continued, “If the state will pay mileage I will take my own pickup and use it for the undercover rig if that’s all right with you, sir.”

  Gray, wanting me out of his sight, nodded again, and out the door I went before he could change his mind. Finding Joe again in the wardens’ office, I asked him for the name of a gunsmith who wouldn’t gouge me on the purchase of another pistol. Joe gave me a hard look, then mentioned a place near where I lived, and I went out the front door with a spring in my step that came only when I was charging into a lion’s den. I could tell from Joe’s approving expression that I might just make it yet as a law enforcement officer.

  Twenty minutes later I pulled into the backyard of the gunsmith in Eureka that Joe had recommended. Stepping from my patrol vehicle, I walked quickly across a small lawn into a no more than ten-by-ten-foot wooden shack behind a residence. Some gunsmith and shop! I thought, my immature mind quickly judging the situation. Walking up two steps and into a small, dark room smelling heavily of Hoppe’s gun oil and stale cigars, I was struck by the clutter of things arrayed around this tiny space called a gun shop. My eyes quickly adjusted to the darkness of the room, and I spotted a man about seventy years old sitting in a rocking chair behind a small wooden counter. Lying on the old fellow’s lap was a pre-1964 Winchester on which he had been working until my rather large size had blocked out the light when I entered through the open doorway. Looking up from the rifle and over half-rimmed glasses, the old man asked if I was Terry. Somewhat surprised but correctly figuring that Joe had called to pave the way, I said, “Yes, I’m Terry, and I need a good second pistol without a large price.”

  Getting up from his chair and laying the Winchester down as if it were someone’s kid, the smithy opened a drawer under the counter, pulled out a Colt Commander .45 ACP semiautomatic pistol, and shut the drawer before I could see any other choices. Laying the .45 down on the counter, he looked at me with eyes that betrayed a world of sights and experiences they had known long before they rested on me. Understanding what was next, I picked up the pistol, removed the magazine, and racked back the slide to ascertain whether it was loaded. The weapon was empty, and I returned the slide to the closed position, reinserted the magazine, and carefully let the hammer down so as not to damage the firing pin.

  Looking at the old man out of the corner of my eye, I could tell he approved of my safety precautions. When I clasped my palm and fingers around the handle, the gun fitted my hand as if it belonged there. I asked how much, and without a moment’s hesitation and in a tone that identified the price as fair, the smithy said, “Ninety dollars.” Since that was at least $30 less than any other .45 ACP I had priced, and I needed a weapon that would put someone down for keeps when needed, and he was Joe’s recommendation, I responded, “Sold.” I worked out a payment schedule, purchased a box of 230-grain full-metal-jacket cartridges, and went out the door, anxious to be on my way.

  Returning home, I packed the gear I felt I would need on this detail, gave my wife and bride of three short years a “sweetened” version of what I was off to do so she wouldn’t worry, told her to call Joe Devine if she needed to get hold of me, and headed down the road in our new Jeep pickup into what was to become a character- developing adventure.
r />   Leaving Eureka, I drove around Humboldt Bay north to Areata, out Highway 299 to Willow Creek, then from Willow Creek to and through the Hoopa Indian Reservation and down the narrow, twisting mountain road to the little town of Orleans. Talk about the Twilight Zone—this was really the end of the line. It wasn’t the end of the world, but you certainly could see it from here through the tall Douglas firs. My new home was a small town at the road’s end that comprised several houses, a Forest Service sub-district office, a gas station-garage-general store-post office all in one, and the Ishi- Pishi Bar. Aside from a few outbuildings of nondescript character, that was about it.

  Never having worked undercover before and really just weeks out of the academy, I wasn’t sure where to start. The cold facts of reality were beginning to sink in, but I knew the law; knew where the fish were; understood what snagging was; and had the authority, badge, and two guns. Not knowing what else I would need, I cast my eyes toward the unknown. Boy, was I green! Parking in front of the general-store complex, I got out of my vehicle and with all the confidence I could muster walked into the place as if I owned it. Moving to an area that contained fishing gear, I did a little looking around and then went to the counter and selected several sets of massive handmade treble hooks that were advertised as a “snagger’s delight” by a middle-aged shopkeeper who was taking more than a usual interest in my actions.

  A quick look at the hooks showed me that they clearly exceeded the maximum distance between hook points as prescribed by Fish and Game code (Title 14). I followed up this purchase by selecting two hundred yards of monofilament line rated at 180-pound capacity. Damn, it was unreal. This store sold almost nothing but illegal gear designed to take the mighty green-and-white sturgeon out of the Klamath River by hook or by crook.

  As I shopped I noticed that the storekeeper continued to quietly watch me. His eyes weren’t really looking at me, but he was watching closely nonetheless, I being a stranger in town and all. Finally, with all the illegal fishing gear and other needed items in hand, I approached the counter, laid my selections out for his perusal, and asked, “How much is the damage?”

  He scanned the gear and offhandedly said, “Going fishing?” Feeling this was my chance, I answered, “I think so.”

  He looked up at me and repeated, “You think so?”

  “Well, I’m not really sure. I’ve never snagged sturgeon before, but I hear it’s fun, so I’m here to give it a try.”

  He looked at me again without really looking and inquired, “Where you from?”

  “Areata. I just got out of college and will be teaching elementary school this fall, and I just decided to have a summer of fun before I have to go to work.” Not really having any kind of deep cover, I used the schoolteacher routine because my wife was a teacher, a damn good one, I might add, and I had learned some of the ins and outs of her profession from her. A schoolteacher also seemed like someone who wouldn’t appear threatening to a bunch of outlaws, so a schoolteacher I was.

  My items were sacked up and the storekeeper asked, “You know how to use this stuff?”

  I answered, “No, but I’ll watch someone else and then give it a try.” Looking over my shoulder, he asked if that was my Jeep pickup parked in front of his store. I nodded. He said, “Nice truck.”

  “They sure are, not to mention fast, and it has a really good engine.”

  He asked, “Would you like to make a little money hauling things in it?”

  I said, “Well, that depends. Not rock or logs—it’s still pretty new, and I’d like to keep it that way. What did you have in mind?” He said, “How about fish?”

  I laughingly told him I was going to haul lots of fish in it if I could ever master this snagging thing.

  He laughed too and said, “That’s what I’m talking about. Would you like to help some friends of mine haul some fish?”

  I answered, “As long as it doesn’t tear my truck up, you bet. Who are these fellows?”

  “Never mind. Just be in the Ishi-Pishi Bar this evening about seven p.m. and ask for LeeRoy. He’ll fill you in.”

  “Sounds good to me, but in the meantime, do you know of any places where I can go on the river and try out some of this gear you just sold me?”

  He laughed and gave me directions to a spot on the Klamath River above town where I might find others who were snagging sturgeon as well. I spent the rest of the day exploring my new home and found an area up by Fish Lake where I could camp out and not be discovered by the locals once I had found a way into what was going on. Making sure all evidence of my profession was concealed in my Jeep, I drove down to the Ishi-Pishi Bar as evening approached.

  I entered the bar about seven and walked over to the barkeep. I told him the storekeeper had sent me over to meet a guy called LeeRoy, and that was all I knew. He examined me carefully without saying a word, then, apparently satisfied for whatever reason, nodded toward a noisy table in the back of the room. I ordered two pitchers of beer, loaded up with glasses, and headed over to the table.

  I approached the group at the table and said, “I’m here to see this fellow LeeRoy.”

  The men fell silent for a moment, then a little mousy fellow said, “Is that beer for him?”

  I answered, “Well, it’s for him and his friends.”

  With that the mousy fellow stood up, extended his hand, and said, “I’m your man. What’s your handle?”

  Putting the beer down, I extended my hand and responded, “Hi, I’m Terry.” Introductions were made all around. I was asked to sit, and the beer was passed from empty glass to empty glass.

  All the men around the table were from the construction crew working on the bridge going over the Klamath. They worked four days on and then had three days off, and on their days off, they went fishing. Two more pitchers of beer and the “fishing” turned to “snagging.” Bingo. I bought still more beer and continued to become a better and better friend.

  The lads admitted to snagging dozens of sturgeon and smuggling them to their Yurok Indian friends, who smoked them and sold the smoked meat for $2.50 a pound. The Indians took half of the profits, and the construction workers got the rest. From the loose talk around the table, I gathered that they could sell all the fish they could catch to the tourists; hence the extensive snagging forays by those members of the construction crew they trusted. It also seemed that they had a slight problem in that one of their own who owned a pickup had recently been fired and left the area. With him went their means of transporting their snagged sturgeon, and they needed another “mule.”

  With a big grin, I stood up and said, “I’m your man. Strong as a mule and have pickup, will travel.”

  They all laughed and said they needed to talk to Dan but were sure it would be all right.

  I said, “Who is this Dan fellow?”

  Several of them said, “Shhhhh, he’ll hear you.” LeeRoy pointed to a huge mound of a man sitting at the bar and told me, “That’s Dan.” Dan was about six-foot-three, three hundred pounds if he was an ounce, and wore a once-white T-shirt and blue jeans. Strapped around his waist was a .44 magnum Ruger Super Blackhawk pistol, and he had on knee-high fringed leather leggings with a real-McCoy Bowie knife shoved down inside one leg, with just the handle sticking out. His long, dirty-blond hair went to his shoulders, and he had arms as big as most people’s legs. What a horse, I thought. Taking a fresh beer in his hand, LeeRoy got up, walked over to Dan, and began to talk quietly with him. Dan turned around, looked at me, and then turned back to talk some more with LeeRoy. Soon LeeRoy came back to our now quiet and expectant table with a big grin. Looking at me, he said, “You’re in. Dan said to be upriver tomorrow. I’ll show you where exactly on a map later, and we’ll go to work.”

  LeeRoy slapped me on the back and added, “Let’s get some more beer and celebrate!”

  I agreed, and the two of us went to the bar, where I ordered four more pitchers of beer. I also ordered the mixed drink that Dan was drinking and watched the barkeep give it to him. H
e didn’t move or thank me for it, just drank it down straight away. God, what a horse, and a really dangerous problem if pissed, I thought. The lads at my table continued to drink, and my large bulk was now serving me well. Since I could hold more beer than just about anyone else at that table, I kept pouring the beer down my newfound friends’ throats and watched them get tipsy. As they grew drunker they became more loose-lipped, and I got more and more information about their snagging operation—names of retailers, other poachers, everything! Man, talk about the luck of the Irish: I was on a roll and into an organization of poachers without hardly even trying. I thought, this undercover stuff isn’t so bad or hard to do after all. In a few moments round two would commence, and boy, did I learn a hard-and-fast lesson about this type of work.

  LeeRoy slowly reached over, took hold of my forearm to get my attention, and pointed to a tall, thin, one-armed man who had just entered the bar. LeeRoy said, “Don’t ever screw with that guy. He would just as soon as kill you as look at you!”

  I looked over at the man and noticed that he had seated himself next to Dan. Turning to LeeRoy, I said, “Don’t worry. I don’t want any trouble; all I want is to catch a few fish.” With that, I went to the bar and got two more pitchers of beer. The men at my table continued to drink until about fifteen minutes later when I heard someone behind me at the bar get slapped.

  All of us turned and saw Dan and the one-armed guy facing off. I heard Dan snarl, “If you had two arms, asshole, I would kill you for that. No one slaps me and gets away with it.”

  The one-armed man looked Dan right in the eye from about one foot away, said, “Don’t let that stop you, asshole,” and pointed to the front door. Out the door both of them went, and no one followed. It was as if this fight were something no one wanted any part of. That feeling again told me just how dangerous this Dan fellow was and what a hold of terror he had over his compatriots.