Game Warden in the Wilderness

Lone Pine, CA – 1971-1972

During the summer of 1971, I was the first wilderness ranger hired to patrol the Cottonwood Lakes Basin of the John Muir Wilderness. Set under the lofty and craggy heights of 14,026 foot Mt. Langley, southern most of the fourteeners in the Sierra Nevada, lay the Cottonwood Lakes; spawning grounds of the golden trout. My job was to backpack the trails throughout this basin, pack up old litter dumps, perform minor trail maintenance, and make contact with all the wilderness users.

The golden trout, California’s state fish, is a subspecies of rainbow trout, native only to California. The fish has beautiful colors and those caught legally and placed in a frying pan have a rich pink color of meat. An eighteen inch golden is considered a large fish. The species, found originally in Golden Trout Creek, was isolated by a volcanic flow that created a natural barrier.

In the late 1800’s to early 1900’s, some goldens were transplanted by pack animals into the Cottonwood Lakes. The California Department of Fish and Game* had been using fish eggs collected from these lakes since 1918, to stock other lakes. However, recently it was found that the golden trout in the lakes had hybridized with rainbows, and are thus not a pure strain. But that is now and does not affect my story of 1971.

During the time I worked there, Cottonwood Lakes No. 1 through No. 4 were closed to any kind of fishing. In those days the lakes were used as spawning grounds. The fish eggs were collected and transported by horse and mule train to the Mt. Whitney Fish Hatchery, built in 1916, near the town of Independence. So today, if you fly fish some remote location in the Wyoming wilderness and land a golden trout, it’s ancestors probably came from here.

On my patrols I often ran into an energetic and colorful game warden named Vern Brandt. He traveled with his dog as did I with my dog Smokii. Vern had a reputation. If he thought you were poaching , he would go anywhere at anytime to catch you.

Vern was stocky, had a grey-haired crew cut, and not only strictly enforced the wildlife regulations, but had a strong preservationist bent to his personal beliefs. This led to his getting into hot water with the higher ups in the department of fish and game. He was evangelical when it came to his opposition to the proposed Trail Peak Ski Resort near Horseshoe Meadow and the effect it would have on his beloved Cottonwood Lakes Basin and surrounding wilderness.

The Horseshoe Meadow Road switchbacks up the east side of the Sierra Nevada and winds its way climbing 6,000 feet in elevation from Lone Pine, twenty four miles away. It’s purpose originally was to access water and recreation potential in the late 1920’s, but was left unfinished. In the 1960’s, construction started back up to provide access to the proposed ski resort.

Vern wrote a strong letter in opposition to the ski area, but on official California State Department of Fish and Game letterhead. This made it appear as an “official” state condemnation of the proposed ski area. He looked at the proposed development as a personal affront to his wilderness and felt strongly that the ski area would adversely affect wildlife and the natural resources.

The ski area never happened. Later, the Golden Trout Wilderness Area was designated by Congress in 1978, lying contiguous to the John Muir Wilderness. But Vern took a very big and personal hit and was close to being fired. But he wasn’t, and he continued doing his job in only ways Vern could do.

One morning Vern walked over to my camp and asked me to accompany him to the upper end of Cottonwood Lake No. 3. When Vern worked this area he stayed in a small fish and game cabin with his dog. Smokii and I had a Forest Service center pole tent, teepee shaped, next to what I called Cottonwood Lake No. 2 1/2 as our home.

The four of us hiked up the trail where a thick stand of willows grew. Vern handed me his binoculars and asked, “What do you see Jon?”  All the willows were standing upright except for three. And those three seemed to move in and out.

“Vern,” I said as I focused, “those look like fishing poles.”

“I do believe you’re right. That’s what I thought too,” replied Vern.

We bushwhacked in through the willows and found three men illegally fishing for golden trout in closed waters. Vern seized their equipment and issued summons to appear in court to be held in the Inyo County Courthouse in Independence.

At the end of the summer season I asked Vern the outcome of his case. He laughed and started telling me, “Jon, all three of them showed up in court.”

“One was  a banker, one an airline pilot, and one a land developer. ”

“Anyway, they all pleaded guilty before the judge. But before the judge could render his sentence, these guys started smiling and pulling out their checkbooks like this was no big deal.”

“So what happened?” I asked.

Vern rubbed his crew cut and with an even bigger smile continued, “The judge glanced briefly at me and then leaned back in his chair and said, ‘I hereby fine you each $100’, then paused and added, ‘plus seven days in jail’.”

“I guess those three should have brought their lawyers with them rather than their checkbooks,” Vern said.

Remember that Vern was working as a game warden in the 60’s and 70’s during the “hippie” years. He would put on a long hair wig, wear an old plaid shirt, and go out on a lake and start fishing. He’d work his way around to other fishers and start talking.

“Boy, I hope there’s no game warden around today. I forgot to buy a fishing license,”  long-haired Vern would mumble while casting out his line.

“Don’t worry,” the other fishermen would reply, ” I ain’t seen one and I don’t have a licence either.”

At this point Vern would pull off his flannel shirt covering his uniform and badge.

Although Vern was cagey, he was fair and did his job with the wildlife in mind. He told me once that some game wardens wait for fishermen to catch way over their limit so they could write a stiffer fine. Not Vern. If someone was fishing in closed waters, he put an immediate stop and issued a citation. He did not wait to let them catch fish which would add to the total fine. It was a lesson in law enforcement I practiced much later in my career. The resource came first.

Vern’s personal car was an old pale green Nash Rambler which he’d use sometimes when he went undercover. He told me one time he was driving down Highway 395 and saw the CHP (California Highway Patrol) officer driving his way. Vern pulled on his wig, stuck his arm out the window, and gave the officer the finger. Vern chuckled and said the officer spun his patrol car around and pulled him over with lights and siren. Vern jumped out and pulled off his wig. Vern says he got the bird right back at him, but with a big smile and a good natured, “I’ll get even with you sometime Vern!”

I used to talk to hikers and fishermen and many had Vern Brandt stories. One Lone Pine local said he’d see Vern drive out of town one direction. Half an hour later Vern would be driving out of town again in that exact same direction. “Where did he come from?” the man said, “and where did he go? You would never know”.

A hiker/fisherman told me he made three separate trips into very remote areas of the southern Sierra Nevada spread out during the summer. And every trip Vern was there and checked his fishing license.

Vern had quite a reputation in the Owens Valley for catching poachers and violators on a regular basis. One day I asked him, while we were waiting out an afternoon thunderstorm drying out in his fish and game cabin, “Has anyone ever gotten away from you?”

Vern told me this story as we sat near the warm stove as the rain pelted down on top the metal roof:

“There were two poachers who time after time eluded all my attempts to catch them. They were after the Tule elk, the smallest of the wapati, and this herd made the Owens Valley their home. These two poachers drove a supercharged pickup truck. Anytime they saw another vehicle in the area they would speed off. I could never get close to them. Man was I frustrated.”

“I was out patrolling early one morning when I spotted the suspect pickup truck off in the distance. Looking through my binoculars I could see they were in the process of field dressing an elk. If I approached in my truck I knew they would escape over the dry playa of Owens lake. It was too far to hike in, plus they would see me even if I tried to crawl all the way as there was no vegetative cover.”

“Next to where I was parked was a freshly cut hay field. It gave me an idea. I started collecting the hay and began covering the front and top of my game and fish truck. I left a spot on my roof where I had a single red light. I cleared  away a small opening from which I could watch through my windshield with my binoculars and keep an eye on the poachers. And then I turned on my red light and waited.”

“I watched the two load up the elk in the back of their pickup. Then one of them noticed the hay pile with a red blinking light. He got out his binoculars and looked right at me as I watched him through mine. He slapped the arm of his friend and handed him the binocs. The two repeated the process a couple of times and I could see them talking to each other.”

“After a while their curious nature won out. I sat in the cab of my pickup and couldn’t keep from smiling. Those two drove their supercharged pickup right to my hay pile. Should have seen how surprised they were when the hay pile had a driver’s door open up and were soon introduced to the state judicial system.”

“So in answer to your question has anyone gotten away from me? Almost.”

* (Effective January 1, 2013, the California State Legislature changed the name from “Fish and Game” to “Fish and Wildlife”)