Patrolling popular stretch of the Snake River is no picnic

A tiny, distant flutter on the surface of the Snake River tells Clint Rogers where he’ll find the men he’s looking for.

“The group that we heard shooting ducks is right on the tip of that island,” Rogers says, driving a 20-foot inboard jet boat slowly upstream.

The flutter is a duck decoy with spinning wings, and the blind behind it conceals waterfowl hunters.

In the boat with Rogers, Steve Ross has binoculars to his eyes. “I can see at least two heads, maybe three.”

Both men wear gun belts and radios over their camouflage chest waders. Rogers is a district conservation officer and Ross a senior conservation officer for the Idaho Department of Fish and Game. Today, these two are patrolling one of the longest unbroken stretches of the Snake River in the region: between the Upper Salmon Falls hydroelectric dam and Kanaka Rapids.

Waterfowl hunters come from all over the Western U.S. to hunt this part of Idaho, Rogers says, and this particular stretch of water is one of the state’s most popular.

In every encounter with a hunter, this team will check for an Idaho hunting license, a migratory bird permit and — if the hunter is 16 or older — a federal duck stamp. Also, has the hunter shot more than the daily limit? Does the shotgun have the required plug that limits loading to three shells? Is the hunter using illegal lead shot?

When their binoculars are focused on hunting blinds, the officers take note of the boats camouflaged nearby and the color of the dogs waiting by the water — both factors that help identify hunting parties. And they note who’s holding a gun. An unlicensed hunter, they know, might hand off a gun to someone else as they approach.

• • • 

This morning, the men in the island blind probably know something is up. They might recognize the Fish and Game jet boat. Its slow approach is another tipoff that Rogers and Ross aren’t fellow hunters racing to claim a favorite blind.

So when the officers have taken stock, Rogers accelerates — still keeping an eye on each hunter.

“So nothing sneaks up on us,” he says. Approaching people with firearms calls for vigilant attention.

On this gray December morning, the river and air are alive with ducks. But the flock in front of the blind has underwater lines leading from each floating “bird” back to shore. And the flock stays put when Ross climbs onto the bow of the jet boat to hail the hunting party, then wades ashore.

It’s Jason Titone of Wendell, Jon Adams of Hagerman and a black Labrador in a camo flotation vest. Their paperwork checks out fine. So do the nine dead ducks in their blind.

Ross concludes the brief, friendly conversation with a tip for Adams: “You have a live shell there at your feet, just so you know.”

• • • 

The jet boat’s progress upriver flushes ducks at every bend. Masses of webbed feet churn the water and beating wings fly low. A bald eagle watches from a tree’s tallest dark branch, and herons rise delicately into the air. Where geothermal waters enter the river, they create strange plumes of steam.

Just upstream of Box Canyon, Ross spots a strip of narrow red flagging hanging from a branch above the water, where low-hanging limbs have been cut off. The flagging might mark the location of a muskrat or river otter trap. If so, the officers will check whether it’s a legal trap, properly staked and properly labeled with the trapper’s information.

When Ross wades along the bank and peers under the brush, he finds otter footprints but no trap. Perhaps the flagging was a leftover from last year.

Near a commercial alligator farm, Ross spots red again — this time, a large insulated bag half-submerged at the river’s edge. Seeing nobody around, the officers don’t know what to expect.

“I’m hoping not fingers or toes or anything,” Rogers says as Ross wades toward the bag and gingerly lifts it.

“Ah! Nice pair of shoes,” Ross reports. “Some Merrells. Kind of waterlogged.”

Rogers asks quickly: What size?

It’s a joke. The bag is labeled with what appears to be an outfitter’s name and number, he says, so the Merrells will be returned. And someone will be asked why the shoes were in the river.

“Not an Idaho area code, so kind of an interesting find,” Rogers says.

What possibility is he entertaining? Watching for someone unlicensed but acting like an outfitter — accepting money to take people hunting — is always in the front of his mind.

• • • 

The officers’ next find is interesting, too.

Both men go ashore to check out a flatbed work truck tucked away in the brush beside the river — a suspicious location.

“I don’t see anything in there that’s weird,” Ross says, looking through the truck’s windows.

But a little farther up the bank, Rogers finds something under the bushes. “There’s a wasted deer up here, of all things.”

Enough of the decomposing carcass remains to indicate that neither the front nor back quarters were taken. Not enough remains for Rogers to tell whether the deer died of a gunshot or was hit by a vehicle on the nearby highway.

He’ll file an incident report anyway. It’s possible that this tidbit of information eventually could line up with something else in the officers’ files.

Even stranger: A few feet from the pile of deer hair and hooves is the wrecked body of a GMC Jimmy, lying on its side, propped with a heavy stick and surrounded by trash. Many of the vehicle’s parts have been stripped away. A small corner of an Idaho license plate remains, caught in a bolt on the Jimmy’s front end.

Fish and Game will report this find to the Twin Falls County sheriff.

• • • 

Back on the water, a punishing rain pelts the boat and the wind whips up waves as Rogers struggles to maneuver toward a pair of sturgeon anglers on the riverbank. He’s trying to get close enough for Ross to step out without the wind mashing the boat against the rocks.

“The high cabin on this boat is killing me right now,” Rogers says.

Wading isn’t an option here. This is a 50-foot-deep fishing hole favored by huge sturgeon.

“You guys picked a great time,” an angler hollers cheerfully from the bank, where he and his fishing partner are hunched over a small fire.

Rogers tries approaching the bank from a different direction. Finally, the bow thumps against the rocks, and the angler helps hold it while Ross climbs out.

These anglers — shielding their faces from the slanting rain as they pull out their fishing licenses — are indeed using the sliding sinkers and barbless hooks required for sturgeon fishing.

• • • 

All morning, in fact, Rogers and Ross catch people doing the right thing.

Hours earlier, before even putting their boat in the water at 1000 Springs Resort, Ross checks the shotguns of three hunters preparing to launch. Rogers explains this year’s boundary change for a goose-hunting closure and gives the men a rules brochure with a map.

There’s no dog in this hunting party.

“He’s this big,” K.C. Pinther of Twin Falls says, holding his hands close together. “So, next year.”

On Pinther’s cap is a picture of Idaho, on its side, firing a bullet. On his face is what appears to be happy anticipation. The absence of his dog is occasion for a joke.

“These guys have to be good at runnin’,” he says, gesturing toward Kaleb Harnar of Kimberly and Matt Bingham of Rupert.

All three men get an all-clear from the officers.

This story was originally published December 29, 2015 at 11:43 PM with the headline "Patrolling popular stretch of the Snake River is no picnic."