The Wild, WIld West
“So… do you want to be the driver or the JUMPER??”
Being the more seasoned game warden, with three knee surgeries under my belt, I didn’t have to think about it very long.
“I’ll drive,” I replied. I had never been on Falcon Lake before, but my enthusiastic young game warden partner had been stationed in Zapata County right out of the Texas Game Warden Academy. In the short two years he’d been there, he’d already been in more Mexican panga netter/drug boat chases than I had in 20.
Falcon International Reservoir is shared by Mexico and the United States and has long been a top-tier fishing destination on the Texas side, but it’s not a place you want to hang out after dark.
We got to our launch spot – an abandoned road that ran into the lake – right about dark. We launched a 21-ft. tri-hull MonArk boat right off the road into a flooded stand of huisache and waited.
On land, there were strategically located spotters and a couple of other game warden boats similarly hidden, all waiting for whatever the night had in store.
Game warden work is a lot of sitting and waiting and doing nothing. But when it IS time to do something, things can get wild. Small talk helps pass the time in between.
“Man – everybody splits on this lake when the sun goes down, huh?” I said as I struggled to see anything in the distance that might help me get my bearings.
“Everybody but us and them,” my partner said.
Obviously, “us” meant law enforcement, and “them” meant outlaws.
That being the case, no one bothered with navigational lights after dark. Let’s face it, it really doesn’t matter if your running lights don’t work if you’re hauling a boatload of dope or setting out gill nets.
Similarly, you’re not gonna catch any outlaws if you’re announcing your presence with red, green and white pretty lights.
Sitting in the dark, we went over what we would do if we got in a chase. The driver (me) would get our boat as close to their boat as possible.
Then, the jumper (NOT me) would leap into the other boat with the “undocumented migrants” and pull the gas line or whatever else he could do to get it stopped. OR we could go with plan B – ram them! Sounded like fun.
The call on the radio came around the time we ran out of things to talk about. A boat had crossed from the Mexican side, headed toward Tiger Island. Not our area, but we headed that direction anyway.
Ignoring the prior designations, my partner started the boat and hammered down on the throttle.
We plowed through the briars and the brambles and the places a rabbit wouldn’t go and busted out on the open lake.
Call outs from the spotters told us where to go. In no time we were there, but it was already over.
Two of “us” were in a game warden boat alongside a motorless 25 ft panga, and a single “them” was already in custody.
When we pulled up alongside, we saw bundles of marijuana piled in the panga and a rope going into the water off the stern (rear). Dangling at the end of the rope about five feet below the surface, was the outboard motor.
It was knocked off when the wardens ended the chase by ramming into it.
I don’t know what happened after that, but I bet that drug runner didn’t get a cell phone and ticket to Martha’s Vineyard. One thing I do know is that not much has changed in the us-and-them border battles on Falcon Lake over the years. After dark, it is, was and probably ever shall be the wild, wild west.
Jon Brauchle spent 29 years as a game warden.
