Recently I penned a Cordova Chronicles about sandhill crane, one of the more intriguing birds that migrate past Cordova every fall.
Back in 1959 a “crane” of a different species earned a place in our Pete Dahl duck cabin folklore that will last as long as the cabin is there.
Sept. 26, 1959 was a bird-less bluebird day, which inspired Dad, Harrison Leer, and I to take off in our 22-foot Banta work skiff for Tiedeman Slough. Dad recalled a great evening shoot there with Bob Korn in the 1930s so it had to be the hot spot.
Leer, who looked like TV late night host Johnny Carson, was a bright character. He was Valedictorian of the Cordova High Class of 1936. He went on to become an eye doctor, and held traveling clinics throughout Southeast Alaska, including here in Cordova.
After a 20 minute ride through the Lower Cutoff, we pulled up to a mud bank on Tiedeman. Dad decided to stay with the boat to make sure it didn’t go high and dry on the falling tide. There was considerable noise from shotgun volleys all around us. Leer and I headed for the nearby ponds in anticipation of some quality jump shooting.
Alas, the birds were also jumpy, so with nothing to show for our efforts but a couple scrawny pintails, we headed back to the boat.
On the way back we each shot once at a pair of birds far out range.
As we approached the boat Dad somehow morphed into two figures. One of them was a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Protection officer named Crane.
Enforcement was unheard of in those years, and Officer Crane was going to make up for lost time. Without introduction, he queried “Which one of you shot first?”
Wrong question to ask Leer. Without a pause he pointed at me. Although new to this game, I pointed at Leer. Undaunted, Crane countered with “O.K. that’s it. You are both under arrest.”
Dad, with sparks flying out of his pipe, interjected: “What! You can’t arrest him. He doesn’t even have a license, he’s only 15.”
Crane: “Well, in that case, I’m arresting you other two.”
Leer was in his element, further aggravating the situation.
“You have to speak up! There’s so much noise from the shooting all around us I can’t hear what you’re saying.”
Back then, before the ’64 earthquake, the Delta was a vast plain of short grasses due to big tides, which flooded its lower reaches. There was zero brush, and visibility reached all the way to Whitshed Point. We could see the sun going down behind it.
Crane: “That’s enough. Give me your guns and birds. I’ll see you at the Cordova magistrate’s office on Friday at 1:00 pm.”
He hopped in his canoe and paddled away.
Leer was speechless. Dad, nicknamed “The Isaac Walton of the Delta” because he shot so few birds, stood shaking his head. Me, I had a get-out-of-jail-free card, due to my age.
The sun was now sinking below the horizon, with shotguns all around us still blazing away. Crane must have been oblivious. Clearly the evening shoot wasn’t over across the entire width of the Delta.
I anticipated some remorse or disappointment as I started the outboard. No way. The pair of them sat in the bow laughing and hoisting their Lucky Lagers.
It was a marvelous red sunset, and there was still plenty of tide to get back before the stars came out. It dawned on me that Leer was probably already working on his one-liners.
When we arrived at the cabin, Leer practically leaped out of the boat to tell hunters from the three nearby cabins what had happened.
Soon our cabin was packed with neighbors carrying their favorite firewater to express indignation. Later, more than a few of them retrieved their shotguns and fired volleys in the dark to let it be known that shooting hours were still open at Pete Dahl.
Memories fade with time; this all took place 65 years ago.
Luckily Mom started a cabin tradition of creating a Pete Dahl Chronicles in the form of written entries in a three-hole binder starting that year.
There are now seven binders full of history. One of those entries, dated 27 September 1959 reads: “Disastrous hunt on Sat. Eve. At 5:30 Game Warden picks up the boys — shooting after hours. No rhyme or reason for any of this. Mr. Crane a s- -t heel from way back. Sad state of affairs — so sorry please -Anita”
Postscript: I was excused from school to sit in on the Magistrate’s hearing. Dad and Leer lost their licenses and guns for 30 days.
So for the rest of that first season hunting out of our cabin, Dad was my retriever.
