Poached Eggs Are Okay, Not Deer

A Tale of Fraud, Fines, and Foolishness

Some men will climb the highest mountain, ford the deepest river, and perjure themselves on a stack of Bibles to bag a mule deer that isn’t legally theirs. Such was the case in the Humboldt-Toiyabe National Forest, where two enterprising individuals got snared by the long arm of the law after cooking up a hunting scheme that was equal parts ambition and absurdity.

In December 2022, the Utah Division of Natural Resources got wind of a Panguitch, Utah resident who had galloped across the Nevada border, fraudulent hunting tag in hand, and laid claim to a sizeable 5×4 mule deer. The Nevada Department of Wildlife (NDOW) quickly confirmed that the hunter had been a Utah resident for three years, rendering them about as eligible for a Nevada resident hunting tag as a coyote in a henhouse.

“Residency fraud is becoming a real problem,” lamented Game Warden Lieutenant John Anderson, as he no doubt pondered the sheer effort some folks will exert to avoid paying out-of-state fees. “Our game wardens are spending quite a bit of time investigating residency fraud, and that’s valuable time they could be using to actually protect the state’s wildlife.”

As the investigation unfolded, it became clear that the grand scheme was a family affair. The hunter’s spouse, who fancied herself something of a backwoods bureaucrat, handled the fraudulent paperwork and tag purchases, filling out applications under untrue pretenses and securing licenses with the finesse of a small-time con artist.

Search warrants, financial records, and digital evidence all told the same tale—this was a crime of paperwork and poor judgment. The price for this ill-gotten mule deer?

The primary suspect took a plea deal, admitting to aiding and abetting unlawful possession—a gross misdemeanor. In exchange for the trophy, he received a five-year suspension of hunting privileges, a suspended 60-day jail sentence, a year of probation, and a devastating loss of 36 hunting bonus points, which, for an avid hunter, is about as cruel a fate as being exiled from the campfire. The financial reckoning came in the form of a shared civil penalty of $4,999.99, a precise sum that suggests the judge wanted to extract every last penny.

Meanwhile, the spouse, the unseen hand behind this grand deception, was convicted of a misdemeanor violation, losing her hunting license and coughing up more than $600 in fines—plus their share of the nearly $5,000 penalty.

Under the Interstate Wildlife Violator Compact, the five-year suspension means neither can legally hunt in 49 states, leaving Alaska as their only option—assuming they fancy a trek to the tundra to try their luck on moose instead.

While residency fraud may not rank much among crimes of history, it remains a persistent pest, gnawing away at conservation funding and robbing lawful hunters of opportunities. Lieutenant Anderson stressed that the case was a shining example of interagency cooperation, proving that, while some folks may think they can outsmart the system, the law will catch up—especially when you leave a paper trail as wide as the Grand Canyon.

And so ends another mule deer caper, a tale of fraud, folly, and the undeniable fact that some hunters will go to remarkable lengths to take a shortcut—only to find themselves on a much longer road than they ever intended.