A Goose Hunt to Remember
Posted: Monday, November 21, 2011
by Jack H. Schick
I got my first quadruple Saturday. I’ve been hunting for close to fifty years, but it was the first time I got four game animals without reloading. I downed four Canada Geese with three shots. A few times in the past I’ve gotten two birds with two or three shots. But, more times than I'd like to admit I've emptied my gun and gotten nothing at all. It doesn’t really make up for all the misses, but a quadruple is something special. It’s one of those hunting feats over which you pound your chest and yodel. You shout to the spirit in the sky: “Me…great white hunter!”
Several times I stopped by the goose pond on the way home from work. There were a few of them there only twice. Once, I couldn’t get into range and it was one of those empty-the-gun-for-nothing times I don’t like to talk about. Another time, I did manage to drop one from long range, but that was it. With a large daily limit during the month long early season, I’d gotten a total of one goose for all of my time and effort. I was pretty frustrated.
When the late season opened I wasn’t too enthusiastic at first, but the land owner announced the good news: “They’re back, hundreds of them! Come over and shoot as many as you can. They’re ruining my pond and the ground around it.” Opening day I took off work, dug out my camouflage, my BB sized shot cartridges and put the choke for steel pellets back in my 12 gauge shot gun. I had visions of getting my limit in the first half hour.
Me, Dobie, my Brittany gun dog, and my hunting partner Cliff with his Lab, Buddy, were there before light, a half hour before legal shooting. We set up the half shell decoys in (what we thought was) an enticing pattern in the grass around the pond. Cliff had a new trick with the floaters. He ran a string attached to the decoys across the pond. From our hiding spot he could tug on it and make them bob a little, sending ripples across the water so they looked alive.
We nestled into our seats, covered by our camo netting under the trees nearest the pond. The dogs were familiar with the procedures and settled in to wait, tied up on their ropes. Nothing happened, for hours. We blew on our goose calls until we got tired of listening to it. We didn’t hear a thing or even see anything flying but crows. The let down was depressing. We’d actually wondered if we’d brought enough ammunition. One shell apparently was plenty.
I’d already eaten half my lunch when a small flock finally appeared. We honked and blew on our calls. Cliff jiggled the decoys. When they topped the trees, about a hundred yards out, and saw the decoys, we might just as well have jumped up and waved our arms. I'm convinced they're wise to our tricks now. They panicked, veered off and got the heck out of there, fast. We didn’t get a shot. We sat around for another hour or two, but finally gave up and went timberdoodle and rabbit hunting over at the state game lands. We didn’t see anything there, either, but at least the dogs got a run.
Cliff swung by the pond a few days later and reported that there were still no geese. We’d planned to be there by light Saturday morning, but when he called, we changed our minds and opted to sleep in, instead. He had something to do in the afternoon and decided to blow off the whole day. Me too, but by eleven, Dobie and my new puppy, Payton, a French Brittany, started giving me their inquisitive pathetic looks. They’ve come to expect a hunting expedition every time I’m home during the daytime. I relented. “Okay, Boys,” I said. “Let’s go for a ride in the car.” They started yipping and jumping around, knocking over the trash can and their water dish.
It was kind of chilly and breezy out so I put them in their neoprene vests, Dobie’s is blaze orange, Payton’s is camouflage. I checked the charges and put their shock collars on. They were so excited and fidgety I could hardly accomplish it. I didn’t expect to see any geese so I brought the 20 gauge auto-loader that I use for small game, along with my goose gun. The Boys darted out the front door, raced across the driveway to pee on their favorite bush, then hopped in the back of the Jeep when I called them.
I took the long way to the goose pond, to see if there were any at some of the farms I field hunt on. I didn’t see a single goose, on the ground or flying. But, when I pulled into the lane to our ‘spot,’ I saw them immediately. There were hundreds of them. The island in the middle of the pond was covered. There were dozens in the water. The areas where we put our decoys, the grassy area right in front of where we usually hide, the bank around half the pond were all swarming with geese.
I parked by the house next to the owner’s vehicles about a hundred yards from the pond. All the geese were watching me. I tried to be nonchalant as I got out and went around the back of the Jeep to get my gun, hoping they’d think I was a harmless visitor. The dogs couldn’t help but see and hear them. They had their noses pressed against the windows in nervous tension. I told them to “Stay,” when I opened the back hatch. I was so excited that, even after all these years of hunting, my hands were shaking. I quickly pulled on the jacket with my hunting license pinned to the back; loaded three shells into the gun and put another half dozen in my pocket.
I skirted around behind the Jeep and walked diagonally across the open yard, as though I was just headed out to the shed and wood pile that was only a few dozen yards from the pond. I kept my gun close to my side, incase they could recognized one. The geese got noisier and more anxious. Those that were sitting or lying down stood up. They all started to slowly walk away from me. As soon as one of them spooked and flew, I knew they all would, en masse. I hoped I could get into range first, but was ready to dart forward and shoot, if I had to.
I managed to get to the wood pile without flushing them. The honking, jabbering and meandering got more intense. They were really nervous by then. I leaned low and scurried to the far end of the stacked wood, as close to them as I was going to get. I took a couple of deep breaths and checked my safety. Then, I quickly squeezed between the stacked firewood and the corner of the shed and stepped out into the open a few paces. I was only about 25 yards from the nearest geese.
With a roar of beating wings, dozens lifted off at once. As they did, the rest, hundreds of them followed, like a ‘wave’ surging around a football stadium. I aimed and fired into the group closest to me. There were so many, so close together that I could see no background behind them through their wings and bodies. I couldn’t tell if I’d hit anything. “Forsake all others for just one,” I repeated the old bird shooter’s adage. I pumped the gun, aimed at ‘just one’ and fired my second shot. It glided and splashed into the water. The sky was full of geese. It looked like a swarm of giant gnats. I selected one more, out over the pond, and fired my third and last shot. It flinched and went into a glide. I quickly reloaded.
The honking and flapping made a clamorous din. The fleeing flock split into several groups. The largest gained altitude then made a wide circle around the pond before flapping off to the south. None ever came back into range. I ran over to the pond. Two geese were in the water close to shore. One was dead. One was still twitching and splashing a little. Another was out in the middle paddling toward the far shore. A fourth was lying motionless in the grass on the far side maybe 80 yards off. Four of them down with three shots! I went back to the Jeep to get the dogs.
Payton is learning, but Dobie already goes crazy at the sound of gunshots. They nearly knocked me over when I opened the door. They bolted for the pond. Dobie ran across the small foot bridge onto the island. He saw the two dead ones in the water and didn’t show too much interest. The one that had been swimming had gotten out of the pond and gone into the brushy woods beyond it. Payton was excited, but stuck close to me, not quite sure what was happening. Dobie then spotted the one lying over in the grass. It was moving. He ran back across the bridge and over to it.
The wounded goose apparently only had a broken wing. When the dog got there and tried to grab it, it took off running, flapping its good wing, jumped in the pond and started paddling like mad. Dobie went in after him, but there was no way he could catch up, swimming. When it got a few yards in front and the angle was safe, I shot it again, killing it. Dobie got him and dragged him up onto the island.
Meanwhile, Payton apparently heard or saw something and went down into the woods. I heard a ruckus in the brush and turned around to see a goose, flush out of the bushes about three feet off the ground with Payton right on his tail. It flew over the bank and across the pond. I shot and it dropped dead into the water. Payton went in after it, circled it, took a bite on its wing and brought him to shore. He struggled to get it up the bank, but I was there to give him a hand. I retrieved the one Dobie brought in, then pointed out the dead ones still floating in the pond. Dobie went in and got one, Payton got the other.
I had a little trouble carrying four geese and my gun back to the Jeep. They were heavy, and Payton couldn’t curb his enthusiasm. He kept trying to grab one from me, till I made it perfectly clear with my boot (gently, but with accompanying verbal abuse) that his job was over. I stowed them in the plastic laundry box I have in the back for that purpose. Before I loaded up the dogs and headed home to clean them and process the meat, I pounded my chest like an ape, yodeled, and shouted in my best Geronimo accent, “Me…great white hunter!” Nimrod smiled on his successor that day.
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Top-level comments on this article: (1 total)Sure am glad I am not a goose...
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