In the truck’s harsh beams, heavy white frost coated the blades of grass and clover leaves sprouting among the grain stubble, and each cut barley stalk sparkled and glistened in the predawn gloom. When I stepped out to determine wind direction and to scout for signs of exactly where the huge flock of Canada geese had been feeding the previous afternoon, each step sounded as if I’d stepped on a plate of crisp potato chips. Although no tracks would show up in the cut grain field, not 20 feet in front of the truck my headlamp rays began to pick up white fluffs of goose down caught among the stems, and even an occasional body feather. And droppings – no matter which direction I surveyed, every foot of earth had been well fertilized.

Late the previous afternoon I’d kept my distance, surveying the moving mass of feeding honkers through binoculars from a distant hillside. During my surveillance I’d singled out a couple of prominent landmarks to help me roughly pinpoint that feeding location this morning. Knowing those hungry honkers would return at daybreak, famished and ready to feed after a long, cold night on their roost pond, I wanted our group of gunners to be ready and waiting right near where the flock had stopped eating last evening. I dropped my orange hat on the exact spot I wanted the blinds set up and waved for the other two trucks full of goose gunners and gear to drive over from the field road.

Normally, I prefer to hunt geese with only two or three other shooters; any more than that and it becomes very difficult to hide everyone in a flat, open field regardless of how well the layout blinds are camouflaged. On top of that, fooling a few wary keen-sighted birds into shotgun range so a trio can bag a limit is challenging, but for every extra shooter the chore becomes tougher. This morning there were six of us, a lot of bodies to hide in plain sight, and if we were to stand any chance of filling our 12-goose limit we needed a few foolish birds as well as some outstanding shooting. And as I’d mentioned to my crew of goose gunning buddies earlier that morning when we all met at my house, a bit of luck never hurts.

Young gun

In the beginning, plans for this Saturday morning outing included Beaver Pierce of E Plantation, my perennial goose gunning sidekick, and a rookie to the sport this season, Bruce Hussey, an attorney from Mars Hill. Bruce and I were schoolmates from many years ago and he had recently moved back to the area after many years practicing law in Montana.

Until October, Bruce had never hunted waterfowl in his life, but after two duck forays and three goose hunts, he was totally enthralled with the sport. Midweek, Buddy Horr of Dedham called. He, too, has been a frequent boat and blind buddy over the seasons and was phoning to inquire how the shooting had been recently. It seems he had the weekend off and was interested in a pond duck hunt over decoys on Friday and honker hunting Saturday. “The more the merrier,” I said, and then he dropped the other shoe.

I knew it was coming sooner or later, but the next request really caught me off guard. Buddy’s 10-year-old son Brian had accompanied us on our moose hunt a year ago, and also on a couple of waterfowl outings, but only as an observer. Now this year he wanted to shoot. Buddy had gotten him a new shotgun during the summer and they had spent several afternoons breaking clay targets, and when Buddy had returned home after our successful two-day hunt the previous week, Brian reminded his dad of a promise to get him a goose this fall. This young gun was wound tighter than a fiddle string with anticipation.

Any good-hearted hunter can’t say no to an eager young sportsman, and so I agreed to attempt to help Brian bag his first Canada goose. Buddy knew from hard personal experience that there are never any guarantees with honkers, and with five gunners the odds were increasing. Over the phone I told Brian we would do our best to get him a chance or two, but to remember, it’s called hunting, not shooting, for a reason. I had to grin when he replied that he and his dad had talked it over, and when everyone else had their limit, then he’d take his turn. Patience, hope and optimism, you’ve just got to love that in a young rookie outdoorsman.

Somehow we had to get our young prot?g? a goose. Before ending the telephone call I advised Buddy to pray for bad weather and some flocks of new birds migrating into our area. A few young, foolish geese certainly would help. No more had I hung up the phone when it rang again, and in the vein of it never rains but it pours, Roger Shaw, a longtime fishing partner and second-year apprentice to our honker hunting corps was on the line. It seems he, too, had a free morning Saturday and wondered if there were any plans in the works. “Welcome aboard,” I said, “you’re the last bottle in our six-pack,” and then I went over the game plan for Saturday. With six shotgunners, and one a young gun, I wasn’t sure how successful our hunt would be, but it sure would be interesting!

Fun in the fog

One good thing about a half-dozen hunters, it sure eases the burden of setting out decoys. In the end we actually used 80 full-bodied dekes; 24 motion geese on stakes, each moving realistically in the slightest breeze; two flyer decoys that imitate birds landing in the spread, and 12 huge shell decoys. Our group would be using three layout blinds and a three-man hay bale blind, a huge, hollow, canvas-covered wheel that mimics the rolls of hay seen in many regional farm fields. By placing the dozen 36-inch-long shell decoys near the blinds, these huge fake fowl create a depth perception image that makes the blinds seem smaller, and their size also helps hide any head or hand movements during flagging and calling.

In less than 30 minutes the decoy spread was rigged, the trucks parked on a distant woodlot road and every shooter was snug in their blind. Oddly, the mild breeze had become warmer during our preparations and clouds had moved in to cover the receding moon. Dawn came more as a gray glow on the horizon than a sunrise, and as the sound of shells being fed into scatterguns broke the silence, announcing legal shooting time, a misty ground fog began to form. Bruce, Roger and I were in the hay bale while Beaver, Brian and Buddy lay side-by-side to our right, with the youngster and his empty gun sandwiched between the veteran waterfowlers. A distant series of strident honks from approaching geese quickly brought the good-natured teasing and chuckling to an end.

A thin wavering line of several winged apparitions faded in and out of the clouds and increasing haze on the horizon, but their size and sounds were increasing as they closed in on our location. Waving a black flag high in the air and then slowly fluttering it downward simulates a goose’s wings as it lands. Flying geese see this motion from long distances, well before they can hear sportsmen using calls, and they approach to investigate, at which point calling comes into play. Roger waved one flag from the end of the hay bale and Beaver fluttered another from his layout blind.

Four geese broke off to make a circle and survey the setup, but three dropped their legs and glided straight in to the landing zone we had purposely left among the decoys. Years of being outsmarted by trying to lure a few more geese into range and then ending up with none has engraved that old “bird in the hand” theory into my brain, so I called for Beaver and Buddy to shoot since the trio of hovering Canadas was closest to them. A few seconds and several shots later Buddy had his two-bird limit, Beaver accounted for the other honker, and Brian was wide-eyed and talking a mile a minute as the birds were retrieved for him to hold and check out.

Over our rookie’s enthusiastic chattering I heard more geese, and these were approaching from behind us over the tree line and already had their wings locked when I spotted them. At about 75 yards, however, the group turned away, hearing or seeing something they didn’t like, and no amount of flagging or pleading “come back” calls could turn them around. It was then I realized how quickly the departing geese disappeared, although we could still hear them clearly, and upon scanning the countryside it became apparent that we could no longer see distant hills and houses. Warmer air and cold wet ground conditions were quickly creating a heavy fog obscuring the countryside and limiting our vision.

Honking from the next bunch of geese could be heard for several minutes before we could finally make out their forms in the fog at about 100 yards. They had responded to our calling and upon spotting the decoys and our waving flags were anxious to investigate and made a beeline for the rig. An even half-dozen birds set up for a direct approach, floating in over the decoys precisely in front on the hay bale until at 30 yards I said, “Take ’em.” I flipped open the top of the blind as Roger, Bruce and I stood causing the six landing geese to split up, three went left, wings pumping for altitude, three veered right. I shouldered my venerable old Weatherby Athena over and under, picked the first bird on the right and dropped it, then finished my limit by cartwheeling the second goose in line. By this time the third honker was in front of Beaver and he sat up and whacked it with a load of BBs to finish his limit. Roger and Bruce had each downed a goose from the trio passing their side.

By the time we picked up the five birds, visibility was down to about 50 yards and we could hear more geese. These birds really wanted to be on the ground and out of the thick overcast and we had just barely closed the blind when two honkers appeared like ghosts from the mist and landed among the decoys on the left side. Since Buddy and Beaver were limited out and unloaded, Brian had been allowed to load his shotgun and this was the perfect opportunity. As the pair of birds walked and fed only yards away, I quietly told Brain to get ready and for Buddy to tell him when to sit up and shoot.

A few seconds later I heard Buddy whisper directions and then the sound of a layout top popping open. Both geese leaped skyward and Roger and Bruce leaped to their feet in case backup shooting was needed. It was. Both honkers were unscathed after Brian’s two shots, but when they flared out of his line of sight and in front of us, Bruce hammered one and Roger wing-tipped the other, leading to a long but successful retrieve. We never did see Roger run down the bird due to the fog, but we heard the second shot and knew he, too, had a limit.

Now it was all up to Brian. He was reloaded and ready when a quartet of Canadas answering our calls appeared from the mist. Three buttonhooked left, but one big gander swung past right over the spread at 25 yards, and our rookie young gun sat up and knocked the bird down on his first shot. When Brian finally hoisted the goose by the neck it was almost as long as he was tall, and I’m not sure whose smile was larger, father or son. There was no small amount of pride among the rest of us either as we offered congratulations and posed for pictures.

Despite the size of our hunting party, Mother Nature had cooperated in an odd fashion, and the fog, which had totally dissipated before noon, was a great asset. Brian’s first Canada goose is going to be mounted for a lifetime of memories and all of our troop will hold warm recollections of a young waterfowler’s first big bird. My own reminiscences will be especially sweet; you see, I was there all those years ago for his dad’s first honker as well.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com