Sweat poured down my face, dripped off my eyebrows onto the lenses of my glasses, and ran off the end of my nose steadily. My knees throbbed and my shoulders ached from crawling on my hands and knees over the rocky, debris-strewn ground, half carrying, half pushing my gun ahead of me. It had taken me 20 minutes to traverse 300 yards through brush, reeds, high grass, and every sharp and oddly shaped stone in Aroostook County, and I had to lay down for a minute, clean my glasses, get my breath, and regroup.

It was the first full week of September, 85 degrees on a cloudless, sunny afternoon and I was wearing heavy neoprene chest waders, gloves, a facemask, and a hat, trying to remain hidden among the thinning grass, reeds, and small shrubs. I attempted to fish my camo bandana from a pocket under the tight waders. Anyone watching would have equated me to a snake shedding its skin, a very uncoordinated snake.

As I cleaned my spectacles and mopped my face, two thoughts crossed my mind: first, this was not how fall goose hunting was supposed to be, and second, so this is what a heat stroke feels like. Regardless of the conditions, there were at least 60 large Canada honkers floating near or walking along the tip of this island not 75 yards ahead of me, and somehow I was going to sneak within range.

Native geese

A decade ago, there was no such thing as an early goose season, and two decades ago, Maine had no notable populations of Canada geese to hunt, and even stop-over birds during the migration were few and far between. In the early 1980s, then Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Commissioner Glen Manual approved a program allowing out-of-state geese to be trapped and relocated to various sites in the Pine Tree State. State wildlife biologists traveled to Connecticut and joined their counterparts there in trapping nuisance geese from golf courses, playgrounds, and other overrun business and residential locations and transported them back to a new home in Maine. Approximately 2,000 Canada honkers were relocated over several years.

Many of the adult transported geese migrated away, not to return, but most of the younger birds did come back the following year. These are now referred to as native geese since they breed, nest, and raise their young in specific locations around the state and return there each and every year. Maine’s first resident goose season in 1996 lasted only two weeks and gunning was tough due to small, widespread flocks. But each September since, the resident goose populations have shown greater numbers and far wider distribution. Aroostook County, in particular, with its vast array of grain fields, pastures and croplands to provide food and a multitude of waterways for roosting, has developed an extensive population of geese.

Goose gunning has gotten progressively better over the last five autumns. In fact, some gaggles of geese have gotten out of hand and created urban problems in a few community parks, swimming areas, and water supplies. Being very community minded and feeling a great civic responsibility, I do my very best each September to help keep this wandering waterfowl problem in check. Thus my state of near heat exhaustion as I crawled and wriggled over sharp rocks and through thorny brush to ambush a few honkers.

Planning the stalk

Over the last few years, I’ve found that resident geese tend to be extremely random in their feeding locations. Migratory birds tend to frequent the same field until it’s used up, but food plots are so plentiful this month that native Canadas hopscotch about with no rhyme or reason. Their one stable routine is the choice of waterway to rest on after feeding. In fact, most flocks are even precise as to where they land to rest, digest, and drink after returning from each feeding flight.

By daily scouting from afar using binoculars, I watched a group of geese descend onto the water and rocky beach of an Aroostook River island for three straight days. Their arrival never varied by more than 15 minutes each afternoon. Between 1 and 1:15 p.m., they returned from their morning foraging tour. I had this bunch of wily waterfowl pegged!

Twenty years ago I bought a wonderful hunting dog from Buddy and June Horr who owned Longview Kennels in East Holden. In that one transaction I gained a four-legged hunting partner in a chocolate lab, I named him Rum, and also a two-legged outdoor companion and close friend. For two decades Buddy and I have gunned waterfowl and big game throughout Canada, Maine, and several other states. After my second day of scouting it was Buddy who got the call to pack the truck and hit the road for my house and some surefire honker hunting.

My plan was for us to drive as close to the river as possible, arriving about 11:30. That would give us more than an hour and a half to lug decoys and gear to the island and set up. A dozen floaters for the water and a dozen full-bodied Big Foot decoys to distribute along the shoreline tip of the isle would be enough to bring the real geese close. Buddy and I would hide among the decoys on land using goose chairs. These are small, low-level reclining chaise lounges where the hunter lays out and pulls a magnum goose shell down to cover his face and upper body.

Surprise, surprise

After leaving home the next morning at first light, Buddy arrived bag and baggage on my doorstep at 9:30 a.m. My truck was already loaded with decoys and gear. We had a quick bite to eat, changed into our head-to-toe camouflage clothing, packed up our guns, ammo, and waders, and headed for the river at 11:30.

Imagine my astonishment 15 minutes later when our intended hunting spot came into sight and the geese were already there. I looked at Buddy, he looked at me, and we both gazed at the geese. I was speechless; well not entirely, but the descriptive words running through my mind for these foul fowl weren’t going to help the situation. They had arrived a full hour ahead of schedule.

Buddy suggested the geese must have set their internal clocks back an hour a full month ahead of time. Whatever the reason for the early arrival, if Buddy and I were going to get any shooting, we needed a new plan of attack. Whatever the scheme, it was going to require a good deal more effort than letting the birds come to us.

We had to undertake a stalk, and as any waterfowler will attest, sneaking up on geese is like slipping an egg from under an unsuspecting hen, challenging but seldom successful. One of us would walk a good distance upriver out of sight from the geese, then wade to midstream, put the island between the birds and hunter, and move toward the island. Once on land, it was a 300-yard hunch, waddle, duck walk, and crawl to get within range.

The second hunter would walk along an abandoned railroad bed, now used for four-wheelers, that parallels the river. A heavy tree line would keep the sport out of sight of the geese on the island. About 75 yards below the resting honkers the river narrowed, allowing a shoreline shooter a 20- to 30-yard passing shot. Even if the geese spooked before the stalking hunter got a shot, the bankside gunner would have a good chance. Heavy brush would provide excellent cover for the downstream shooter to sneak right to the water’s edge. A flip of a coin was the only fair way to determine who walked and who crawled. Lucky me, I thought, as I put away my handkerchief and began belly crawling again.

Each time I pushed the shotgun ahead and crawled a yard, I expected to hear the big honkers sound off and take to the air. Ten minutes later, when I gently parted and peeked through the grass, the birds were walking, floating, and gabbling right where they were originally. Some were within 25 yards.

I took a second to control my breathing, knowing Buddy had been in place for at least 20 minutes and probably wondered if I’d passed out from heat stroke. When I jumped to my feet, dozens of heads turned toward me, and all noise stopped for a split-second. Then a cacophony of honking and flailing wings filled the air with geese and noise.

The big 10 came up and swung as if by levitation. I don’t remember the recoil or loud reports, only seeing a large Canada crumple each time the trigger was squeezed. Seconds later I saw geese fold and fall from the air downriver, and then heard the belated shotgun blasts. For once, despite a few unexpected surprises, the hunters had outsmarted the wily waterfowl.

The thrill of the stalk and good gunning waned a bit as Buddy and I each struggled uphill in the stifling heat lugging our gear and nearly 30 pounds of geese apiece, but we managed to rejuvenate overnight. Our decoy gambit worked the next day on a different section of the river. Maine’s early native goose season runs until the 25th of this month and the daily limit is four birds. The weather is warm but the hunting is hot, so pick up your state and federal duck stamps and give this special September season a try.

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