The High Plains Offer Good Canada Goose Shooting -- If You're Willing To Work Through the Distractions To Get To Them
By Dave Carty
The previous afternoon, we'd set up along a fence line in grass that was only marginally denser than the ankle-high alfalfa and corn stubble that surrounded us. We'd seen the birds circling above during a scouting foray the evening before, which is as much a part of goose hunting as calling in birds and pulling the trigger.
Scouting with Bill is never boring. He races down back roads, gravel flying, until he spots a flock, then stops and digs out his binoculars from the drifts of camo clothing, calls, photography equipment and candy bar wrappers on the front seat. Wind blasts through the driver's-side window, which Bill never closes. Between bursts of invective he scans his list of area farmers. Some men have little black books filled with the names of girlfriends; Bill's little black book is filled with names like Orville and Vern.
But you have to give the guy credit; he knows how to work a room. As far as I know, he's never been a salesman, but he's a natural. At lunch at the local café, or at the 5:30 a.m. breakfast in a room tacked on the back of the corner grocery store, he strikes up conversations with farmers he's never met like they were brothers separated at birth, and before I know it, they're telling us where the birds are. He's been hunting out here long enough that by now almost everybody seems to know him. And by golly, after being worked over by Bill, they don't seem to mind a bit if we try our luck on their place. Which is how we found the fence line.
From the slit in the hood of a coffin blind, you can see the birds coming from a mile away -- first a faint, bee-like cluster as they lift off the river, then a dark, wavering line, and finally individual birds. But what gets my heart pounding is the noise -- the cacophony of a hundred geese calling, joined to the calls Bill and I send up into the blue prairie skies after them, blowing so hard that sometimes I have to pause to rest my lips and throat.
With decoys on my left and a barren fence line that stretched for a mile or more to my right, it seemed there was no way the birds could miss seeing us. Flock after flock lifted off the river and flew directly over our setup. Before us were dozens of silhouettes, as well as a wing-waver that I have my doubts about but Bill loves, especially since he's designated me the official wing-waver operator. So, between toots on my new call, I yanked on a string that snaked out from inside my blind, between my feet and into the decoys. Dutifully, the wing-waver waved, an avian siren signaling all's well to the homesick sailors above. I would have rather called, but maybe that was the point. Bill has heard me call.
Several large flocks flew over but never dropped within range. Finally, a half-dozen birds flew in on the tails of a departing flock, 50 yards off the deck. Bill went to work on his call while I yanked frantically on my string. At a hundred yards they cupped their wings and began dropping into our spread, slipping the air to lose elevation, silent as they focused on our decoys. At 50 yards I began to tense up, waiting for the pre-arranged signal from Bill telling me to shoot. At 30 I still hadn't heard from him. At 20 yards he opened up.
This wasn't the way we'd planned it, but by God I can take a hint. I threw back the hood on my blind and slid to my butt, my 870 coming up to my cheek. By now, the geese looked like B-52's and were scrambling for altitude. I fired once and a bird crumpled and fell. Bill fired again and another bird joined the one he'd already laid to rest. And then suddenly it was quiet again and both of us were smiling.
You never know what you're going to get into out here. Bill and I have shot everything from mallards to cacklers to Greater Canadas, which the birds we've just shot may well be. They're huge -- probably 10 to 12 pounds each. Lessers? Greaters? Beats me. All I know is, they're beautiful.
In December and January, there may be no colder place on earth than the high prairies, and the rivers, where the geese roost at night can get so frigid that it surprises me the birds don't freeze into avian statuary. But up above, on the stubble fields above the bottomlands, it can be relatively warm and occasionally downright balmy. That trip was one of those days. By the time Bill and I had set out our decoys, we were both sweating, and by the time we picked them up again and loaded them on his trailer, it had finally cooled enough to be comfortable. Our next trip wouldn't be so pleasant.
On the high prairies, where what passes for cover might be grass or corn stubble a scant few inches high, camouflage is everything. Bill, who has an anal streak to begin with, is obsessive about grassing in his ground blinds and coffins, but as much as I hate to agree with him, he's probably right. A blind has to look like a small and insignificant rise in the topography, not a sudden hump surrounded by plastic dekes, no matter how photographically precise their plumage. Bill has a bag of prairie grass he's painstakingly tied in clumps and dyed in shades or brown, gray and black, which we tie to his coffin blinds and intersperse with any other vegetation that's handy. Sometimes there's not much to work with. But when done right, the effect is amazing -- the blinds virtually melt into the ground. On one trip, a magpie landed on Bill's coffin, hopped up his chest and peered, perplexed, under the brim of his camo hat before Bill took a swipe at it, a split second too late.
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