Mulak Reader - Branta Canadensis Northeaster

Here’s one that didn’t really happen, but should have: Even though I’ve got my father shooting a triple on geese, the whole effect was exactly the same on the occasion when he finally took his first goose. This one originally appeared in Gray’s Sporting Journal.

Branta Canadensis Northeaster

Dad runs down the check list while I act out his Doubting Thomas role, digging through the assembled gear to find an item for him that I know is there.

          "Spare tire for the trailer?"

          "Here, in the boat."

          "Anchor and rope?"

          "Right here."

          "Oars?"

          "Check."

          "Gas can?"

          "Here."

          "Is it full, Steve?"

          "All set." I glance at the gauge and twist the cap to be sure it's loosened for the trip. The check-off job is usually fairly simple when I'm going waterfowling alone, but it runs to a bit more detail when two men are going overnight. The job is further complicated by the constant stream of suggestions from the porch, where my mother stands with my wife, both slightly more than spectators.

          "Did you remember some food for the dog?"

          I wave a can of Ken-L-Ration at my wife.

          "If you were smart, you'd open it up now and just put a plastic cover over it."

          I don't mind her suggestion so much as her being right. I go into the house and run the can through the opener.

          We finish the inventory and I let Win out of the back yard. Her kennel mate barks a protest at being left behind. Both dogs have been pacing the gate in eager anticipation since Dad arrived. Win runs to the truck and sits on the floor, afraid to misbehave at this crucial time. She trembles with excitement.

          My mother is there to drive Dad's car back home. She has a last minute suggestion. "Hank, where's the stuff for your contacts?"

          "In with the gun cleaning gear, I think."

          Ultimately, we'll need to be sure, so I dig into our equipment again. Dad will need his eye drops out on the marsh, so they shouldn't be in the reserve bag, anyway.  I look through its contents to be sure there are no other surprises. "You'll be needing these, too, Dad." I turn up a box of goose loads.

          "Naw.  If I need some, I'll borrow a few of yours."

          I transfer the box into the knapsack we'll carry with us. My own three-inch loads will not fit in Dad's gun. He knows this.

          Goose shooting and Dad don't get along any more. Because we live far inland, our waterfowling trips to the coast are reduced to once-or-twice-a-season excursions, and nearly all our goose hunting is tied into these trips. Dad has seen all of his sons take geese, and has had his own share of opportunities. Not overly many, to be sure, but enough to feel haunted by his constant misses. And missing becomes doubly painful when those around you are not: Five years earlier, my brother and I crouched in a tidal cut waiting out a flock of Canadas, and when we stood to take our first geese only he was successful. We had both waited years for that moment, but he contained his own exuberance when he saw the look of abject disappointment on my face. Two seasons and several geese later, mine was the only goose to fall from a flaring flock. When I turned and clapped my father on the back, mirrored in his face was the same emotion I had felt at my own first easy miss. So I wisely said no more.  Since then, geese have become not so much an obsession as a dream with Dad—things he is not entirely certain are real. He is far from a poor shot, yet each missed opportunity seemed to inhibit the next until no shot was too easy to be missed.  He was more embarrassed by his failings than he would admit.

          I drive the truck on the interstate. Since his eye operation Dad isn't much of a night driver. We talk, mostly of the next day, but after a while I hear his head nodding against the door window. There was a time when he took his sons hunting.  Now they take him.

          The drive takes three hours, but most of it is on main highways. Dad wakes with a start as the tires roar on the steel gratings of the drawbridge. I snap on the high beams as we turn onto the marsh road. A red fox is caught for a moment in the lights before he slips into the bayberry tangles along the roadside. One more duck hunter on the marsh.

          With the truck parked, the three of us get out to stretch out legs. After hours with the noise of the truck in my ears, the silence is deafening. Gradually, I begin to hear the sigh of the wind through the beach grass, the sound of distant high-tide breakers rolling in beyond the dunes, the squall of a heron that Win scares up along the water. The clouds of tomorrow's predicted northeaster have gathered, and the first raindrop hits my nose.

          "Look at this." I point toward the light spot in the cloud cover where the moon has been blocked out. A small flock of geese is laboring by, on their way out onto the marsh. In the whisper of the wind we can hear their occasional squawk, then the creaking of their wings as they pass close to us. The darkness quickly swallows them, but Dad continues to stare out onto the salt flats until, finally, the wind no longer carries their sounds to us. Which of his misses is he reliving?

          "Someday, before it's all over, I'm gonna get one of those sons-a-bitches." He grins at me, but the dream remains in his expression.

The alarm wakes me. The wind, off the ocean now, whips rain against the side of the truck. I pull on my woolen bib-fronts, then sit in a stupor for a long minute, trying to get my mind working on the problem of what to do next. Outside, Dad is working by flashlight. He has on a raincoat, which makes sense to me. I pull my own parka from under my sleeping bag, slip on my old loafers, and step out of the camper-back into the gale. Win comes to greet me, then retreats into the lee of the truck where Dad already has his Coleman stove going. I can smell coffee perking.

          "Gonna be a terrific day!" He has the flashlight tucked under his chin and is using both hands to tighten the motor to the transom of the boat. The rain is being driven down at a 45-degree angle. How can he be so happy when I'm not even sure if I'm awake?

          I pour out two cups of coffee, then go to the truck cab to get out the donuts.  The floor is littered with bits of paper. I search far under the seat and find the second bag that Win couldn't reach.

          "I've got good news and bad news, Dad: Win ate half of our store of donuts.  The good news is that my half is okay."

          Dad surveys the damage. "Bag and all, huh? She's already had her breakfast, but you'd better get her some water or she'll be drinking from the salt marsh."

          I scratch Win behind the ears as she drinks. I'm to blame, really. She had been so gassy on the trip down that I had put her in the cab for the night without remembering that I had stashed our breakfast under the seat. You can't blame a dog for that. Hell, my brother once left a full-grown Lab in his car for 20 minutes and came back to find that his dog had eaten the steering wheel. All that was left was the hub.

I pour out a refill for Win. Donuts make anybody thirsty. Or maybe it was the wax-paper bag.

Fully loaded, the boat sinks down to its last 6-inches of freeboard. I've often wondered if the Coast Guard would declare us unseaworthy. A small mountain of sacked decoys and equipment all but blocks my forward view from the rear seat. Dad sits facing me amidst the cased guns, gas can, and oars. Win is there, too, and I hardly have room for my knees in the cramped compartment.

          As we pull away from the launch area, Dad points rearward.  Two vehicles pass under the street lamps back on the drawbridge.  Each has a boat in tow.  Waterfowl aren't the only ones driven onto the marsh by a storm.

          We snake our way along the tidal river. Win sits like a compressed spring, watching the ducks that flush at every other turn. They are seen for a moment, then disappear as eyes strain to discern one shade of dark from another in the raining pre-dawn blackness.

          The tide continues to run out. We are early, but need to be to have water enough to float the boat. With the moon full, the tides will be extreme, and the marsh creeks will drain completely before mean low tide at dawn. We battle the current, finding the deepest channels wherever the tide runs swiftest.  In two places I get out and walk the boat over sand bars, sounding the water in front of me with an oar as I go.

          There are no landmarks on the salt marsh. The daily tides see to that. I navigate by counting turns and forks in the stream. The sameness of the river banks is always confusing, more so in the darkness, and even when we have arrived at "the spot" there is nothing to appear familiar.

          "Is this it?" I speak above the motor's drone.

          "Seems to be." He's not sure, either.

          We struggle in the boot-sucking mud of the creek bed as we pitch our gear up onto the solid ground above, then climb up after it. Using the anchor rope, I pull the boat into a creek cut where it will be hidden and out of the current of the returning tide.

          Our hunting spot is 300 yards inland, where a series of connected potholes forms a natural retreat for waterfowl in the salt marsh. We divide up the equipment, shoulder our load, and start out, ducking our hat visors into the driving rain as we go.

          The wind carries the sounds of geese to us, and as we approach the salt ponds the Canadas take flight. Win races ahead at the sight of them, but suddenly vanishes.  She pops back into sight quickly—like us, she is not immune to falling into an unseen hole.

          We select a sheltered cove and gather our equipment on an adjoining finger of marsh. The job of setting out the rig goes with practiced ease, despite the darkness and rain. Moving carefully in the crotch-deep water, I position the decoys with a boat oar that doubles as a wading staff. On shore, Dad readies the blocks and places each decoy anchor, in turn, into the notched oar I stretch to him. There is no tidal rise and fall in the potholes, and the decoy lines can be matched to the depth of the water. On their five-foot cords I arrange the 15 decoys into a dense crescent pattern that resembles a tight knot of black ducks at rest, out of the wind. The last three decoys are diminutive teal, two hens and a boldly painted drake green wing.  I set them behind the near horn of the crescent. They will be pleasant to watch there, if nothing else.

          I walk our four cork goose decoys into the open cove ahead of the crescent, feeling like Gulliver towing the Lilliputians' ships. I arrange them in conjunction with the five stand-up shells that Dad rigs on the shore. By the time I've finished making the few minor adjustments in the rig, Dad has already set up the folding stools back in the grass. I come up behind the spot, careful to walk in Dad's path. There are goose droppings all around us.

          We sit down to wait out the hour before shooting time. Gradually, darkness gives way to grayness. Several freshwater coots swim into the rig, and Win watches them as intensely as if she were on point. Ducks have been moving since first light.  They emerge from the grey, give our rig a quick look, and are quickly gone again.  Some like what they see, and at one point we have two pair of blacks in the rig with the coots. When the passing birds become more than just dark silhouettes, I dig out my pocket watch and am surprised to find that we are but ten minutes from legal shooting time.

          Now the water is noticeably brighter, reflecting the lightening sky. The wind, which had abated, picks up once again, mercifully without the accompanying rain. I hear Dad's safety click off and then back on again as a pair of blacks give our rig a once-over. So has Win, and she crouches, waiting for the shot.

          "We've still got a few minutes, Dad."

          "Naw. It's light enough. It must be time."

          Moments later Dad stands and swings on a black that glides in over our right shoulder. He fires once, the duck flares off, and the moment is quickly gone.

          "Missed 'em." Dad goes to look for his empty shell.

          "Let's worry about them later." I'm not sure whether I mean the empty case or the ducks. It's still five minutes before legal shooting time.

          All around the marsh other duck hunters, patient until now, are fingering their shotguns' safeties, muttering "If that guy's gonna start, I'm starting, too." Fifteen seconds have not elapsed when three distant shots thud out. A miss, for sure.  Moments later, a closer single salvo. Then a flurry of shots in the distance from the bay. It has started.

          A pair of blacks pass over, again from behind us. They call a tentative quack. I ease the call to my lips as they bank to the left: "Duck... duck...  duckaduckaduck."  They swing around into the wind, loosing altitude, side-slipping toward the rig. Dad stands and shoots, a bit early, but the lead bird falls cleanly beyond the rig. He fires after the climbing second bird, but only hurries him on his way.

          I lead Win to the edge, away from the tangle of decoy cords, and send her off. Mostly she is here to find cripples that fall in the marsh grass. Her water retrieves are not the extravaganza of a Lab's, but the job gets done. When the weather turns bitter, I leave her home in deference to her spaniel's coat. As I field-dress the duck, Win waits patiently for the liver and heart. The ritual never changes.

          "How come you didn't shoot?" Dad asks.

          "I told you, but you didn't believe me: This is teal day for me."

          "I didn't think that would last past the first pair of blacks that decoyed."

          On the ride down, I had told Dad that he could take all the blacks on both our limits, and I would concentrate on teal. This was the last day of the 10 day bonus season, which could stretch our bag. I like teal because they're excellent on the table, but mostly because they're so much fun to shoot at.

          It is not cold, at least not extremely so. But the wind and rain of the fall's first northeaster combine to make it a dirty day for anyone who might be ill-equipped. The wind shifts around 90 degrees, and I wade out and move the spread accordingly.

          After watching the deliberate maneuvers of blacks throughout the early morning, the acrobatic flight of the morning's first flock of teal leaves my reactions a half-step behind: They swing by the decoys, and though the shot is an easy one, I cannot swing fast enough for an effective second shot. Only one duck hits the water.  The teal flock circles the pothole area then comes back for another run at our rig. The same shot gets the same result, but this time Dad also takes a bird.

          The morning is made of pockets of fast action immediately after a downpour, spaced out by longer periods of empty skies. Waterfowling is mostly waiting. We share a wet Nestle bar and finish the last of the coffee, also diluted with raindrops.  But mostly we wait. The rig comes under close scrutiny by its creators during these times: This decoy has a nice profile, and that one floats well, but that bird could use some more ballast. Nearly every improvement made to the various decoy rigs has come about through observations made while waiting.

          Teal continue to buzz our salt ponds, but they seldom offer us the luxury of advance notice. They seem to pop up from the horizon, already in range. The magnum gun works against me on these quick shots, and after each miss I ask myself why I brought it if I intended to concentrate on teal? I feel the goose loads in the pocket of my waders and know the answer.

          I return from a check on the boat moorings: The tide is running in and is just a couple feet from the top of the bank. The tide table says it won't crest for another 90 minutes. No doubt about it, the marsh will flood over. We have another hour at the most.

          Dad sees them first. They are over the dunes, coming in off the ocean almost directly behind us. For a moment I'm not sure. They mill about like seagulls. Then they group-up and begin to fly across the wind in the general direction of our potholes. We haven't seen a single goose since before dawn. Wanting to believe has tricked me before. They could be shang. Or mergansers. There is a moment when they veer to the downwind side, then correct their flight for our pothole. From that moment on I'm sure: They are geese—eleven of them.

          I play a few notes on the call: A yodeled "Honk-a- honk... honk... a-honk." Dad changes loads, and I see the tenseness in his movements. Then he joins the calling.

          They continue their labored course across the marsh on a course that will take them along the tidal creek below us. I pump out the gun's three shells into the sod at my feet. Bent over, I try too fast to stuff the long goose loads into the magazine.  The second shell hangs up, and there is a moment of panic before I can shuck it out and start over.

          Below us they change course, now heading into the wind, past our boat and directly for our rig. From under my hat brim I see the geese fighting the wind, seeking easier going at low altitude, and feel again the adrenaline surge that incoming geese have always brought on. They pass over the far bank of the salt pond 200 yards away. I hold tightly to Win's collar, but it is an empty gesture: She is also crouched low, her eyes on the geese.

          From behind us two coots splash into the rig. They couldn't have timed it better.

          The Canadas are out a hundred yards, beginning to look huge, when a thought crosses my mind.  I take the call from my lips and am surprised to find that I am out of breath.  I whisper to Dad, "Don't shoot the same bird."

          Dad nods. He knows.

          I switch my hold from Win's collar to Dad's knee.

          They cannot glide in the headwind, but their feet dangle and their necks are stretched downward, intent on our goose decoys beyond us. Their reflections pass into the black duck rig.

          We rise together. I try to be deliberate with the gun, and hold on the bill of the far left-hand goose. He shudders at my first shot and grabs for air. I lead him and fire again, but he is no longer moving forward and needs no lead. I shoot a third time, below and behind him now as he flares away with the wind. He shudders once more, but glides off on set wings. I watch as he sails down the marsh, back the way he came. His left wing falters a bit, then recovers, then falters again and folds under. He falls.

          I won't take my eyes from the spot. I will not. Starting out, I call to the dog and see her race ahead. Behind me, I hear the clink of the action of Dad's automatic, then a single shot. Finishing a cripple. Good, he finally got one. Good for him.

          The marsh is now flooded in spots to just below the grass level, and I slosh along in several inches of unseen water. I step into a hidden cut and stumble, and my hands and the gun go into the water for a moment, but still I won't permit my eyes to leave the place where the goose fell. But as I go farther out, the "spot" becomes a vast expanse. There are sheets of water here I hadn't seen from the rig, and the sameness of the landscape begins to cause doubts: Have I gone too far? Was it beyond this little pothole? "Dead bird, Win. Find dead." She looks back at me, and I wave her towards some tall grass. There is water splashing under her step. My doubts continue, and I am about to wave her to the rear when she goes on point. I whistle her ahead, and in a moment she emerges from the tall grass, backing out, dragging the goose by its neck.

          For the first time I turn and wave at Dad. He is standing, watching me. I point to Win, but there is 300 yards of marsh grass between us, and he shrugs. I go to Win and lift the goose high. He waves back.

          "Good girl, Win." I scratch her behind her ears, and she senses my exhilaration, for she runs a couple of tight circles around me as I start back.

          Dad's goose is floating behind the black duck rig with the wind pushing it along.  With only hip boots on, Dad is pretty much shorebound. I come up abreast of our gunning point and step into the salt pond to make the retrieve. From the looks of its feet, Dad's goose is a young bird, ideal for roasting.

          "Congratulations!" I turn towards shore, holding Dad's goose high.

          "The others are over this way." He points toward the goose rig.

          Others?  Plural?

          In among the goose decoys, floating belly up, is a second goose. Beyond the rig floats a third. Out of the corner of my eye I watch my father as I wade across the

pothole. If he won't smile, neither will I. Win attempts a swimming retrieve of the far bird, but she can't seem to move it through the water. She swims alongside of me as I emerge with 40-odd pounds of geese.

          Finally Dad can stand it no longer and breaks into a wide, foolish grin.

          "Okay," I say. "Without rubbing it in too hard, tell me about it."

          Dad directs my attention to the path of the flock. "They came in so close I figured I had one of the near ones easy, so I pulled on a high one first.. Bam! Down he comes! Then the whole flock flares right up in front of me, so I aimed right at the closest bird in self-defense... Bam! Down he comes, too! Then they all flared off except one of 'em that tried to climb straight up. I put the gun on him... Bam!  He came down faster than the other two put together."

          I shake my head. "A triple!"

          "I had to finish off one of them. He was swimming away, so I strafed him on the water."

          Standing in the rain, he retells the event several times. He is as excited as a boy who has just shot his first pheasant.

          My response to each retelling is the same: "A triple!" I still can't get over it.

The full-moon tide continues to rise, and we have water under foot within a half-hour.  We stay long enough to take a final black and miss a final teal, then we race the rising water to get our gear back to the boat. After the first trip, the water is high enough to float the boat back to the potholes, and we use it to pick up the decoys.

          By the time we have finished, we can motor directly across the flooded marsh to the boat ramp. Only the tallest stands of marsh grass remain above water. The northeaster is blowing harder than ever now, and with the shelter of the salt marsh under water, waterfowl are flying inland.

          We winch the boat onto the trailer and drive off, leaving the job of stowing the gear until we can find a place to get out of the driving rain. Just beyond the drawbridge is a boarded-up gas station, closed until the summer people return to the coast. I pull the truck under its overhanging roof.

          While Dad sets up his stove and makes coffee, I secure the motor and store the decoy sacks and equipment. The camperback of the truck offers a dry place to change clothes and make ourselves presentable enough to sit down at a restaurant before the long haul home.

          I have the coffee pot in my hand when a car slows as it passes the gas station.  It has a camouflaged boat in tow, and one of the faces that gaze out at me belongs to a gray- muzzled old Lab. I wave the coffee pot at them, and they make a u-turn into the drive.

          The two hunters get out. I hope they don't have far to travel: They're both soaked and look exhausted. I hand them each a mug, and notice that one of them has a definite tremor as I pour the coffee.

          "You the fellows that got all the geese?" One of them asks over the rim of his cup.

          Dad is just emerging from the truck, freshly shaven, dressed in clean slacks and a sweater, and smelling of Aqua Velva.

          "Not me," I reply. "He's the one. I was just along as a witness."

          Dad grins his broadest grin.

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