I’ve bagged my share of deer, elk, antelope, one bighorn sheep, ducks, pheasants, partridges and grouse.
But one critter has always frustrated my hunting efforts.
If I’d been keeping score - and I guess you could say I have - of my many years of matching wits with honkers, the tally to date would favor the geese by several hundred that escaped unscathed to exactly three that didn’t.
It’s not that I have a vendetta against geese. I’m not really a serious goose hunter. I do have a goose call and a few decoys. But they mostly gather dust in the garage.
I am a rather avid duck hunter, however, primarily a jump shooter, stalking river-bottom sloughs, backwaters and potholes in the Mission Valley. You’d think I’d blunder into a few geese just by accident, especially considering the phenomenal increase in Canada goose populations in recent years.
But no, they keep giving me the slip.
Off and on over the years, I’ve participated in some pretty elaborate schemes to ambush geese spotted while duck hunting. But somehow - even when it seemed like a sure thing - those wily geese managed to elude me every time.
Here’s a perfect example:
In 1987, I got involved with a friend in his harebrained plot to disguise ourselves in a cow costume that he’d designed to sneak up on geese. I ended up writing an article about our escapades for the Missoulian.
Glenn, my wacky partner in this charade, had thought through every detail. He had stretched a Hereford hide over a frame that would allow two hunters inside - one to operate the front half of the cow and one the rear. He crafted a pair of realistic leggings for each of us made of reddish fake orangutan fur.
Glenn had even gone to the trouble of studying the way cows walked. And before we tried out the suit on an actual goose hunt, we paraded around his yard in the bovine getup, practicing our gait.
Satisfied with our deception, Glenn said it was time for a field test.
Trying to keep from laughing as the rear end of our cow, I bent over under the framed hide and blindly followed Glenn out into a bare pasture, where he had spotted a flock of geese milling around about 300 yards away in plain sight.
As preposterous as the ploy seemed, I was amazed at its effectiveness. We strolled right up to the unconcerned honkers.
When Glenn gave the command to throw off the suit and come out with shotguns blazing, we would almost certainly have exacted a deadly toll on the flock ... if only I hadn’t gotten tangled up in the frame, and if only Glenn’s gun hadn’t jammed.
As it was, the surprised geese flapped merrily away, honking with a note of unmistakable derision.
Glenn wanted to try the outfit on geese again. But after noticing a large bull eyeing us - with what appeared to be romantic inclinations - during our sneak across the pasture, I declined.
That reminds me of another attempt to hoodwink some geese with a similarly bizarre tactic, which also almost paid off.
I once read that Native Americans learned to capture geese by watching foxes.
A fox would approach the edge of a lake in which geese were swimming safely out of reach. The fox would suddenly begin acting peculiarly, pouncing this way and that, spinning in circles, frantically chasing its tail and generally acting crazed.
To the astonishment of the Indians, the curious geese were mesmerized by this mad behavior, and swam closer and closer, to get a better look at the mad fox. When the geese approached within striking distance, of course, the fox would leap into their midst and snatch one.
According to lore, the Indians mimicked the foxes’ antics, dressed in fox skins, to lure geese within range of their bows and nets.
So one bluebird day, two hunting companions and I watched forlornly as a flock of geese paddled around contemptuously in the middle of a large lake. When I idly mentioned the Indians’ crazed fox trick, my friends suggested I try it just for fun. It had been a slow hunting day anyway, so I figured what the heck.
Self-consciously, I began to prance around on the bank and wave my arms in the air - much to my buddies’ amusement.
But then, to our surprise, we noticed the geese were swimming in our direction.
My dubious friends were, by now, taking this shenanigan semi-seriously, and hid behind some bushes. With their hissed encouragement, I continued my gyrations.
Unbelievably, the geese continued to advance, as if drawn by a magnet.
The nearer the geese came, the more I became absorbed by my role as a fox. I leaped. I writhed. I shimmied. Did cartwheels. And stood on my head and kicked my feet in the air.
Occasionally, I glanced sideways at the geese.
Damned if they weren’t still coming straight toward us.
Finally, when the geese were within 75 yards, almost in range, and I’d commenced dancing the Watusi, the hilarity of the scene was too much for my friends. They burst out laughing and I couldn’t contain myself either.
Naturally, the geese beat a hasty retreat back to the middle of the lake.
Now when I recall that long-ago episode, I think the crazed fox trick just might warrant another try.
But I’m not sure I can still stand on my head.
Daryl Gadbow is a former Missoulian reporter, now a freelance writer who contributes to the Missoulian, Missoula.com magazine, and other regional and national publications.
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Cecil Powell wrote on Oct 14, 2008 5:39 AM: