The first time I tried goose hunting, I was about sixteen. A friend invited me to Lake Ontario near Barker, New York. It was a bright blue sky morning, and we managed to sneak up on an unsuspecting duck. Sitting at a picnic table, we listened to a large group of geese on a neighboring farm. I started imitating a goose with my voice, making my friend laugh—until we heard the geese take flight and they flew straight toward us. Of course, we unloaded our guns at them and didn’t knock a feather loose.
Determination
I was determined to get a goose now, so I started spending time putting on stalks. Unsuccessful, frustrating attempts at harvesting a goose followed. One particular stalk saw a flock landing on the backside of a cornfield with a ditch running within shooting distance of the birds. I parked a mile away and hit that ditch running. As I got close, I could hear the geese talking above my position. With twenty yards to go, I noticed the geese honking alarm calls. Scanning the corn, I saw two morons trying to stalk the geese through the cornfield. They stood out like fluorescent orange jumpsuits. The geese flushed and, of course, flew away from me. I was done. No more goose hunting for me.
The Final Attempt
I got back to my car and headed towards the house. Going around the block, I saw the flock landing again. I had already taken off my hunting boots and put on some moccasins. What the heck. I grabbed my Remington 20 gauge and ran across the hayfield. The geese were on the other side of a thick hedgerow. Crawling through that hedge like a cat stalking a bird, I got to the edge of a plowed field and peeked over a log. They were just out of range but walking towards me and a large puddle of water. Laying behind that log for what felt like an eternity, they finally came into range. I slipped my gun over the log and aimed at the biggest goose. At the shot, they all flew into the air. Suddenly, the big goose I shot at came tumbling back down. I ran towards him, losing both moccasins in the calf-deep mud. I kept running until I was ten yards away and shot the goose again to finish him.
The Aftermath
After digging my moccasins out of the mud, I headed home with my trophy. I skinned the goose, and we tried cooking it in the oven with a wine sauce. It wasn’t worth all the effort, and so ended my obsession with goose hunting.
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