The rambling thoughts of a waterfowler...

Due to circumstances both beyond and...within my control, my battle with a specific buck in 2012, a reignited fire with the whitetail woods, and all that particular obsession has to offer, I have recently found it hard to squeeze in a waterfowl hunt.  I must admit I am still not over the loss of my pups (of thirteen years) and I have joked many times to my fowling friends that without the dawgs...I would rather bowhunt.

With Mags by my side, I was that guy, who would put out three dozen decoys to maybe get a chance at a bird for the pup, that guy that walked 45 minutes in waist deep water to get to the spot that wasn't as good, but was less crowded, to maybe shoot a duck, but in my loss I failed to see the single greenhead for the flock.  I was wrong...yes the dawgs take our obsession to a whole new level but it is still a draw without our four legged friends.  Lucky for me, I am part of a waterfowl "crew" (I hate that word and its incredible over use in today's hunt world).  A close friend drug me out to the river recently and though we had action we never fired a shot...and it was a great day!  For that I thank him for reminding me why we do the crazy things we do.

The passion we have for an endeavor that is so much more than a sport...is never ending, even when buried deep like I have recently experienced.  The good news is once you are in this world, and have experienced the fire, the true love of fowling will never leave.  The incredible part is it can mean so much for so many different brethren of the fowl...yet be exactly the same for each of us.

No one understands eternal optimism and anticipation like a waterfowl enthusiast, to the fine line of anticipation and optimism in August, for the coming months, or the same qualities in December for the coming minutes of dawn.  The quirks of the waterfowl world extend far beyond normal human interaction...and in fact I insult us all by implying that humans are normal outside the fowling world.  I fully believe that if the ways of the world and this great country of ours were to be handled in a duck blind, we would have substantially less problems in society and more cool stuff built out of things laying around the shed.

That industrial, ingenious approach is bred out of necessity to constantly adjust to the wild birds we pursue.  But after all the tricks, gimmicks and high dollar spreads, sometimes the birds decide the most appealing spot is straight out of the double secret playbook....those days where the hunter continually says "never seen that before" make for special times.

A goose in a timber hole...or a front yard...mallards in a bathtub sized hole in the middle of nowhere, a once in a lifetime bird in a cow pasture, or a bullet proof ringneck on a farm pond...they all seem to find a way to add something every day that make the frozen, uneventful mornings, worth coming back and doing it all over again.  The uniqueness, however, is in the companions.  I can truly say I have never been bored in the blind, naturally there are hunts where the birds don't cooperate, but that only feeds into the tall tales and dreams of the waterfowler past, present, and future.  Reliving hunts, making plans, and laughing about past misfortunes of friends and family are something my solitary bowhunting passion never has a place for.  For that I admit I was wrong...for me, for us, it isn't "just" about the dogs, its about the experience...

Its about having your skirt blown up on the 100th time you see cupped wings and feet down...just as you did the first time; about the shock of a lone "hrrrronk" on a quiet day, the squeak of wings, the look on a young or old mans face the first time he drops a bird, the amazement of all of them coming and none of them leaving...and the shock of all of them committing...and none of them staying. 

There are too many experiences to list but as I close this rambling of random thoughts, my wish for my fowling friends out there is that you are blessed with a lifetime of cupped wings, wet and happy dawgs, a whiff of gun powder on a cold November morning, the sound of silence between the boom...and the splash, breakfast on a kerosene heater, and that feeling you get when they do it right....

 

A blast from the past....

With the Illinois bow season approaching, I thought I would re-post a story I wrote for another blog a few years back.  Hopefully get people in the mood for another season.  I will stick with the re post theme through the season when it slows down.

"A Brisk Illinois Morning" (Originally Published on Backwater Outdoors backwateroutdoormedia.com)

By: Corey Suter

On November 7, 2010, I stepped out of the truck to a brisk Illinois morning with a south wind and 39 degrees. Due to the openness of the ground, I was forced to make my approach to my stand by using what little terrain was available, slipping down a small valley in an alfalfa field, easing into a drainage ditch and walking in the water to the main creek. I slipped into my stand and as I was settling in, I noted how bright the stars were and how unusually quiet the woods were.
I started getting nervous when the sun never came up….then it hit me, daylight savings time had hit overnight and I had assumed that my phone automatically updated. It indeed…had not. I called time and temperature to confirm what I already knew, and then I debated what to do. I had well over an hour (I had already been there almost an hour) to either sit on stand, or walk back to the truck and drive around. I decided to sit tight at least for the time being. Approximately 30 minutes before legal shooting, I eased out of the stand to stretch, and set a doe in heat scent station. Putting gel scent on a tree branch exactly 20 yards from the stand and another container slightly down wind of my location but quartering so that it would cut off any approaching bucks before they could get down wind of me.
I eased quietly back in the stand and settled in, with it being still too dark to see anything, I just stared up at the stars and listened to the critters walking around below me. I thought about the rough season (for my standards) I was having. I had my first clean miss in 7 years, and then a gimme 33 yard shot that I muffed and still do not know what went wrong, but I lost a deer for the first time since 1999. I have had a great season by deer numbers, I have passed a buck at 15 yards that many bow hunters would be damn proud to see let alone shoot, and I did it by crawling into his bedroom without him having a clue. I was frustrated because nearly every hunt I have had immature bucks in range, and no does. I was set on killing a mature doe, and every time I passed a young buck, I had taken more and more grief from my lovely wife who reminded me daily that the freezer was void of venison! As I gazed up at the stars, I suddenly began thinking of my late grandfather, a mentor in my life. Jokingly (half serious) I pleaded with my late grandfather and asked him for a little help, knowing he wasn’t much of a deer hunter, I chuckled as I jeered with him…thinking to myself…hopefully he knows someone up there that has a little pull. I was not picky; I was just looking for a doe for the freezer, nothing more. If I was hunting antlers, my job would have been done some time earlier this month.
Finally darkness began to ease its grip and the horizon began to lighten to the East. Shadows became trees, and the scenery in front of me began to unfold. I sat at the base of a small ridge thick with Russian olive and other low shrubbery and hardwoods. The low ridge gave way to an open maple bottom that was mostly void of undergrowth, a residual effect of the spring and summer water which stood most of the year. Behind me was a soybean stubble field surrounded by hardwoods and bordered by a creek. I really loved the look in front as I felt I could see any deer coming for several hundred yards in most directions.
Almost as soon as it was light enough to see my hand in front of my face, I heard footsteps directly down wind and behind my stand. I eased around to see a doe. She was in range but directly behind me and in a better position than me. It was still five minutes until shooting time so I just sat tight. I never heard that deer take another step, but the next time I checked it was gone, never to be seen again. The next customers were a pair of antler-less deer, a doe and a yearling that entered the field behind me to feed on acorns and bean stubble. They were in no danger as they were several hundred yards away and making no effort to leave the acorn feast. The pair was eventually joined by two other does. I mumbled to myself…just like my ole grandpa to have a little fun teasing the heck out of me. I turned my attention back to the thicket in front of me and the wide open bottom ground to my immediate right. With the time change it was only 6:45 a.m. and I was confident the deer in the acorns were not the last I would see. I scanned repeatedly, with 10-15 mph solid winds, every moving bush and oak branch seemed to be a deer, as I was looking, I really looked over the open ground hard, glanced out at the branch I put the gel scent on and could see the dark stain in the tree where I dumped some liquid scent.
I continued my scan…security camera mode…moving slowly and leaving no detail overlooked, when suddenly I heard something take a couple steps in the leaves close. Instinctively, I glanced back to the right without moving my head much at all, and low and behold right there in the wide open at 20 yards was a beautiful doe. I will never know how she got to that point without me seeing her come in; it was literally like she popped out of the ground. I will chalk it up to a little divine intervention…apparently my grandpa DID have some pull. I actually got very excited, as the doe turned and put her nose in the air, I knew I was safely on the right side of the wind, and I eased my bow off the bow hanger.
She was actually sniffing the scent I had put out, and she turned broadside, slightly quartering away and began licking and sniffing the branch where I put the scent. Well that one is easy, its exactly 20 yards. She turned her head away and I drew…when I realized my neck gaiter was in the way. Now I have seen the pros on TV pull their mask down while at full draw to get proper anchor point, so naturally, that is what I went with. At which point my surgically repaired shoulder absolutely gave out with no warning, and in one violent motion…I wasn’t at full draw anymore. Reading the deer, I knew she was still calm and had no idea I was there, but she had turned and taken a couple steps…putting her nose back on the branch with the scent, I eased my face mask down, checked the arrow to make sure the nock was seated, and drew, settling the pin on the heart and releasing. She exploded up the hill and even though I could see it was a great hit, I was shocked at how far she ran, 60 yards up the hill, leaped over the fence and disappeared from view in the open field! With the year I have had and the recent lost deer, I was not 100% confident…but I was certainly 95% sure she was dead based on my experience. I decided with all the bucks I have seen, I would let her lay and continue hunting, but I didn’t see another deer. I got down and followed the blood trail until I found my arrow then went to the top of the hill and she was lying out in the open just past where I had last seen her. Direct hit on the top of the heart and both lungs.

2010 - Doe in Illinois

The ole girl was a hefty doe, we guessed her around 140-150 field dressed. Just like that, I had my mature doe for the freezer.

The last fish...

A tribute to my Grandfather who has been gone many years now, but thought about every day...

I was too young to face the tough reality of what was really going on.  He was old enough to appreciate it.  Years later, and several attempts to muster the words through the tears and I too have reached an age where I was old enough...old enough to know that it would be an injustice for the tears to ever go away...

I spent more time watching him, than paying attention to where my lure splashed down in that small farm pond that afternoon.  His soft-spoken, impressive stature in my mind was a product of the respect I had for him, and what he had done for me.  He stood in the fox-tail along the bank casting that same ole bait-caster he almost always used, and with a small grin on his face, the one I had seen many times before, as if he knew something I didn't.

I thought back to the times we spent together.  The first trips to the gun club lake, after he submitted to constant begging, pleading, and bugging.  He would try to fish, but he spent the time untangling "bird's nests," pulling hooks out of the cracks in the dock and teaching a youngster how to hold a bluegill and NOT poke a hole in his hand.  His level of patience surpassed anything I could hope to achieve as an adult.  There was even a time or two when he had to "fish" a rod out of the water after someone threw it in, naturally blaming it all on the slimy bluegills!

I remember the first trip to that same farm pond, where of course he quietly and calmly landed the biggest bass of the day without uttering so much as a hoot or a holler.

There were the adventures where he taught me to find my own bait, most notably, the great worms off the "Indian Cigar" trees, that only years later did I learn were really called Catalpa Trees.

My daydream state was snapped back to reality as a large-mouth exploded on top water just down the shore from my location. The sun was lower now, and the bright light reflected off the water into our faces, shining beautifully on the still rippling water.  Being the ambitious young fisherman, I quickly tied on the biggest, ugliest buzz bait I could find in my mess of a tackle box.

I came up ready to cast and I got another one of "those" looks from him.  The "that thing ain't gonna work" look.  I smiled and ripped the big lure into the air, as a fine mist fell off the line in the setting sun, I began to crank before it had even hit the water.  The bait came to the surface "chunking" along and only feet from the weed line in front of us a bass exploded on the bait!  I landed the chunky two pound large-mouth and smiled back at him as for once...yes once...I was right.  I tried to talk him into tying one on, and he refused...until I landed the third fish, and as he chuckled, he asked me what I was using as if he didn't know.  I proudly tied another big ugly buzz bait on his line and we set to churning up the water!

The sun had almost fallen below the tree line and the orange glow was like some scene from a movie or a cover of "Field and Stream."  He stood only feet from where we had started the day, and the setting sunlight engulfed him.  I was suddenly overwhelmed and tears welled up as a huge weight pressed down on me as I just had a feeling this may be the last time we ever fished together.  I was young, but not too young...and though I refused to face the reality, I understood all too well what was happening, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Once again an explosion of water on the surface interrupted my thoughts and this time it was met with Grandpa setting the hook!  I threw my rod down and ran down the bank to where he was.  He was in a good fight and struggling to keep the fish coming in, suddenly the bass launched itself out of the water and in the setting sun it appeared to remain motionless, frozen in time against the giant ball of orange, one of those moments you wish could go on forever...as the moment came back to reality I thought to myself it was the biggest large-mouth I have ever seen!  I cheered him on and he worked the fish closer and closer, finally into the heavy weed line at the bank.  I leaped off the bank into the water, preparing to land the fish, it rolled in the water and we got to see it clearly at the surface...a nine-pound fish if it was an ounce!  Then the unthinkable happened, he put tension on the line even though the big fish was rolled up in the weeds, just out of my reach and to my horror...the line snapped.

I was devastated, until I looked at him.  He had that same grin again.  I just stared at him in confusion, how could a fisherman of his caliber make such a rookie mistake?  He had taught me the exact opposite so many times before.  I realize now, it was no mistake.  He was at a point near the end of his life, and he knew it.  He didn't need to hold that fish, or take it home, and I believe he took pleasure in sharing that battle and ending it early, knowing that fish would be there for someone else, perhaps even his grandson.  I wasn't sure at that moment what had happened, but I felt an incredible sense of pride, I did not complain or razz him, in fact, I said nothing at all, we just watched the sun finish its decent, setting on a great man and his grandson.

It was the last fish he didn't catch.

In Memory of my Grandpa "Otie" and our last fishing trip.

Corey Suter

Sometimes when the plan doesn't work...it makes for an awesome hunt!

April 26, 2013, found me on a long solitary walk from the truck to my planned hunting area, with nothing but the sound of my boots hitting the ground and the occasional robin singing to keep me company.  My thoughts raced as I packed my way across field roads, corn stubble and old pasture ground.  The plan was simple, I had roosted a bird the morning before, he was the only bird gobbling and he was close to an area I could hunt.  I got close enough to hear at least one hen fly down so I knew it would be tough, but I was sure if I could get in sight of him, the decoys and the calls would do the job and draw him through a 3 strand fence to my waiting gun.

I walked as if on egg shells as I took every precaution during set up, thinking the bird was just across the corner of a bean stubble field.  Well before light he sounded off....several hundred yards away on the opposite side of the field.  I remained optimistic knowing he flew down the field I was set up on yesterday and I had a little secret weapon with me, a new striker that showed up on more door step just two days prior to the hunt.  A friend of mine had turned a hedge striker with a topper that looked like a duck call.  The striker not only looked great, it backed its looks up with sweet sounds.

As the darkness faded I pulled the new striker out and hit a light series of yelps on the slate.  The bird immediately answered me.  For the next 15 minutes he gobbled regularly to my tree calls, but at fly down time he went dead silent.  I held my ground for 30 minutes, knowing from experience he may be coming in silent, but it was not to be.  I packed up the gear and took a look across the field only to see a lone hen and no other birds in sight.  She appeared to be on a mission to get to nest so I presumed she may have left the gobbler high and dry, but he had yet to make a peep since fly down.

I headed across the farm, listening intently and hearing nothing, closing in on my favorite place on this particular farm, a small flat in the creek bottom bordered on one side by a deep ravine, one side by a deep creek with thick brush and a fence, and the remainder old pasture hillsides that fell down into this flat.  I knew from experience it would be a tough place to kill a bird, but from the day I first saw it I always wanted to kill one in that particular spot.  I had blown several mornings last year trying to get a gobbler to come from the neighbors field across the creek through the thick brush, over the creek, and over the fence, but my efforts proved futile.  So it was with little expectation that I set the decoys and settled in to relax, have a snack and enjoy the scenery...basically it was my thinking to sit and wait until I hear one gobble, then go after him.

Setting the scene, I have my back to the ravine/creek facing the small grassy flat with a couple high canopy walnut trees, almost like a park setting but with taller grass, with large rolling hills feeding down in front and to the left dropping into the bottom.  On my right is a fence, four feet of honey suckle bush, an extremely deep banked creek, another few feet of thick brush, and an open bottom field.

Expecting nothing...I hit the call and was immediately cut off by a loud gobble that made me want to duck for cover he was so close...I quickly gathered my wits, realized, I was already "covered up" and glanced to my right.  The bird had responded from only 75 yards across the creek in the open field.  Within a few seconds I could see him at 60 yards, walking along the field edge on the far side of the creek, weaving along the thick underbrush trying to get a glimpse of the hen he thought he heard.  I had intentionally placed the decoys in a spot that lined up with a area of the creek where the thick brush was...less thick...and with the late spring I felt any bird that crossed by MAY see the decoys and I was relying on the undeniable drawing power of ultra realistic decoys (DSD and Best Turkey Decoy), to do their job.

The bird continued along the field edge now directly to my right as he reached the gap in the thick brush I could see he had a long beard, and he immediately stopped and peered over at the decoys.  I could tell he saw them but he didn't turn towards me, instead he continued even faster up the field edge.  I hit the call very quietly and he immediately hammered back!  It seemed like forever and I had not heard him or seen him, my mind started racing, did he lose interest like all those birds last year, is this another "so close yet so far" scenario...before I could think anything else, I caught movement in the two foot section of thick brush between the fence and the drop off creek bank was big red, white and blue head bobbing through the thicket.  The bird worked up the fence and popped into strut 35 yards away as I eased my gun into position.  He eyeballed the decoys and then committed to crossing the fence.  His first attempt was quite comical as he tried to squeeze through a gap that was about 3" wide, before retreating, and trying again, this time he cleared the fence and popped into full strut immediately. 

I tried to control my breathing as he worked towards the decoys in full strut with the green grass and honeysuckle as a back drop, it was a picture perfect scene.  At 18 yards I found myself debating on whether I should let him get to the decoys or shoot him, I decided since the decoys were only about 12 yards, that I had better take him before he got too tight.  I took a breath and settled the bead on the base of his neck, while he continued walking in full strut directly at me...BOOOM!  He tipped over backwards and it was done that fast.  From the time he first gobbled to the shot was no more than 10 minutes, and I literally shouted despite being alone as I was thrilled with that bird anywhere, but to call him across two thickets, a deep creek, AND, a fence was a great feeling! 

A Father/Son Hunt to Remember...

My dad was responsible for giving me the spark that became a raging fire of passion for the outdoors.  He was a deer hunter and that is where I got my start but my never ending need to spend as much time in the woods as possible, I shifted into my greatest passion, spring turkeys.  Several years in I started "guiding" my dad, and we have had some memorable hunts through the years...yesterday was no exception.  Following is my dad's account of the hunt, please enjoy...

Spring?? Turkey Season 2013

After a terrible week of weather - rain, rain, and more rain, my season finally arrived. I was feeling a lot of personal pressure due to the fact that I hadn't tagged out in about 4 years. Due to my work schedule, I rarely have time to scout and usually have only 2 days of my Illinois 2nd season ( which lasts 6 days) to hunt.

My oldest son and guide Corey had been sending me scouting reports and pictures all week and I was becoming less and less optimistic. All of out usual spots were under water - from a few inches to many feet deep.

The forecast for my opening day (April 20) was for freezing temps and clear skies, after 3 solid days of rain and 1 cloudy and very windy day. For once the forecast was correct: 31 degrees and light winds as I left the house at 3:30am.

Corey had secured rights for me to hunt a different farm this season - one that wasn't in a major creek bottom. As we made the trip he talked about how awesome this farm looks - but how rarely a gobble is heard or a bird seen, but we really didn't have many other options. I remarked I would be happy if we had a bird that worked and Corey said he would be happy if he even heard a gobble. I was suited up in what was normally my deer hunting clothing that I wear in November & December. As we made the long walk into the hunting area there was frost on the grass which coated our boots as we walked. 

I had bow hunted this farm many years ago, but not the areas that we were planning on hunting because of livestock when I was bow hunting. The entire farm looked like turkey heaven and it was hard to believe that the place wasn't home to a large population of Thunderchickens. We set up in a likely looking spot and waited for the sun to peek over the horizon to our left. The woods came alive as all sorts of critters began making their presence known. We heard 2 or possibly 3 birds gobble in the distance - as in: way off the property. Corey was getting a few responses from a distant bird but he was not getting any closer and went silent on us. We were getting pretty chilly and decided to move closer to him and see if we could force the action. As we warmed up from the exercise we decided to stop and call and see if we could get a response. After the first call a bird hammered right back at us and I exclaimed "He's close!"and set up near a fence post as Corey set the decoys. After setting up, we tried calling some more and got - nothing. We tried calling some more and were discussing what to do and heard an alarm putt and the bird was less than 25 yards away in heavy cover - Corey immediately tried calling to calm him and although the bird wasn't super spooked he disappeared into the timber. We both knew we messed up on that bird but hey, that's turkey hunting.

We spent the next couple of hours trying different spots around the property with no luck at all and decided to try a different farm where I always seemed to have some action, even if I couldn't seal the deal. On the way we stopped at a gas station to re-energize ourselves after the miles we had walked. We laughingly told each other that we should have included shooting a bird in our earlier conversation as to what would make us happy. Corey grabbed some of his favorite gas stations food - cheddar dog and hot dog off the roller grill at 9 something in the morning!

We weren't sure how dry our next stop would be but we were going to find out. Normally at our destination, we would drive into a clover field about a hundred yards and then proceed on foot. As soon as we pulled in the gate Corey saw what looked like a turkey in an opening between the clover field and the next field. Sure enough, there was something there. Corey thought it was a strutter ( or a decoy)  and had me grab the binoculars and look at it. It looked like a male bird in strut and finally moved to confirm it. Then a hen moved into view as the bird continued to strut as we watched from the truck a couple of hundred yards away. 

Then... it got wierd.. at 10:30 in the morning ... the hen flew into a nearby large tree. I had never seen this behavior before and Corey hadn't either except when he saw a coyote threaten some birds. There was no threat present, as the male bird remained on the ground. We then noticed that there were 2 more hens in the same tree. One of the hens actually walked down a sloped limb and jumped onto another branch. As we discussed what to do - we were in clear view of the hens in the tree. Do we come back to the same spot tomorrow? Try to put the "sneaky sneak" on them? (Naw - can't do that with 3 hens watching from their elevated perch.) The male acted like he was going to fly up too, but, then the hens decided to fly back down to him. The group then proceeded to slowly march out of view up a wooded ditch to our right. Corey was asking me if I thought we could go after them and sneak up on then or call them back. I didn't answer - but slowly unfastened my seatbelt and slipped out of the truck and grabbed my turkey vest and the 870. The hunt was on! 

Corey grabbed some of his gear and we slipped down the hill to our left and were soon below the crest and able to travel fairly quickly. We entered the timber at the edge of the field along a creek where most of the more heavily traveled trails were still under water. We started a slow sneak/stalk through the timber as though we were being watched, crossing several ditches while keeping an eye on the fields to our right for any sign of our quarry. We finally arrived at the spot where we last saw the birds and I decided to work my way to the edge of the timber where I would be in shooting range of the last open hillside that we had seen the birds on, while Corey would remain hidden behind and left of me to call. I made the edge of the timber - hopefully undetected - and set up on a large tree. Corey began calling - and we were greeted with...once again...nothing. With limited time left before Corey had to leave to coach his son's soccer game - we held our places and Corey continued calling. 

I was trying to remain motionless, with my gun in a semi-ready position, leaning against my tree with no chair or cushion under me - they were still in the truck. I tried to watch the hill/field to my left, the timber ditch in front of me and the field to my right as well - vowing to not get burned again. Finally, I noticed the birds coming down the field hill to my left. They were spaced out quite a bit with the male bringing up the rear. The large, obviously dominant hen passed right in front of me at less than 5 yards, from left to right. I could see the male bird's red head but no evidence of a beard as he slowly came down the hill. The other 2 hens approached me even closer than the 1st hen and were briefly hidden from view behind some brush, I could see the last bird was going to take a slightly different path and needed to move my gun. As the hens passed me by I adjusted my aim and 1 of the hens putted and immediately the last bird gobbled, stepped into my line of fire, and I squeezed the trigger, and down he went at about 8 yards.

 

After high fives and tagging the bird, we took a few photos and made the trip back to the truck. The bird turned out to be a smallish jake - but after the dry spell I had been through, I didn't care. Like Corey says - if they are going to act like a long beard - they are gonna get treated like one.

 

 

Dad with is first bird in several years.

I had been hoping for a memorable hunt and certainly got one. "Hey Dad - remember the day that hen flew up into the tree and we went after 'em when they flew back down?"

"Yeah son, I sure do."

It doesn't always take a longbeard to make a great hunt!

Rainy Morning Success on a Gobbler!!!

I stepped out the door with enough gear to support a small turkey assault army and squinted as a heavy, cool mist tickled my face.  It was a strange mix of cool mist and extremely muggy air and 55 degree temps.  Thoughts of the past few days of scouting were rolling through my head, I had scouted heavily and had not heard a single bird gobble for four straight days.  The morning prior I had sat overlooking the very field I was headed towards now, and had not seen or heard a bird.  Soon after, as I made my daily scouting runs in the truck, I observed a group of turkeys that were over two miles away in a field I could not hunt.  To my amazement, I watched as two separate groups of birds covered over two miles in less than twenty minutes and as I left them, they were approaching one small farm I can hunt.  That tid bit was my only positive scouting info from the past week, so I went with it.

I parked the truck and made the long walk through the misty darkness with nothing but my thoughts and the trill calls of toads in the swamps to accompany me.  To my dismay I found several areas of standing water in the field and wondered if I could even get a bird to come to my set.  For the first time ever I set a Best Turkey Decoy, along with my Dave Smith Hen decoy.  I was not confident that a bird was roosted in the area, but based on my observations of the birds the weekend before during the youth hunt, I set up as if a gobbler would be roosted to my right in or near a big cottonwood tree.  I set the decoys with the jake decoy facing the hen and only a few feet apart, with the decoys being 15 yards from my set up on the field edge.

The last time we hunted this area during the youth hunt, the birds were roosted near the big cottonwood tree and flew down on the wrong side of the creek.  Though they eventually worked back to our side, they skirted us and disappeared into the timber.  Based on that hunt, I had adjusted my set up 40 yards farther AWAY from the suspected roost, but closer to where they crossed into the timber the weekend before.

I eased back in my seat and listed to the toads and tree frogs and I thought to myself how quiet it was with a heavy rain over night and heavy mist in the air the moisture almost seemed "wearable."  Finally a few Robins began to serenade the coming day and as I sat totally relaxed, and not expecting any gobbles at all I told myself, "it was 7:30 A.M. when birds headed this way yesterday, so I need to stick it out no matter what."

Just then a coon let out a squall and a gobble erupted from the timber 125 yards to my right, near the big cottonwood, just as I had not expected.  Though he was in a common spot, he had not been there for a few days and it just about knocked me out of my seat.  My heart rate immediately jumped up and and breathing increased.  He gobbled again and then a third time before I got hold of myself and began to control my breathing!!!  The bird ripped off a few more thunderous gobbles over a ten minute span as I waited for the right time to announce my presence.

A hen let out a quiet tree yelp and he immediate hammered back.  Great!, I thought, he has live hens with him, no way he will walk across this soggy field to get to my decoys!  I decided I would call aggressively and see if I could convince the hen to fly down on my side instead of across the creek.  I let out a series of quiet yelps and was cut off by the gobbler, then the hen.  The hen was never real aggressive, so I followed her lead and only cutt a time or two just to make a point.  She finally had enough and let out a cackle as she flew down...AWAY from me across the creek way out in the adjoining field.  A second bird left the roost and headed the same way, and I thought I was done for.  I let out one more semi-aggressive cutt and yelp sequence and to my surprise the gobbler responded still in the tree.

The beating of heavy wings sounded his lift off and he appeared in glide mode landing on the edge of the field that I was in, 100 yards away.  I hit him with a quiet series of yelps and he hammered back, his gobble echoing through the bottom and rattling my bones!  He was in no hurry, popping into strut, then "periscoping" to check out the decoys, as I called sparingly he worked closer painfully slow.  One of the hens that had pitched down across the creek returned and flew the creek and as he turned towards her, I hit him with another call, he stopped, looked, and then gobbled again.  He flipped his wings and started my way, closing to 75 yards, with the hen in tow, he was more interested in my set up and the "imposter" than he was in the live hen trailing along with him.

As he reached 50 yards, I eased the gun into position and watched him approach ever so cautiously working along the edge of some standing water in the field.  At about 40 yards, it was like he flipped a switch, he suddenly decided he wasn't going to be careful anymore and that he was gonna whoop this intruder.  I am not sure what changed, but he turned 90 degrees, and walked straight through the water right past the hen decoy and went into strut within a few steps of the jake.  I eased the gun up and he jumped back like he was gonna get hit, then dodged and weaved, before popping into strut on the the right side of the decoy.  I am sure he was about to attack but I was not taking any chances and pulled the trigger, dropping him at the "feet" of the jake decoy!!!  Day 1, Bird 1 in the bag!!!

The bird was a nice two year old that weighed 20 lbs 1 oz, had a long, skinny 11 1/16" beard, and 15/16" spurs.

Catch and release...turkey style...

April 6, 2013:

Youth Hunt Opener:

The Illinois Youth Hunt Opener for the North Zone arrived after five days straight of scouting and a lot of waiting and wondering.  There was a slight chill in the air with temps in the high 40's, at 5:00 A.M., as my companions for the day pulled into the drive.  I gave Austin and his dad a quick run down of where we would be, what I had seen scouting and my hopes for the morning.  As is always the case when hosting guests, I was a nervous wreck wondering "will the birds be there, will they gobble."  This was Austin's first experience and I wanted it to be a positive one.

We made the short trek across the fields and set up where the "back" field squeezes down to about 50 yards wide and set up next to an ideal oak tree large enough for all three of us.  Once we were comfortable we settled in to wait for the woods to awaken.  It was overcast at first and it delayed the typical 5:50 a.m. gobbling.  The first sound was a raspy hen to our right that let out a few coarse yelps.  It was still very dark, well before 6 a.m. when I thought I heard a turkey fly down to my left.  I peered through the darkness...and for a moment I swore there was a big black blob in the darkness at the end of the field.  Knowing this field like the back of my hand, I was sure there was "something" there, but my experience with turkeys told me no way it was a bird at this time of the morning.  The hen talked a bit more and finally it got light enough for me to confirm it was indeed a strutting tom that was in the field 150 yards away to our left!  I pointed the bird out to Austin and Mike and as we were watching him, the birds to our right began making noise and flying down.  There were two brief gobbles during the fly down to our right but really limited gobbling overall, but that disappointment was easily outweighed by the fact we had a big strutting tom in the field with us!

Our attention was now firmly on the big strutter that was alone in the field with only our decoy to look at.  The big bird never left strut and worked painfully slowly towards our location, only closing a few yards over several minutes.  A gave him a few coaxing yelps and was rudely cut off by a hen in a tree across from us.  As she flew down, multiple other hens exited the trees in front of us.  Soon after Mike spotted hens coming down the adjacent hillside and the gobbler headed towards the live hens and disappeared into a small strip of timber.

One of the hens was particularly sassy so I began a standard "I'm better than you" routine on the mouth call.  In just a few minutes the longbeard popped back into the field and then four hens, led by the bird I had been conversing with.  They were 150 yards at that point and the dominant hen made a slow and deliberate march to the decoy with the gobbler trailing the pack.  Being it was a youth hunt, I had placed a Dave Smith Hen decoy 15 yards right out in front of us and as she came I leaned over and whispered to the boys that I expected this hen to come and attack the decoy because I have seen it happen so many times before.  She did not disappoint! 

The ole hen came directly to the decoy and began purring and went into full strut as the three other hens and the gobbler closed to 40 yards, 30, 20!  At this point I realize we are going to have a whirling dervish of four hens a long beard and a decoy at 15 yards in front of a young man who is experiencing his first hunt ever!  We did our best to coach him through as the hen continued to flog the decoy the bird even gobbled to the response of the hollow decoy being struck by the hen.  The birds were so fixated on the decoy they never became nervous or aware of the three strange humps just 15 yards away on the oak tree.  Finally, with three hearts pounding, the bird gave a slight bit of separation and turned away from us and Austin raised his gun.  The shot went off and the bird didn't even flinch!!! A clean miss, unhurt and relatively unflustered, the gobbler and four hens walked away and disappeared into the timber with the gobbler still strutting his stuff as he disappeared. I checked the time and it was 6:40 a.m.!!!  We were all shaking from the adrenaline rush.

We took a moment to recover and moved to another farm where we spotted four hens, circled them and set up hoping they had a gobbler in tow.  For the second time in less than 3 hours we soon had live birds inside 15 yards as the four hens came in to inspect the decoy.  That was it for the day, no late morning gobbling heard but certainly some great observation time of the big birds.

April 7, 2013:

  The quintessential perfect turkey morning met us for day 2.  43 degrees, raising to 70 during the day, clear skies and dead calm with a heavy moisture on the fields that allowed us to make a quiet approach.  The strategy for day 2 was go back to the same field but I was torn between setting up where the birds crossed into the timber or in a familiar brush pile in the area.  I opted for plan A and we set up right where the bird yesterday had crossed into the timber with my thinking being he felt comfortable there.  Well before light I noticed a bird in the cottonwood tree in front of us and pointed it out to Austin and Mike.  For such a perfect morning I was shocked that we heard no gobbling at all, until a raccoon scuffle ended in a loud abrasive squall that enticed a powerful shock gobble out of a roosted bird in front of us.  The bird put on a show strutting on the limb with the coming sunlight back-lighting the bird and his 7 hens.  The birds were less than 100 yards away and I was sure we were in the cat bird seat until the gobbler flew down, not in our field, but across the creek in an adjacent field.  As the hens followed, I knew we would have to wait em out but I was confident they would make it our way eventually.  The gobbler put on a show, gobbling at a hen flydown cackle and strutting his stuff on the hillside across the creek for several minutes before all seven hens headed our way and flew the creek into our field.  This time there were no aggressive birds and I was unable to convince any of them to come beat on the loan hen decoy.  Eventually the gobbler flew the creek too and the 7 hens and the gobbler worked across the field angled towards us but not enough to put them in range before they passed by.  I was kicking myself as I watched them walk just in front of the brush pile that was plan B.  It was as this bird was crossing the field that I realized he was much bigger than the bird from yesterday, he had a large paintbrush beard and I could see his spurs when I zoomed in on camera.  They worked up the hill and disappeared, heading out into the wide open field behind us to spend the day.  We tried a little running and gunning and one set but were unable to strike up a bird the rest of the morning.

Mike and Austin preparing for mid morning set.

Austin had to call it a season, with much excitement, we got a ton of experience without having a bird for pictures,.  Austin and Mike handled it right, despite a little razzing from dad, I heard Mike say to his son, "even though we don't have pictures of a bird, we have memories "up here" " (pointing at his head). 

1 Year Gone, Never Forgotten, A Dawg Named Maggie

Wrote this tribute soon after I lost my first retriever.  One year later, I still get misty eyed when I think about the old pup....

It wasn't like I picked her, it was more like we found each other... with a little help.  I had the pick of the litter for watching some lab pups for a friend and I chose Paige.  My wife chose Maggie, the smallest pup in the lot and as soon as Lisa noticed her, I was intrigued by her.  She got tackled a lot by her siblings, but she never quit fighting until she had successfully righted herself and chased off her bigger siblings.  I liked her attitude immediately, little did I know how much that would play into her personality and reputation over the years.

We were both rookies but I had a big plan to make her a great retriever and trial dog, one that would impress my friends and show up the competition.  At 8 months she showed her first signs that we were locked for her life...strangely missing from her sisters side, I went looking and found her under the ice in my fish pond.  I attributed that to her general hatred of water in the following training season, and I quickly started to doubt myself and my dog's ability.  It was troubling to have a retriever that appeared apprehensive of water.  With the help of friends, online and in person, I tried the best I knew, and we taught each other along the way.  My requests for help led to friendships that I owe her thanks for everyday.  After Paige's leg injury cut her hunting short, Mags and I grew an ever tighter bond day by day.

Her first retrieve, she was asleep on the bank on a hot afternoon teal hunt, when a single came in and was dropped at the edge of the water, she woke up, slowly sauntered out and plucked the bird out of the water without getting wet, calmly dropping it at my feet. At the time I was thinking her lack of excitability was a curse, but it made her a pleasure to have in the blind and in the boat.

The more I worked with her the more I began to consider her a professional hunter.  She had no interest in a bumper, and rarely followed through on training.  I cannot count the times I threw a bumper in and sent her and she stopped at the water's edge, raised her head up to get a good look , identified the thrown object as a bumper, and then turned to look at me as if to say..."seriously its a piece of plastic."  In fact I had to force fetch her to get her to hold anything besides a real bird...but low and behold on her first action packed hunt, with the guidance of her fellow k-9 echo, she put on a retrieving show.

I'd like to claim that was the last time I doubted her, but I would be wrong, made most clear the day she retrieved her first goose.  Sitting in a blind with Carl and Echo and we knocked three honkers down, one "submarined" to the thick cattails as a cripple and Carl and Echo deferred to Mags for her first cripple chase.  Once at the spot where I was sure the goose was...she insisted on going out in the field instead of into the cattails.  I scolded her several times but she kept trying to go the "wrong" way.  Carl shouted words of encouragement from across the barrow pit and related that it was common for them to get out in the field...almost simultaneously, Mags had enough and left me all together with her nose on the ground.  To my amazement I spotted the goose 200 yards away running for its life, she tracked it by scent for another 150 yards before she too saw the goose and it was on!  A few minutes later after a few feathers flew and she was standing proudly on the chest of her first cripple goose! I checked it on google earth years back and noted it in the 300+ yard range...but today I will claim it was closer to 1000 yards...just ask Carl, he saw the entire thing.

From that day forward, even the mere sound of a canada goose turned Mags inside out.  We had a lot in common in that way, we both loved to shoot ducks, but there was just something about those big birds that gets in your soul.

Together we taught ourselves to hunt public ground flooded timber and she became an expert at that as well, sitting sometimes several yards behind me and learning to mark splashes , she even got to the point where she would leave me and be waiting on her log pile when I arrived on the long walks in.  That was the site of an unfortunate accident in which I ended up with a concussion and disoriented.  She refused to leave my side as I bordered hypothermia and wandered aimlessly through the flooded timber.  Despite several chances to get herself on dry ground, she never left until I was on dry ground and I can honestly say she flat out saved my life, no question.

She was there and picked up first birds for my brother and nephew and she became famous after attempting to tackle a big buck in the timber....leading to a battle that sounded bad, and occurred in total darkness...and water.  I had guests there that day and I scolded her hard for scaring the crap out of me.  I thought I had lost my dog and when she finally did come back...shaken and with a antler mark just under her eye I sent her to the truck...my intention was for her to stay the day, but I wasn't a duck hunter without Mags...I hunted for her...and we were a team...good or bad, so naturally her "timeout" was a few minutes and we were off to show our friends our special leaning tree hole.

During a flood she disappeared at the house one afternoon, an hour later I found her swept into a brush pile stuck by the current...refusing to let go of the prized possum she had captured.  On a dark morning on the swollen Sangamon River she pulled a seal dive off the front of the boat at speed and was only saved by the quick reaction of Carl shutting the motor off as she bounced along the bottom of the boat.  Yet she popped up and swam right back to the boat like it was no big deal.  Mags had a tendency to have those experiences that were coined "black cloud events" by friend and mentor Ron Green.  In that way I guess you could say we were bonded for life as fellow black cloud enthusiasts.  Come to think of it, maybe she just acted that way to make me feel like it was her that needed me and not the other way around.

She had a nose like no other, proven time and again when she dug cripple birds out of the thickest cover known to man or dog.  Further put on display for our guests on a teal hunt one September where we sailed a goose off into the fog and several hundred yards later after tracking on water and in the jungle of the river bottoms, she drug that ole bird out proud as could be.  Her sibling Max, came from the same litter and went to live with friend Marc.  Though they hunted together only a few times a year...after the standard sibling squabbling...they amazed me at how quickly they would work together to run a cripple mallard out of the brush and into a waiting retriever.

We spent time on the big water and my greatest memories were her swimming out in the fog 3 times to make three big bird retrieves, and the day at Mr. Green's lake, when she climbed up inside the bank to drag out a young mans live greenhead, his first duck ever!  Oh yeah, and the time she ate a skillet full of bacon while I adjusted decoys.

In her later years she never ceased to amaze me with her techniques.  A flock of birds in on the little pond, she would literally check the carnage...if there was flopping she was in the pond....if they were dead, she went downwind and waited, plucking each bird without so much as a wet foot.  I used to chuckle, those trial guys that I dreamed of being would yell at a dog for something like that.  In our world bank cheating was the fastest way to a cripple, and she knew that.  She applied the same concept to trips across the water...if she could grab more than one bird on a trip she would.

She established herself in the warrior category in more ways than one, a specific hunt comes to mind where she picked up a three man limit of gadwalls and each time she came out of the water her coat would turn to an instant layer of ice in the bitter air, but each time the guns went off she was eager and ready to go back for more.  She broke ice for us on more than one occasion, fought mud, cold, jagged sticks, and rocks...all with an absolute determination to get the bird.  On a solo hunt in the timber, I once witnessed her leap off her perch and attempt to catch a folded mallard in midair, crashing into the water, going completely under and coming up with that bird in her mouth!  Her toughness and will for life was brought to the forefront again, when she was diagnosed with Blastomycosis at age 6, and went through a terrible time with treatment and loss of appetite.  But she refused to let it beat her and a year later she was picking up birds again.

Of course I must mention her attitude.  I fully believe mags was a dog that thought she was a human...that didn't like dogs.  Every person that hunted with her and saw her with another dog knew what I meant, as she never backed down from a fight, and typically wooed unsuspecting nice dogs into range before latching on their face. I always took a proactive approach keeping her away from other pups, but she always found a way, like the day I saw an approaching big male yellow dog and threw her in the bed of my truck closing the tailgate....the next thing I know she is launching over my shoulder off the tailgate and on top of the poor dog.  She lived up to her nick name "camp bitch"...peaked by a hunt in Greene County with a man who warned me that his golden was known for hurting other dogs and was a fighter....by accident they got together and Mags sent the poor ole boy running over the levee with his tail between his legs.  In fact the only dog she ever "gave in to" was the a fore mentioned brother Max.  Yet after many, many warnings to an out of state traveler...she never so much as curled a lip at her new friend Jasper...I contend to this day, she did it only to make me look like a fool ...something I am sure labs have genetic mapping for.

She "hated" her best buddy Echo, but she hated it more when he didn't pay attention to her.  He tried and tried to make her his girlfriend and she ripped his face off repeatedly, but the second he would give up, she was prancing by flirting.  She took it to the extreme on hunts as she would go out of her way to walk by Echo's end of the blind with a bird in mouth just to taunt him.  I am sure she is tormenting him again now.

Maggie with her boy

The grizzled hunting dog became a best buddy of my son Cannon...and he did not go anywhere in our pasture or yard without Ms. Maggie having a careful watch on "her boy."  He is the only person I saw that could walk with her and keep her close...without a lead.

Maggie and her last duck

When old age started taking its toll, she never lost the desire, her "radar tail" always notifying me of oncoming birds before I ever saw or heard them.  She would defer to the younger Brew dog  from time to time, but she picked up birds into the last year of her life.  Her last retrieves being in September 2011, one goose and one teal, and a happy dog.  Somehow, I just knew that was it for her...I have a picture of each bird and if you see the teal picture, you would agree...she had no intention of giving up...ever. 

She went on two more hunts this past fall, with plenty of excitement but no birds in the cards.  She spent most time lounging in the sun on her favorite spot in the pasture and forcing herself up to greet me every time I came home despite the sore shoulders and legs.  She displayed dedication and devotion that most humans are incapable of.

Her illness came fast, from a slight tendency to not eat to suddenly being unable to walk over night.  The trip to the vet was an experience I do not wish on anyone, and to see a five year old helping dad and the grandpas bury "his" dog in the middle of the night in February leaves no words.  As we put Mags in her final resting place the tears flowed, the crisp clear moonlit night gave way to traveling snow geese overhead, and I tried to take comfort in the fact she was already on the good hunt, with her old pals.

Only those that have had a good dawg in their lives can understand.  She was never a pet, never even just a friend.  She was/is part of my soul, my heart, my life.  A member of our family.  She taught me more than most humans, and I valued her more than most humans.  She played a huge part in making me who I am today.  I can say without an ounce of shame, I loved a dog and her name is Maggie Mae and I miss her more than anything.

Mags, gone but forever holding a place in my heart, Rest in Peace ole girl, I pray I see you again some day.

Keeping a watchful eye in the timber

When a plan comes together....honker style.

Following the solo...soul cleansing hunt from earlier this season, it was time to hit the field with friends Carl and Dan for a hunt at a local farm pond co-owned by my friend Carl and his family members.  The location has a unique set of circumstances that allows for daily scouting reports from his in-laws that reside at the farm.  The daily report made for a long week as the birds not only continued to build during a cold week, but managed to keep an open hole in the pond.  With a classic January thaw occurring, the 40 degree morning felt almost "hot" after enduring the 26 degree temps and lower windchills on the last hunts.  The forecast was for high 40's and a SW wind. 

I was lost in reflection of the brief season that seemed to be coming to a close just as quick as the truck ride to Carl's house and then it was back on the road where old friends exchanged stories and Carl filled me in on the plan.  The birds appeared to be staying on the pond, and we were going to have to take a chance of bumping them off with the truck in the dark prior to the hunt...and hope they would come back and not find a neighbors pond to loaf on.

We picked up Dan and headed to the pond, pulling into the corn stubble bordering the pond, the headlights illuminated several "white butts" on the pond and it was now certain we would have to bump some birds to get set up.  Carl parked the truck and we quickly went to work unloading gear as the birds became restless, tormenting Carl's lab "Brew" as we continued quickly putting out decoys.  Approximately 10 minutes in the birds decided they had enough and began an eruption of wings and feet hitting water and honking of all kinds as approximately 200 Canada geese poured off the pond into the faint dawn breaking to the east.  Soon after a group of 8 swans started their take off, sounding more like a herd of wild horses than a group of waterfowl. 

We finished our decoy set up, hid the truck as the many random groups of honkers faded into the distant darkness in several different directions.  We slid into the blind and began the that dialogue that is so common in every blind I have ever enjoyed a sunrise in.  In the back of all of our minds I know it was stewing...would the birds come back, would they cooperate.  A few small bunches made appearances but they did not seem interested in coming back, and the anxiety rose slightly with the rising sun.  Finally at around 7:45 A.M. a single came to play.  The bird was no spring chicken and he spent several minutes looking over the spread, locking up and gliding by ever so close...tantalizingly close to being in range.  After circling several times, gliding directly over the blind and "rubber necking" our hide out, he made one last turn behind the blind and Carl made the call for Dan to kill him on the next pass.  Just like he read the script the bird cruised over the back of the blind and Dan made short work of him with one shot folding him to the water's edge.  Brew was happy to make a retrieve and the "skunk" was off.

We did not have much time to celebrate as another single came from the north and began a similar routine as the first one.  He was a little less leary and as he locked up and headed for the spread, Carl made the call for me to take him.  I peered through the willows on the side of the blind as he cupped his wings, and I tried to control my breathing as I knew it was about to happen, and then the shot was called, I stood up to a bird that had no idea we were there, swung through and folded him to the water with one shot....as the boys celebrated, I caught something on my swing and realized...there were five honkers we had not seen directly above the bird I shot that were on the way in when I shot.  They flared and headed to the west and we got on them aggressively with the calls.  Turning the flock they came back to investigate and began teasing us with pass after pass before breaking into a group of three and a pair.  We lost track of the pair as we worked on the three, which eventually faded off.  Carl sent Brew for my bird and just as he hit the water, Dan saw the pair returning once again.  As Carl worked on getting Brew back to the blind the birds seemed oblivious to the dog and came to the calls, working and working before eventually doing it right and falling to the guns once again...four down, two to go. 

Only minutes later, again with Brew cleaning up birds, we were alerted to honking...and suddenly we were covered up in birds from all directions.  A pair to the North, 11 to the west, five more above us.  Carl wrangled Brew who was shaking uncontrollably from excitement as Dan and I tried to work on the birds.  Knowing we only needed two birds we tried to communicate to make sure we could get two and be done, as a pair worked down the bankline from the North and split we were unable to call the shot and one landed in the decoys in front of the blind.  I felt like I was twisted up like a pretzel in the blind as I attempted to keep a bead on the many different bunches surrounding us.  A short time later, still working birds, the single on the water thought better of it and bailed out to join his friends in the air.  For what seemed like 15 minutes straight Dan and I called and called and called, aggressively turning small flocks back then subtly trying to finish them as they sailed over the blind peering down at the decoys and the blind checking for imposters, at one point another group came with a pair that seemed promising, but at the last moment just as we were about to stand and shoot they veered behind the blind and landed in the decoys.  Finally, as I was about to pass out from lack of air, I spotted a pair off my end of the blind and called them out, they cupped up and with geese flying, honking, flapping in all directions, I put the blinders on and concentrated on those two birds, as they sailed over the back corner of the blind, the shot was called and both birds hit the ground!!!  The standard war hoots and high fives followed and I pulled my phone out to check the time....8:32 A.M.  How's that for fast and furious 6 bird limit in less than an hour!

Carl, Dan, and Brew  with our 6 bird limit

A fowl mood and a time for a solo hunt.

January 12, 2013, met with myself, my dad and a friend hitting my favorite goose hunting spot, long over due, after limited birds in the area early in the season, the local farm pond had frozen solid for a good period of time when the geese finally arrived.  Finally, a recent string of warm weather thawed the pond and it was time to hunt.  The warm streak had peaked in the 50's and a massive cold front was on its way with a huge drop in temperature and snow/ice predicted after dark.

The day started out rough as I had to pass on the morning hunt for other duties and a quick scouting run showed several birds loafing on the pasture grass on the pond.  Luckily they were gone when we arrived to hunt at 1:00 P.M. and we set up quickly for the evening.  The hunt started out promising as a group of six honkers appeared from the east and locked up on the decoys.  Unfortunately we were caught with our blinds open, and though they locked up and gave us a couple looks, they decided to head for greener pastures.  The rest of the day we were entertained by several small groups of honkers but nothing that wanted to play.  With the temps dropping and the north wind howling, I figured the birds were more interested in corn than pasture grass.  We ended the night being buzzed by a flock of specks as we picked up decoys, and I growled under my breath as I have never had even a chance to shoot one.  I thought of my good friend and fowling partner Carl who has been at it for many more years than I, and also has not shot a speck.

Plans were in the works for day 2, but it all depended on the weather we were going to end up with.  Carl was out for day 2 and my dad was unsure.  I decided late that night that I would go at it alone if no one could make it due to the weather and I had reached that point that I am sure many of you get where time alone in nature is healing, and relaxing.  I did not set an alarm, and awakened to a light layer of ice on the ground and howling winds, 23 degree temperature.  Dad confirmed he was out, so I took time at home with the family, cooked a big breakfast, and then headed out.

I was questioning my judgment as the bitter north winds bit at any exposed skin, and I chuckled under my breath that I was piling out all these decoys for "my two geese."  I decided after getting the blind in place along the water's edge and the decoys set I would take a quick ride around and see where the birds were flying.  Typically my spot is a mid morning spot where the birds come after hitting the fields.  I was disappointed with what I saw, very few birds in the air anywhere, but I decided to suck it up and headed to the blind.

The first sign of anything alive was faint honks of a distant flock of Canada geese that I could barely hear through the strong winds....but it gave me a slight bit of hope that something might happen.  I eased back in my blind and reflected on all the special memories I had made in this spot.  My ole dawg Maggie that had passed last February, the hunts with friends, and the crazy things the honkers do.  While texting with my friend Carl who was under the weather, he jokingly made a comment about me shooting a speck for him, and it brought a smile to my face.  No way I will shoot a speck on a farm pond in the middle of nowhere, I thought.

I was snapped back to attention when a nice bunch of 30 birds appeared to the west, 10 birds broke off and locked up on the spread, but despite cruising directly over me, and my best attempts on the calls to convince em to come, they decided the corn was a better option and disappeared over the hillside.

Just seven minutes later, I was in the process of texting my wife, when I glanced to my right and saw 10 geese locked up on my decoy spread....they were only 100 yards out and locked up, wing tip to wing tip!!!  I never even touched the call, as they banked out in front of me and dipped into the wind, they began losing altitude...50 yards, 40, 30, 20 yards!!! I was thinking about letting them land and then all in a split second a bunch of things happened...1.  I noticed a barred chest a bird at the lead...2. my brain screamed HOLY CRAP ITS AS SPECK!!!, 3. the birds began to flare...4. I panicked and threw the doors open.  In the next split second I fired three shots blindly into the grey sky and watched "my speck" fly right back out of my life!  A quick text to the only guy that could truly understand and then I was left alone to wallow in my thoughts.

I literally had less than 10 minutes to kick myself around when a large group of 30+ birds mixed little geese and big geese came across the field and banked 300 yards out and began locking up!  As I was watching them a group of four cut between the big flock and my spread and turned and locked up.  Fighting the heavy wind the fell slowly before suddenly "maple leafing" and dumping air right into range and before I knew it they were 15 yards out, being a  little gun shy after the miss, I didn't throw the doors open and they picked up and flew behind me.  I gave them a few quick clucks and the next thing I hear is squeaking wings, followed shortly by four geese flying over my blind at 5 feet high!  They cupped into the water and I threw the doors open, killing the second bird, and as I tried for the double the empty shell did not eject cleanly and the remaining three escaped.

Just 5 minutes later, and I hear a honk to my west, shortly after a pair appears over the hill flying south of the pond.  I hit them with the call and they immediately turn and lock up, falling all the way to 15 yards, just off the water and I was able to finish my limit with one shot.  As I looked at the two geese floating with the wind...I got a little misty eyed, as I thought of how much Maggie would have loved to dive in and pick up my birds.  It was a bitter sweet day, but after a year that has been almost non existent in honker opportunities...I will take it.

The speck was not to be but the canadas did not disappoint!