Hi-Line Hunt

A year ago, I entered the world of hunting via the Hi-Line Sportsmen Hunter Mentoring Program under the tutelage of Andrew McKean. The experience resulted in two successful deer hunts – a mule and whitetail – and led to two of my most popular stories in my tenure at The Glasgow Courier (see the Nov. 24 and Dec. 1, 2021, editions of The Glasgow Courier for the stories).

Months later, sportsmen and readers would ask me about the adventure and inquire as to whether I would continue hunting. My hope at the time was to continue Hi-Line Hunt each year with a first-time hunt from my perspective as a wide-eyed new enthusiast. In February of this year I was covering the Glasgow Chamber's 24th Annual Ice Fishing Derby when I was approached by Ken Jansa.

"Did you notice all those geese?" he inquired, his enthusiasm spilling over. Now, sportsmen will know Ken's name as being nearly synonymous with bird hunting in our area and more may know him through his work with Ducks Unlimited. He, having read my stories, wanted to know if I had any interest in going bird hunting and offered to take me in the next season.

I agreed, though while hiding a significant degree of hesitation from him. This hesitation stemmed not from any desire or lack thereof to go bird hunting, but from my inability to ever master a shotgun.

Some background for our readers: last year I mentioned in my deer stories that I am a pretty good shot. I am – with a pistol and a rifle. I intentionally did not mention shotguns with good reason. The old adage about using a shotgun for home defense – anyone can hit something with this – does not hold for me. Force fields have always erupted around whatever target I set a shotgun on and I do believe I'd never hit a thing with one. So bird hunting as my second foray into the sport seemed doomed to failure.

However, I had agreed to go and knew at the very least even a failure could be a good story. Some of my fears were allayed as each and every hunter I talked with assured me that if I were to bird hunt, I could find no one better to take me than Ken. In the back of my mind, I worried that this hunt would be as much of a challenge for him as for me.

Late last month and early this month, Ken and I began planning our trip. He stopped by the Courier office to chat about our plans Tuesday, Nov. 8, and made sure I procured all the necessary licenses. After a trip to D&G and a visit with Darrell Morehouse, I had in hand my base hunting license, a migratory bird license and federal stamp as well as my Tribal Land Access paperwork.

The plan was to head out two days later, with me tagging along and possibly trying to shoot. Of course, plans change, particularly with Northeast Montana weather. Wednesday winter arrived – with purpose.

Inches of snow blanketed the region and presaged a drop in temperature. Highs, which had hovered just below freezing, dropped to single digits as lows plunged well below zero. And what would a winter storm be here without the wind?

Ken texted to say plans may have to be put on hold as the snow piled up and the temperature dropped. He had hoped to shield me from some of the more extreme weather but Mother Nature had other plans. I checked in that evening to learn the diehard still intended to try.

With a mix of anxiety and excitement I tore through my winter gear to make sure I would be layered up enough to survive the day and not ruin anyone else's hunt by wimping out. The relief I felt upon remembering Andrew had gifted me a TrueTimber down coat and pants for hunting the year prior was tantamount as we looked at a high of 11 degrees.

Thursday morning I was up at 4 a.m. for a 5:30 meet-up at Ken's. Between the time and the cold I was not functioning at my best. I've yet to determine what time of day I do function best, but I have successfully eliminated the hours between 4 and 6 a.m. Nonetheless, I powered through and layered up only to receive a text from Ken just before 5 saying the new plan was to let the snow pass and head out later.

A couple hours later plans changed again. The morning could be spent, at least in part, with an introduction to trap shooting. After meeting at Ken's and getting an overview of the shotgun I was to use, I explained in more depth my experience with shotguns. A quick lesson on how to use the blinds followed. Then we loaded up and hit the range.

Ken was soon to learn that I in no way exaggerated my lack of skills. As orange clay pigeon after orange clay pigeon disappeared into the growing snow unscathed, I saw his concern grow. Later he assured me he was not frustrated but was wondering how this whole excursion was going to proceed.

After I'd taken many shots without success, we regrouped and talked it out a bit. A shot at bush on the hillside confirmed that I was at least lining up the shotgun correctly. This time around I did manage to connect on two targets – giving me a success rate of approximately 2-in-18, still a vast improvement for me.

We parted ways for lunch while Ken checked in with Evan Guenther, who had already ventured out. I had just begun to heat up lunch when my phone buzzed with a message from Ken, "Come back over."

Layered back up we headed to a field southeast of the EGT elevators on the Kyntire Flats where Evan had set up. On the drive, Ken shared stories and imparted wisdom learned from his decades of bird hunting such as how and where to set up as well as which style decoys to use.

After unloading the truck and setting up the blinds, I settled in shaking a bit from both the cold and excitement. Little time had passed before ducks and geese were swooping in to check out the decoys Evan had arranged. He had already had success that day with several ducks and a Canada goose so the focus was on me to ensure I had a successful first hunt.

As a flock swooped in, Ken told me to get ready. "Go! Shoot! Take 'em, Gwen!" the commands rang out over the field. I popped – well, more lumbered – out of the blind and fired. My first shot missed, surprising no one. But my second shot hit.

I shocked myself as an exclamation exploded from my lips and not an expletive. A duck fell from the sky in front of me. Even Ken was surprised, asking Evan if that had been his shot. Not even offended by the question, I claimed credit as I laughingly boasted, "That was mine, MINE!" Both men joined in my celebration, knowing that they were about to welcome another hunter to their ranks.

As the afternoon went on, I certainly fired more shots than either of them but I found quite a bit of success, hitting my limit on ducks with four Mallard drakes and one hen. I heard, "Green heads, Gwen, green heads!" more than once that day.

Only once did I have to retrieve a duck that managed to fly a short distance from where we were set up. With that bird, I had to finish the job by hand and literally wring its neck. I've taken to heart the lesson from Andrew that each animal deserves a good, clean death and should not be left to suffer. Evan had to reassure me that the spasms after I had broken the bird's neck were normal and that it was indeed dead. In the excitement of the day, I had forgotten those childhood days of butchering chickens on the farm where our job was to retrieve the headless chickens that had run off.

Day one ended without me getting a goose, despite that being the bird that Ken invited me out to hunt. Still, my joy in hitting even a single bird - let alone five - negated any disappointment. Even the cold was not as much of a factor as I had feared. Spending most of my time in a blind stopped most of the wind and only a few times did I worry about losing feeling in my fingers.

We loaded up the trucks and trailers and prepared to leave the field, which became an adventure in and of itself. The fresh snow, which had entirely buried the two-track out to the field, proved to be a foe in and of itself. I became slightly concerned that my first day of hunting would extend directly into two days without us leaving the field.

Fortunately, Evan and Ken managed a system to get both trucks and the trailer to the highway. This caravan involved two tow-ropes connecting all three rigs. "Those crazy water fowlers," exclaimed Ken as we slid our way out. He laughed as he added, "Of which you now are one."

Back in town we hauled the day's harvest into Ken's garage for cleaning. Some years back, a couple of out-of-state hunters "gifted" me with a bag of ducks they could not get onto their plane for their trip home. A friend and I learned how to clean wild ducks, but a refresher course was very much needed. This proved, for me, much easier than cleaning a deer and I was able to get through at least a couple before Ken had expertly cleaned all of his.

As we went through the ducks, Ken taught me how to identify adolescent birds from mature ones based on coloring and other attributes. We plucked a few curly-q tail feathers from a mature drake as a memento of my first bird hunt.

As we wrapped up, we made plans to try again the next day. After all, I had not bagged a Canada goose – the target of my hunt. With another look at the weather – even colder – we planned for a 6:30 a.m., a much more reasonable time, and I went home to sleep and recover from that 4 a.m. wake-up.

The story of Day Two will appear in the Nov. 30 issue of the Glasgow Courier.