Hi-Line Hunt

When we left off last week, I was headed home to rest up for another day in the field. Before I collapsed into bed to prepare for a 5 a.m. wakeup call on Friday, I spent some time visiting with friends about my day in the field and the weather.

My buddy Dave – in a mix of amusement and awe – kept chuckling, "Gwen Honrud in camo." Our talk of fashion turned to my boots, a pair of Bari Rookie boots which are essentially hockey boots without the skates. Though they boast 200 grams of Thinsulate insulation, I had severe reservations about testing them for an extended period the next day when the overnight low was predicted at -15 with a high of 9. I had already ruled out wearing my Santana Canada boots. While they are temperature rated to -22, Ken had warned me that birds bleed a lot (this is foreshadowing, readers!) and I was unwilling to risk ruining the boots' aesthetic.

Dave quickly sold me on the idea of borrowing his NEOS Overshoes, an insulated overshoe which would not only keep me warm, but protect my boots. He is a vocal proponent of the overshoe system. I don't want to veer off-topic too much here, but want to stress: Dave. Was. Right. And now I own a pair so he can take his back.

Back to hunting. The next morning ... well, it didn't seem so much like dawn. The sun it seemed was even more reluctant to wake up than I was, hiding behind a pea-soup fog missing only chunks of ham. While 5 a.m. came much easier to me than 4 a.m., I was still somewhat relieved when I received a text from Ken, "Change of plans. Due to fog and cold. Meet up at my place at 10:30."

With a few hours to kill and a caffeine high coursing through my veins, I rode along on a drive to see the hoarfrost and appreciated the beautiful view from inside a heated vehicle. On the drive, I found myself looking at the landscape with an altered perception, a hunter's perspective. Along the river and the lake, my eyes were drawn to flocks of birds hunkered down, enjoying the "goose hot tub" as the crazy water fowlers call it. Ken had explained the birds' patterns: staying in the water to stay warm, flying out to feed when the weather warmed some, and returning to the water overnight.

The fog was lifting in several areas during the early morning drive though it remained heavier over Glasgow when we returned and I worried that our plans for a second day in the field might be thwarted.

I need not have worried. There's little to nothing, I've learned, that will keep Ken from a chance to bird hunt: not the fog, not getting stuck the previous day, not even my burning through his shotgun shells (more foreshadowing!).

Evan was unable to join us Friday so Ken and I headed out the same spot to set up. This time, with only one vehicle and the previous day's experience, he decided to chain up before we left the highway for the two-track. As I had never used chains before, I hopped out of the truck eager to learn more since the opportunity presented itself. Ken gave me an on-the-spot lesson and off we went again, into the field.

Fortunately, conditions had improved where we set up. Gone was (most of) the wind and whiteout effect. We set up the blinds and silhouette decoys, this time facing west with the wind at our backs.

Maybe it was the sun or the cold or the exhaustion, but my shooting on day two went more the way I had expected day one to go: miss after miss after miss combined with growing frustration. The pile of spent shells grew exponentially faster than my pile of birds. So much so that I feared I might end the day with a single duck. Several times, after obsessively making sure the safety was on, I popped out of the blind only to verify that the safety did indeed work as intended.

Despite my best – or worst – efforts I did manage to get a couple of ducks. The geese appeared to be veering around us, intentionally taunting us. Ken had managed to get a Canada goose and harvested his limit of mallards while I struggled to even get a shot off. Still, he set down his shotgun and committed himself to coaching me.

Eventually, a few geese did make their way over to us and I overcame my hangups enough to actually hit one. Ken cheered as I looked on in shock as the beautiful bird dropped on the far side of our decoys. As he laughed joyously, he said, "Go get it, Gwen!"

Now, on the drive out, Ken had warned me that Canada geese are strong and to be wary of their wings. He noted he had once taken a blow across the nose that nearly knocked him out. So I approached the downed bird as if I were an old-timey villain holding a cape across my face with my left arm while reaching out with my right to grab it. Despite the larger size of the bird, I managed to finish the job without getting knocked out. Much to my relief when I realized Ken was recording me collecting my first-ever goose.

Back in the blind with somewhat renewed confidence, I managed to hit another duck. This one flew a good distance away from our set-up before dropping to the ground. The bird was still alive when I finally crossed the distance, so I once again needed to wring its neck. Perhaps I was too enthusiastic or perhaps that bird took the brunt of some of my pent-up frustration, but I learned the hard way just how fragile a duck's neck is. Suddenly, I was holding only a head and the rest of the bird lay on the snow with its vital fluid splattering my borrowed boots.

The blood stilled for a bit after I covered the exposed neck with snow. Remembering that Ken had pointed out how birds will scout an area and avoid if they see anything amiss, I kicked fresh snow over the soiled area and headed back to the blinds. After a few stops to re-freeze the neck and kick more snow, I made it back where Ken seemed to find great amusement my in my journey.

At one point a flock of ducks circled in above us, looping in lower until I felt confident I could take a shot. As I watched a group approach within my wheelhouse, I saw no green heads and so lowered my shotgun. I did think these "hens" looked a bit different but did not realize the shot I had relinquished until I heard a howl go up from Ken's blind. The birds had flown over me first then over him.

"Those were specklebellies! Oh my God! I can't believe I missed those. I'm so pissed!" Sheepishly, I asked, "So, I should have taken the shot?"

"Every time! That's a trophy bird," he exclaimed before hastening to add he was not angry at me. He was upset at having missed his chance at one, though I am certain he spent the rest of the day with one hand on his gun hoping they'd make another pass.

Having missed my shot at a rare bird, Mother Nature decided to give me another chance though not at a specklebelly. Two snow goose soon approached. Since they were adolescents and not full white yet, I assumed they were Canada geese and lined up my shot.

This time everything came together as one bird flew directly at me. I lined up and took the shot at such close range that as the bird fell, I ducked fearing it would land on my head. As it happened the goose dropped just out of arm's length.

Ken again exploded in excitement. "That's a snow goose! Hoooooo boy! Gwen, you don't know how cool this is!" He leapt up out of his blind, "Let's go find that bird!"

I, certainly not understanding how cool it was, picked up the bird and said, "It's right here. It nearly landed on me."

My mentor explained that in his roughly two-and-a-half decades of bird hunting in this area have resulted in maybe 10 snow gooses for him – three of which came at the same time. He stressed over and over how amazing it was for me to have harvested one on my second day out.

Having harvested two geese – the Canada and the snow – I settled back into the blind feeling that it had all been worth it and that I could leave the field feeling accomplished despite having burned through one box of shells.

I was making a dent in my second box of shells when the frustration started settling in. Several safety checks later with spent shells threatening to evict me from the blind, I felt ready to call it a day. Ken had mentioned he was starting to feel the chill as well. I mentioned that a few more misses or a few more times of the shotgun hitting my bruised bicep and I would be done.

Ken, as any good teacher can, found a way to push me on and motivate me. He recalled a time when he had had an off-day shooting before realizing he was pointing and shooting rather than leading and shooting. He encouraged more practice and said, "You're no quitter. Load up."

A few misses later, he told me that I was getting closer: he could see birds flinching and just avoiding becoming sustenance. Given my skill level, I took this as a marked improvement and a win. He said, "You'll know you're getting good when you can hit a double or a triple."

I do not know what kind of mentor magic Ken weaved with that phrase, but soon after, to the surprise of both of us I hit a double. The first bird dropped into our decoy set-up while the second – having not taken a direct shot – made it quite some distance before falling. We decided to collect the second bird on our way out, as a way to test the chains of course and not as an excuse to make another trek through the snow-buried stubble.

With just one duck to go for my daily limit, we gave it a bit longer. The extra time paid off and I left with five drakes, a Canada goose and a snow goose, as well as a few shells left in box two.

After loading up the blinds and the decoys into the truck – truly the coldest experience of the day though my feet were warm (thanks, Dave!) – we were headed back to town to clean the birds. Ken asked if I wanted to save the snow goose but offered that since it was an adolescent, that was not the choice he would make. I chose to clean the bird for food since I prefer that to trophy hunting. Which was the right choice since that goose breast ended up on my dinner plate the next evening.

Post-hunt, Ken told me how much fun he'd had in taking me on my first bird hunts. "I love bird hunting," he said, "and I just love sharing it with people."

His enthusiasm for the sport is contagious and made for an excellent first time bird hunt for me. We made an agreement to try again in the coming weeks before the season ends in early January. Ken mentioned another hunter who wanted to try goose hunting this year and suggested we all go out at some point. I gamely agreed, knowing I have much to learn yet such as how to use a bird call.

And, how to properly wield a shotgun. While I have been wanting a new tattoo, I would not have a chosen a brilliant purple and red shotgun butt on my right bicep, which is what I ended up with after two days in the field. Ken, after seeing a photo of the bruise, said " ... I hope you feel it was worth it. Dang"

"So worth it!" was my reply while acknowledging I need work on my form. Ken also suggested shopping around for a shorter shotgun to fit me better. So I'll be checking in at D&G every so often to see if Darrell has any of the shotguns he suggested in stock.

Still, the bruise was not enough to deter me from accepting an offer from Ken to hit the field again a couple weeks later and using the same gun.

A bonus part three of this story will appear in an upcoming issue of the Glasgow Courier.