Which Came First, the Chicken or the Goose?

The gentle ringing of wind chimes had me up before the 4:30 alarm. A cool breeze was blowing down from the Northwest. Summer was slipping. September was here, and I longed to be a part of it all.

Quietly, I tiptoed out of bed only to find at my door, Calvin, my faithful golden retriever. It seemed we were of the same mind. Early goose was here, and we had work to do! I grinned as the aroma of percolating coffee wafted from the kitchen. Wisely, I'd set the gear and things aside the evening before, so Calvin and I could make our arrangement with the Canada Geese of the western Wisconsin woods and water.

With thermos and road mug filled, decoys packed, shotgun stowed, ammo box, and mosquito dope loaded, we drove in the early pre-dawn of a September Saturday. I took the skies to be overcast, as I did not see stars. Branches of neighboring trees swayed as a good wind blew. This early September wind was a false harbinger of autumn, yet it quickens the pulse of the season to come. The morning was cool, near fifty-five degrees, yet I knew it would reach the upper seventies by noon. Even so, the mornings and evenings were growing cooler, as the days grew ever shorter.

I had already been going after early goose three times, and as of that morning was 0 for 3! In three separate locales, no doubt! Today was the day I needed to get the skunk out of the box, or the first bird in the hand. The Haffer, Good Doctor, and Angry Dane would never let me live it down if I didn't produce. Lord knows what the Mrs. would think if I came home empty again, plus Calvin needed to prove he was still a retriever.

As I made my way north, and caught up with the news of the day, (thank you B.B.C), I contemplated two spots. One had proved repeatedly to be a solid locale to get shooting when the migration was in full swing. In the early season, the vegetation could be cumbersome. The other spot was well-known, and a proven goose winner, the abode of the Angry Dane. Since I'd done well to prepare the evening before, I had time to stop by the first spot. If I heard anything "goose-like," Calvin and I would attempt a sneak.

Pre-dawn light was making the eastern sky gray. Clouds took on shape, and my spirits rose. Layers of low stratus clouds blanketed the sky, and the wind blew enough to keep things moving, but not straining. I turned the car down, off the main highway, and along the old potholed road. Upon going past the white chapel, and green barn we pulled into the thick. Cracking a window, and killing the headlights Calvin sampled the cool morning air. I strained to listen a moment to the slough and pond. The music of the wind was pleasant, yet lacking the added chorus of goose clucks. We pressed on to the Dane's.

Time was beginning to be of short measure, but we made our arrival, and crept to the lake at the back of the house. There are a number of points one can set up from, or sit for passing shots. I had my mind set for the point nearest the island, yet the chorus lacking from the other place was singing plainly in front of me! The lake had honkers, and they were near where I wished to launch a canoe.

There were several minutes before shooting light, so I had Calvin walk quietly beside me. We made our way to the boulder, and were greeted by more geese. Calvin whimpered, with excitement, I must say I may have as well. We both shushed, and headed for the east-west break. I knew this is where we would make our stand. If luck would have it, we would finally score for the first time this season. With the way the wind blew, I gambled the birds would break to the west once hitting the point. It was a waiting game now. No chance to put out blocks. Our wait wasn't long.

I don't speak goose. Ask anyone. Clucks, cackles, moans... I'm not at all adept with a goose call. That being said, I tend to understand the language well enough. Perhaps that comes from my early years hearing German spoken in the household. Regardless, the geese were becoming animated, their volume growing in decibels, and urgency. Then I heard the sound I'd been longing for... the rushing of wings over water. The first flock took flight.

It has been said that one should watch the first flock, and gauge what they do. Whomever said so, has not been 0 - 3 in their waterfowl season. The flock of seven were heading south , but banked into the west wind right at the point. I'd guessed proper, and readied a shot. The lead gander was slowly gaining altitude, and I put my bead on the second, breathed deeply, released air smoothly, and squeezed the trigger. The echo of the round was felt across the lake, and with the ejected shell hitting the water, the geese flew by. Miss!

This got the rest of the lake going, and before I knew it a large flock of near thirty canada geese turned the point and flew right by! I tried to aim for a single, fired once, fired twice, and two dropped to the water. I called Calvin, and he bound into the weedy water to make his first retrieve of the season. I reloaded in case any other geese were near, but twas not to be. Calvin had quite a retrieve to make as the wind blew the birds further out into the lake. I took the opportunity to capture his work, and as he collected the bird, had trouble locating me in the shoreline trees and shrubs. The adrenaline of the moment had my hands shaking as I struggled to record his retrieve. In the midst, I realized the bird's neck was arched. It was still kicking. I prayed Calvin would bring this goose to my hand, and not drop it on the shore (as had been his habit late last year).

As luck, or Murphy's Law would have it, Calvin brought the goose to the edge of the shore. I moved to get there, but the goose seized it's moment. It was off in the water and swimming for all it was worth. I raised the barrel to put it down, but Calvin was back at it. I had to let nature take it's course, Calvin gave chase, but was no match for the swimming skill of a goose. They were out quite a distance, and Calvin threw the chase to the goose. I made haste to the canoe, took it off the rack, and was off. Both geese were now in the middle of the lake, and both were crippled. A sinking feeling hit my stomach as I paddled hard to harvest these birds. I never like to cripple a bird, and make every effort to retrieve it.

Finally, I felt the position was right, and put the "retrieved" bird down. Relief washed over me, as the first goose of the season was officially bagged. I turned the canoe to the second, but the goose was far off making it's way to the opposite shoreline. Two shots. Two cripples! I never claimed to be the best shot, but I felt both were hit well. These geese were a testament to their species. Their survival instincts are to be respected. I didn't rush the canoe, as I felt confident things would work themselves out. A splash behind me turned my attention. Calvin was swimming across the lake to catch up with me.

Fortunately, Calvin was close at hand. Unfortunately, coaxing a ninety pound golden retriever into a canoe without flipping is no easy task. Fortunately, I stayed dry as the dog came aboard. Unfortunately, the goose now had a commanding lead. Fortunately, we caught up as the goose reached shore. Then, it disappeared in the thickets. Calvin and I searched the near shoreline, but didn't delve deeply on shore, as it was not land I had permission to be on. Frustration, guilt, and annoyance washed over me. I always feel bad about a cripple.

Knowing the goose couldn't fly, and would most likely keep close, I made my way back to the point. As the canoe cut the water, another flock of honkers flew above out of range, but were looking to set. Reaching the shore, I set out my bag of blocks. By my reckoning, I'd hunt another hour or so, then make a last pass in the canoe before picking everything up. Maybe the goose would make for the water.

Time passed. The Angry Dane made his way and sipped coffee with me. He had seen the events unfold, but he had bear on the mind that morning. He offered condolences, and agreed, "Those Canada's are tough birds. If you don't find it, something else will." He and I both believe stoutly that nothing is wasted in nature, but we do are best to not make waste. I offered to help him bait his stations after making that last pass for the crippled goose.

At the south end of the lake, I thought I saw movement, and birds on the water. They weren't talking, but since the morning flight had slowed I took to the canoe a second time. Canoeing is my preferred method of water transport. The grace of the vessel, the familiar dip and pull of the oars has a rhythm that sings to me. It makes me imagine the culture and life of the Anishinabe, as they moved from place to place, or the Voyageurs who mapped travel routes while trading for furs long ago. A canoe seems timeless.

Upon closer inspections, my bird on the water turned out to be lily pads blown by the breeze. I decided to row quietly near the south west shoreline and hope. The goose was well hid. I went right past it, but had the fortune to look over my left shoulder. I saw a black patch, and just the slightest hint of movement. All credit again to the goose, who gave great sport to the hunt. It had moved several hundred yards from where I'd lost it earlier. The goose was harvested proper, thanks given, and all attention was now spent on collecting the blocks and cleaning up.

The Dane was all smiles when I showed him that second goose. As was I. As was I.

Now, this would be a fine place to end the story. A successful hunt, persevering through adversity, a slap on the shoulder by a good friend. That just wasn't the end of the days adventure. That's something I truly cherish about days afield. The process is repeated time and time again. The results often the same, yet always different.

The Dane and I made our way to his bear bait station. I'd never done the work before, and while walking along the path he pointed out the wild ginseng that was abundant! Again, a first for me. We poured cooking oil on the trees near the bait, swapped a sim card from the trail cam, and made our way back to the truck. There were two more spots to check.

A quarter mile further down the road, my head snapped as I saw a bright white rooster popping out of the brush. "Rooster, " I called. The Dane thinking it a pheasant nodded pleasantly, but stopped the truck when I corrected, "Chicken. Now, Roosters!" A black rooster popped out of the cover. They walked or strutted around looking unsure of themselves.

The Angry Dane looked at me and shrugged, "The Mrs. was just talking about wanting a rooster." Her new hobby of rearing hens had produced their first eggs earlier that week.

"Let's get one, " I said.

The truck was parked, and I hummed the theme to the movie Rocky, grinning all the while. Who'd have imagined chickens running amok on public land? There wasn't a house within a mile of this stretch. Somebody must have dumped them. I couldn't wait to see the Angry Dane rushing to catch a chicken, like Rocky Balboa tried while training to fight Apollo Creed. No offense, Mr. Dane, but Rocky was in far better shape than either of us. Fortunately, we had Calvin.

As we closed in on our quarry, a third rooster emerged. Calvin saw a bird, and went right for it! I went for the off colored bird, and the Dane was going after the white one. That white rooter was moving like an Olympic track sprinter, waddling left right, left right along a path. The Dane was eating it's dust like something out of a road runner cartoon.

With due respect, I had no chance as my rooster disappeared in the thick brush. Fortunately, Calvin was far better suited for this type of work. He may have erred with the goose earlier, but made up for it with the rooster. He pinned the bird, and waited for me to collect it.

With the rooster secured, we were now faced with the dilemma of transporting the bird back to the Dane's house. Just two guys in a truck, with a birdy golden retriever, and a rooster who'd tasted freedom. somehow, I ended up with the short straw, and a cagey bird.

The ride home was one full of smiles, laughs, and comments, (many I'll not share here about certain birds in hand). The Dane just made mention of a bird let loose while driving, when the rooster's neck craned towards my hand. I swear that bird understood Danish! It gave me the evil eye. It began to give what can only be described as a chicken growl. I made some comment of how funny it would be to have met St. Peter and explained I made it there due to a chance encounter with said rooster, when it lunged! I may have panicked, just a titch...

The rooster flapped its wings, as it tried to make a perch of the dashboard. With feathers flying, dog whining, Dane clutching the wheel, and me taking the scene in, (a car passed giving the strangest of looks). I did the only thing I could think to do, thrust both hands at the bird and pin it to the windshield. That's exactly where my hands, and the rooster stayed the last ten miles back.

Tears rolled down both our faces, and my sides still hurt thinking about the situation. All was made right when we arrived at the Angry Dane's abode. The Mrs. came outside with her mouth agape. We added the rooster, whom I named Ferdinand, as he had an air of superiority over the hens of coop. The Dane thought he looked more like a Ronald. Additional seed was spread to coax him to stay, and as of now, the Mrs. has a rooster to her clutch. I for one couldn't wait to get home and share this story with my wife.

Regarding the proverbial question, I had found an answer. On this morning the goose came before the chicken.