12-15-05

I went to a Cystic Fibrosis goose hunt and dinner in Chicago, Illinois this past Thursday. The snow was coming down so hard you couldn't see the oncoming cars lights until you passed them.

The first morning, Bob Johnson and Ihunted with Jason Edmonds, a guide for Ultimate Waterfowlers. It was the strangest thing to me because the pit was in the middle of a subdivision. It was pretty odd shooting geese with million dollar homes all around you. Let me tell you, this was the spot. As soon as the decoys were set, the big birds were falling in. I mean coming in groups of twenty or so. It was so cool to see the geese work to a call. When the big black feet would come over the horizon we would begin to call, the geese would respond as in a traction beam. It didn't take but one pass and they were committed, feet down right into the decoys. We were shooting them at ten yards! You could see the shot hit them.

As the first big goose hit the snow covered ground, Hydro was off. Talk about a proud daddy, Bob's dog picked up our six geese with no trouble, despite the fact he'd never picked one up before. That evening we attended the dinner. They had a live and silent auction and wow; all the stuff to bid on. Lives for Cure did a fantastic job raising funds for Cystic Fibrosis that evening.

On Saturday morning, we hunted with Jim and Jimmy Steppe; we didn't have to worry about getting their names mixed up. Ha! Ha! What a spot they have, I mean this pit was nice and cozy. It was a twenty foot long, six feet wide, seven feet deep-wood walled pit, with a step up shooting rail. This thing was heated toasty warm; the dog even had an elevated platform. This enabled Hammer to have a three hundred and sixty degree view of the goose reaping that was about to be unleashed. We were not but a mile or so from the Fox River where the big black feet were preparing to take flight.

The Fox River weather report was northwest wind of ten to twenty miles per hour, snow coming down in the Higdon full bodies looked like a scene out of the movies. It was the perfect morning; we had geese coming in the field like clockwork. There were small groups, two to six at a time were coming from the river for the morning feed. It is amazing; night and day difference in the calling from one day to the next. We had to call these geese all the way to the ground. The Canada Hammers were music to the big migrators ears. The first four came in low on the deck. When they entered the field, I bet they weren't fifty yards high; looked like two big B-52s were about to drop their bombs. They didn't even make a pass; just about landed on our heads. Of course, we couldn't have that. That's right, we stroked at five yards. Before Hammer could get them up, we had more birds locked on the field. This time, it was seven. They made one pass, a wide swing to the left of us. Guys, these geese lined up perfect, for I couldn't of had them come in any better if they were remote controlled. This gave us that so easy left to right shot right over the decoys. They never knew what hit them.

It was seven in; none out. This was a train wreck. Hammer had his work cut out; a few of the birds had landed in the deep snow and disappeared. By the time he made it back with the last goose, my big black boy was tired. At this point, we were five geese short of a limit. We hadn't even been hunting an hour and were almost done. We figured we would have a good time with the next bunch; you know sweet talk them, chit-chat for a while. It was tough to restrain ourselves because the next bunch of geese came in just like the one before and we couldn't kill but five this time. So what do you do - yea, that's right let them set on down and get comfortable. The best I can remember, there were nine walking in the Higdons; I could have reached out and grabbed one. Four were settling in with there feet down. When we unleashed the fury of those Remingtons, it all became a blur of snow and feathers. Does a bird in the hand mean anything to you? Some of my counter parts went ahead and took their best shot. Well, you know how that ended up. It was time for breakfast.

The third day, we hunted on the other side of town. We arrived at Blood Hill in the predawn set the decoys and got in the pit. This time the accommodations were a little different. The pit wasn't but three feet deep and it was half full of snow. By the time, we got it shoveled out the geese were beginning to fly from the retirement home. There were some half dozen ponds in the little community and the geese were stacked on the open water like cordwood. I was kneeling in the floor getting my gun out when the distinct sound of a ten gauge roared; boom, boom. It was right about that time a goose bounced across the snow and into the pit with us. When he unloaded on those two geese, I hadn't heard or seen them. They came in low and silent; tried to sneak up on us. Well, needless to say, they won't be doing that again. Hammer picked the other one up; wow, what a retrieve that had to been all of five feet. This was one of those days when it's clear as a bell, the wind is blowing twenty-five mph and the red stuff in the thermometer isn't much past the little mark that says ten. It was very cold and it didn't help to be sitting on a bench made of snow.

From our vantage point high atop Blood Hill, we could see the geese as they began to rise. We were probably two miles from the roost of over ten thousand geese. As they arose from our southeast, we began to flag to get their attention. Once they were in calling range we began to entice them with our Hammers. As the geese approached to one hundred yards, we began speed clucking and moaning which mesmerized the geese into a gliding trance. As the birds climbed up Blood Hill unknowing it would be there last flight, myself, Bob and Jim came out of the pit and met them at eye level. With help from Remington, six shots were fired and six geese lay stone dead on Blood Hill.

In conclusion, I will be making Chicago one of my annual stops. And what an annual stop it will be, I think I need to go back as soon as I get done writing! If the season wouldn't have closed a month early, Hammer would already be in the truck.

Brad Gardner

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