"How about coming with me for a snow goose hunt?" I asked.
I received the reply I expected... "When? What time in the morning?"
In all of my hunting years one solid thing I have counted on is the immediate willingness of my Dad going with me.
"Let's do it Monday," I said to both he and my mom. "No can do on Monday," my mom replied over the top of Dad's immediate "yes" reply. "Have a doctor's appointment on Monday. But... Tuesday looks open for him," I could hear my mom reading off the wall calendar.
When one gets old life doesn't center around a work schedule, but rather, a doctor's appointment calender. In their 80's and 90's there seems to always be some tuning up to do on the old bodies, eyes, ears, muscles... something.
I picked up Dad at 5:30, and he had his stuff in a pile waiting. Just like every other time, I have never had to wait on him getting ready.
I have to laugh, in my mid 50's I find it hard to get up and going, I can not imagine at 95.
We drove to Wayne's farm to set up in the dark.
"I have never shot a snow goose," Dad informed me on the way. I knew I had taken him last year but had forgotten that he had not shot a white goose.
"Maybe we can change that today," I said, as we bounced into the little dirt lane leading to the corn field we were hunting.
I parked the truck and found my way to the blind by head lamp. The ducks and geese were greeting the morning full bore! In the ponds next to Wayne's farm the birds were almost deafening.
"Man, listen to those geese roar," I commented to Dad.
Many times I have wondered how many morning my Dad and I have shared the waking of a new day by listening to waterfowl greet the same early dawn.
I think back to my youth. Dad was so good about taking my brother and I on hunting and fishing trips.
As I matured my love for the outdoors grew with my age. I loved the early mornings and found myself spending most of them with my Dad.
Daylight was breaking the Eastern sky, and even a blind person would have known by the ever increasing roar of snow and speckle belly geese in the ponds.
"Ok Dad, it's shooting time, let's get some shells in the guns," I told him as I raced getting the sound system and the moving decoys going.
Daylight came with a biting chill in the air. Dad's hands were so cold he could hardly get shells stuffed into his gun.
The old blood vessels just don't work like they used to. I can remember most of my hunting life of how warm Dad's hand were. My brother and I would be freezing, he would slip off his toasty warm gloves and place them onto our little hands, giving us instant warmth. Now it is my turn to do the same for him.
"Here comes a single snow goose," I whispered to Dad, "This will be your bird."
The goose sailed right into the decoy for a great shot.
"Ok, get it now!" I told Dad.
He shot and the bird did not fall. Now it was fare game for me as well. I shot and shot with Dad and the goose flew away untouched!
"Wow, what a lucky bird," I told Dad, while stuffing shells into my gun as well as his. In hunter's language that means, "We sure shot poorly"!
A bit later in the morning I finally got my wish of a flock working into the decoys. I have wanted to show Dad the thrill of seeing those white birds circle and circle lower and lower. They seem to always be floating just out of gun range as they look over the decoys and blind.
This time they decided to come right in.
"Ok, let's get them," I said rising to shoot. I would shoot my side of the flock, while Dad would shoot his side.
Bang, bang, bang! We opened up on them. I expected to see geese raining out of the sky, but typical snow goose hunting it seems I miss more than I hit. Dad was faring no better.
One goose fell on my side and I stopped shooting.
Bang! one last lone shot came from Dad's gun and a single goose fell out of the flock.
I was surprised. Those birds were way out there when Dad hit it.
I ran out and retrieved the birds.
"Well, you got your first snow goose ," I informed Dad.
He did his best to blame it on me.
"I don't think I got that one," he said.
"Well, unless my last shot took a long long time to reach the birds, you had to have hit that one. I was done shooting and it fell right when your gun went off," I explained to Dad.
I could tell he was still not convinced.
We hunted the rest of the day with little results, but that one flock had made it worth our day.
At Dad and Mom's house I cleaned the two geese we had gotten. In my bird I found number 2 shot, and then in Dad's goose I found BB size shot, just what we each had been shooting.
At nearly 96 years old my Dad had gotten his first snow goose.
I am so thankful for the time I have with my Dad and Mom. I treasure each moment like this day.
I am very blessed.
And... way to go Dad!
Dad with his first snow goose
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