The early goose season is open through Sept.15. And Major picks up quickly on the magnitude of the moment as I approach with the over and under slung over my shoulder.
The boy is soon leaping straight up into the air while his stout tail whips the rest of his body into violent contortions that warn of serious damage to the young man's musculo-skeletal system. We'll head out as soon as I can squeeze into something to keep me dry while fording the Pecatonica on the way to the North Pond.
Not without choices when it comes to equipment, I can opt for one of two pairs of hip boots or go big with waders (couple of options there as well). The river has been higher lately so waders are the best bet. Better safe than sorry, I always say, in case I run into strong, swirling currents up to my armpits midstream.
I can go with the overpriced and overrated waders from one of the big box outfitters, or I can choose the old-fashioned model (no Velcro on these babies) picked up at a garage sale for ten bucks. They had belonged to this guy's grandfather who had obviously worn them with pride years ago.
With a well-worn patch here and there, it was clear the gentleman had a great appreciation for the outdoors. I asked about him, but the current owner had no recollection of where and for what he hunted or fished.
Today, I choose the faded leggings belonging to the old fellow who was perhaps a dedicated duck hunter, maybe even one who survived the terrible Armistice Day storm that killed more than 150 hunters along the Mississippi in 1940; or, maybe he was a trout-crazed angler who once plopped a mayfly lure deftly atop a riffle or two back in the day.
Major is already halfway to the river by the time I crank up the Mule. Never quite sure about the plan no matter how many times I explain every last detail to him, I'm confident he'll wait there for further instructions.
It soon becomes apparent that not only is the North Pond thick with gabbling geese, a few have also settled onto a small pot hole surrounded by cattails just across the river. "Why slog through a couple hundred yards of seven foot-high marsh grass if we can cash in here, right Major?"
The geese are getting the hint that there's trouble brewing as we approach - shouting warning messages to each other and letting us know they'll be breaking water soon.
They rise with a wild chorus of honking, flapping wings and sloshing water. But there is a problem. I'm a foot deep in sloppy mud and thick grass. The birds are soon visible, but only rise as high as the tops of the cattails.
I take a desperation shot, which serves only to shower the air with a million cattail seeds while Major swims around aimlessly looking for a retrieve opportunity. He finally crawls back out through what is left of the cattails, still searching while casting an occasional glance of disdain toward me.
During the melee, a large flock of Canadas escape from the North Pond, dashing hopes of a successful hunt. We soon discover, however, that all is not lost as we continue to hear a considerable amount of chatter emanating from the other side of the marsh.
"Ok, Major, let's go get 'em" - all it takes for his tail to rewind and start whipping furiously about once again.
This time things go like clockwork. We arrive on station just as the dozen or so holdouts take off. A single shot from the .12 gauge catches a rising Canada just behind the shoulder as the wing completes its upward swoop.
Major has the bird in tow within seconds. He soon drops the bird at my feet with a half-dozen feathers stuck to his smiling lips, proud as a peacock over his prompt and efficient maneuver.
Back home I begin the work of removing the breast fillets, the first one plopped into a bowl behind me before setting to work on the other. I forgot one thing, however. Major is as clandestine a thief as there ever was, snatching the savory treat from the bowl without a sound.
I turn just as he begins digging a burial site, the generous chunk of meat clenched firmed between his jaws. I holler, and he quickly drops it. Ears drooping, he lowers his head in shame.
But the damage is done. Marinated in drool and garnished with a little dirt and a few strands of dead grass from yesterday's mowing, the morsel is fit only for my four-legged friend.
Quickly recognizing the futility of criticizing my best buddy, I walk over, pat him on the head and thank him for the pleasure of his company this crisp September morning.
He wags his tail gently in response, then goes about putting the finishing touches on an early September goose hunt with his grateful companion.
"Thanks for your help, Major."
- Lee Fahrney is the Times outdoors writer. He can be reached at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
The boy is soon leaping straight up into the air while his stout tail whips the rest of his body into violent contortions that warn of serious damage to the young man's musculo-skeletal system. We'll head out as soon as I can squeeze into something to keep me dry while fording the Pecatonica on the way to the North Pond.
Not without choices when it comes to equipment, I can opt for one of two pairs of hip boots or go big with waders (couple of options there as well). The river has been higher lately so waders are the best bet. Better safe than sorry, I always say, in case I run into strong, swirling currents up to my armpits midstream.
I can go with the overpriced and overrated waders from one of the big box outfitters, or I can choose the old-fashioned model (no Velcro on these babies) picked up at a garage sale for ten bucks. They had belonged to this guy's grandfather who had obviously worn them with pride years ago.
With a well-worn patch here and there, it was clear the gentleman had a great appreciation for the outdoors. I asked about him, but the current owner had no recollection of where and for what he hunted or fished.
Today, I choose the faded leggings belonging to the old fellow who was perhaps a dedicated duck hunter, maybe even one who survived the terrible Armistice Day storm that killed more than 150 hunters along the Mississippi in 1940; or, maybe he was a trout-crazed angler who once plopped a mayfly lure deftly atop a riffle or two back in the day.
Major is already halfway to the river by the time I crank up the Mule. Never quite sure about the plan no matter how many times I explain every last detail to him, I'm confident he'll wait there for further instructions.
It soon becomes apparent that not only is the North Pond thick with gabbling geese, a few have also settled onto a small pot hole surrounded by cattails just across the river. "Why slog through a couple hundred yards of seven foot-high marsh grass if we can cash in here, right Major?"
The geese are getting the hint that there's trouble brewing as we approach - shouting warning messages to each other and letting us know they'll be breaking water soon.
They rise with a wild chorus of honking, flapping wings and sloshing water. But there is a problem. I'm a foot deep in sloppy mud and thick grass. The birds are soon visible, but only rise as high as the tops of the cattails.
I take a desperation shot, which serves only to shower the air with a million cattail seeds while Major swims around aimlessly looking for a retrieve opportunity. He finally crawls back out through what is left of the cattails, still searching while casting an occasional glance of disdain toward me.
During the melee, a large flock of Canadas escape from the North Pond, dashing hopes of a successful hunt. We soon discover, however, that all is not lost as we continue to hear a considerable amount of chatter emanating from the other side of the marsh.
"Ok, Major, let's go get 'em" - all it takes for his tail to rewind and start whipping furiously about once again.
This time things go like clockwork. We arrive on station just as the dozen or so holdouts take off. A single shot from the .12 gauge catches a rising Canada just behind the shoulder as the wing completes its upward swoop.
Major has the bird in tow within seconds. He soon drops the bird at my feet with a half-dozen feathers stuck to his smiling lips, proud as a peacock over his prompt and efficient maneuver.
Back home I begin the work of removing the breast fillets, the first one plopped into a bowl behind me before setting to work on the other. I forgot one thing, however. Major is as clandestine a thief as there ever was, snatching the savory treat from the bowl without a sound.
I turn just as he begins digging a burial site, the generous chunk of meat clenched firmed between his jaws. I holler, and he quickly drops it. Ears drooping, he lowers his head in shame.
But the damage is done. Marinated in drool and garnished with a little dirt and a few strands of dead grass from yesterday's mowing, the morsel is fit only for my four-legged friend.
Quickly recognizing the futility of criticizing my best buddy, I walk over, pat him on the head and thank him for the pleasure of his company this crisp September morning.
He wags his tail gently in response, then goes about putting the finishing touches on an early September goose hunt with his grateful companion.
"Thanks for your help, Major."
- Lee Fahrney is the Times outdoors writer. He can be reached at (608) 967-2208 or at fiveoaks@mhtc.net.
