There’s a measure of insanity, I suppose, in the psychology of the late season goose hunter. The first couple days of ridiculous wind and nose-numbing temps are warmed with the honks, circling and set wings of naïve birds. By day 3, the masses have been shot at enough that they now fly twice as high and scrutinize each decoy spread as thoroughly as Gert Boyle does a Columbia jacket.
But the chance of knocking down a few more, even when the going gets down-right silly, is simply too much to resist. And so we press on into the corn and winter wheat.
It’s a disease called just 5 more minutes. You may have heard of it. Every hunter and fisherman worth their salt wrestles with it. You are absolutely certain that the next bite, the big buck, or the willing flock of geese are moments away. Just 5 more minutes turns into a half-hour, a couple hours, an royally angry spouse…
As for my dad and I (Cam stating “I’d like to go, but I’m warm right now”), the birds didn’t start flying in any numbers till close to noon…a full 4 hours after we first placed our decoys. When they did, the neighboring field was where they looked, circled and left. Small consolation that the birds didn’t like the spread that the six hunters had over there either. Of course, having exhausted almost two hours of just 5 more minutes, as we were packing up, seven or eight groups passed low overhead and we watched a decent flock gave in to better judgment and careened into the corn stubble of that adjacent field. Bang, bang, bang…
Well, Day 2 saw no birds in the truck and will probably be my last time out this year. Which is OK. Even the most die-hard outdoorsman needs a break.
Besides, I hear the Lake Ontario tribs are still open, and full of steelhead.