The good Lord blessed me with a gift of two sons. And in a gesture of goodwill, He wrapped them in camouflage and set aside a corner of their hearts where a love of duck hunting would eventually be nurtured. It has added a dimension to my hunting experience (indeed my life itself) that is a challenge for even the most revealing words to accurately describe. Jeff is now 26; Andy is 24. Whether they were 8-year-olds so bundled in warm clothing they could hardly move, or 11-somethings carrying a gun for the first time, or young men exhibiting knowledge and skill, they continue to share my duck blind. I am made better because of these gifts.

Today, it was just me and Jeff. It was 30-degrees under a starlit sky on this October morning when we set a dozen decoys out to float, and dutifully arranged a dozen magnum Canada Goose shells in our little honey hole on the Maine coast. It is somewhere north of York and south of Portland on a tidal river just a shotgun blast away from the edge of the Atlantic. That’s a hundred miles of seacoast, you say?  If I told you exactly where it is, well you know what I would then have to do to you.  We call it “The Point.”

I have hunted The Point for over 40 years and I honestly don’t know why, but I have virtually had it to myself all that time. In the name of progress, development and restrictions to access have made this small area of marsh even smaller. But, seemingly in spite of that, a growing influx of Mallards have joined the once legendary populations of Black Ducks, Bufflehead and Goldeneye. Occasionally, we have the good fortune of a visit from Green Winged Teal. Unfortunately, we see only enough Canada Geese to bring one, perhaps two to bag in any given season.

This story recalls one grand performance of those all too infrequent geese, who today would fly onto our father and son stage in magnificent style.

Not sure of the time, but probably around 8:00am.  Jeff spied 4 geese coming out of the north directly toward us (God also blessed him with the best “there’s a bird” eyes in the group). They were noisy and high as usual, so I did my best to clone their song as they kept coming. As they got closer, they seemed to make enough chatter for a dozen geese and naturally I figured they were impressed with my calling. Then it happened.

“Holy #$%#, look around the far edge of the island,” Jeff said in a loud whisper. The island is about a two acre area of marsh directly opposite our blind and the river follows its contour off to our right, maybe 50 yards from us. We later estimated they were a group of about 20 Canada Geese, no more than 10 feet off the water, flying north to south, yapping and yelping like 4^th grade students running out to the playground for recess. These were the birds making all that chatter we were hearing but could not see because it was low tide and they were flying so low that the island sheltered their approach.

Our goose decoys were resting at the river’s edge between them and us.

Cedar, our 2-year-old yellow Lab, made it three pair of bulging eyes now watching these gray, black and white shapes begin their odyssey at The Point. Confidence reassured (my calling at least didn’t send them lifting up and over the dunes to the safe haven of the ocean), I continued my best imitation of moans and clucks. I don’t remember exactly when I stopped hearing my calls, or when I stopped calling altogether.

The next 30 seconds would be void of sound, save the piercing music of these geese. Jeff, Cedar and I were now active, willing participants in time standing still. No other sight or sound could possibly compete for our attention as we were frozen in this experience. Mesmerized. Nothing else existed. Nothing.

Typically, these geese would continue a flight pattern straight and ultimately away from us, but this was not to be a ‘typical’ approach. They veered right and surrounded us from behind. Still no higher than 5-10 feet off the ground, they were now 40 yards from our muzzles, but teasing us that they would venture much closer. Then, their music stopped and in a complete and deafening silence they kept winging to their right, headed for our river and were now on the opposite side of us. Probably 30 yards away, but don’t even think about shooting yet. These birds are coming.

I am not a gambling man, but at that moment, I am betting my favorite Beretta that these birds would draw a perfect circle and pass over the river directly in front of us as they drop into the wind and into our spread. Our opportunity would be cross shots from left to right, a mere 15 yards out front at geese still no higher than 10-feet atop the water. Given that we were hiding up on the marsh and low tide had the water a few feet below us, the geese would come at almost eye level. The scant few geese we harvest at The Point are taken accidentally, coincident to our duck hunt.  This scenario had purpose.

One bird quickly opened its wings, dropped its feet and lowered itself to the river, leaving his compadres to turn into deadly gun range. I don’t know if my heart was pounding inside my chest or if I was even breathing; but the landing of that single goose was a great indication of promise soon to be fulfilled. The only question now was how many would be taken.

Then, as quickly as they first appeared, something else happened. Or, should I say, “Didn’t happen.” The geese never took that final hard right that was to be our destiny. Instead, they continued straight and away, melting our frozen state of wonderment into a disappointing and exhausting stupor. The single that mysteriously broke away from the flock and landed, swam around for a while and eventually followed the trail of a small creek to his safe refuge.

There would be no multiple retrieves for Cedar. No high 5’s for Jeff and me.

But, this was so glorious a moment for us that it will be written into our novel of memories to be recalled whenever the need arises to nourish our souls with the true reminder of why we hunt. It was the type of duck hunting adventure my wife enjoys hearing about the most. Lives were enriched, but no life was taken.