Back Where I Belong, Wallowing in Wet Rice

LISTEN: (6 Min, 15 Sec)

 

IT HAD BEEN A WHILE since my most recent goose hunt when, back in October, Ducks Unlimited’s John Gordon asked me to join him and a few other “veteran” waterfowlers for two December mornings in rice stubble north of El Campo. 

“It’s a video project we’re doing about the prairie and goose hunting and…” John opened his pitch. And that’s how far he got before I interrupted and accepted. 

All I knew leading up to the trip was that we’d be hosted by Waterfowl Specialties’ Mitchell Holder and Jack Sebring, John and videographer Zach Eshleman were in charge, and the front line would include former newspaper co-worker Shannon Tompkins, authors/publishers Gary Chambers and Rob Sawyer, and me. Between the four of us “OGs” – Original Goose hunters – I calculated about 200 years of prairie time.

December couldn’t come fast enough. Two days out, Gordon called to say our hosts had a decent concentration of geese in the area, four or five thousand, and that we’d likely be the only group within earshot. 

A day before departure, my old soul slipped back into a familiar place. Calmly and thoroughly, I gathered all that I needed and a little more from closets and garage shelves. From the gun safe, I withdrew the same Remington Wingmaster 870 through which I’d run thousands of rounds. I even found two boxes of vintage non-toxic goose loads that, as it turned out, still went “bang” with each trigger pull. I found my old calls, too, but swore I wouldn’t interfere with my hosts’ efforts and quietly kept that promise.

The 75-minute drive from home to lodge Monday night was easy. I arrived late and settled into the lodge’s penthouse, which in reality is just its dusty attic, complete with a pool table and couch and some curious mounts. 

We all woke a little earlier than necessary that first morning. After brief conversation over coffee, we loaded up and headed into the darkness. For 14 seasons as a guide, I was always the lead vehicle en route to the field. This morning, I was third of five. 

On the way out, my head filled with images of my goose-hunting past…newspaper draped over stubble, then torn bedsheets and banquet cloth. And then homemade windsocks – they made a tremendous difference – and then the procession of full-bodied decoys that emerged in the 1990s. And I couldn’t wait to see the latest in waterfowl trickery.

We parked and gathered our gear quickly, while Mitchell and Jack off-loaded the big buggy and trailer for the ride into the rice. 

Somehow, in my haste, I managed to turn on an interior dome light that refused to turn off as everyone hopped onto the rice bus. 

I mentioned to the last person who walked past me that I’d need just a quick minute and hoped they wouldn’t leave me there in the dark. 

They left me there in the dark. 

With the light mystery finally resolved, I stepped quickly in hopes of catching up before the buggy crawled into the field. Barely 20 yards back and with my shouts going unheard over the buggy’s rumble, the one-float parade turned a corner and was gone. 

We didn’t have buggies when I guided, so on the plus side, I felt light on my feet minus the usual two bags of decoys on my shoulders. I could still make that walk. And did. 

Hiking in afforded me a few extra minutes to breathe familiar prairie air and feel the soft mud that supported what was left of a rice crop as I trudged toward my friends.

With the spread set – wind socks that run $75 a dozen and battery-powered flying decoys that mimic landing birds and run $1,000 for a half dozen – and slender shards of sunlight stabbing the horizon, we could hear distant geese lifting in small groups and headed our way. We had a blast.

Two full safe hunts later, we’d collectively taken nearly two dozen geese, which under the circumstances I felt was a fine result. And, since this hunt took place during the duck split, we were treated to several large flights of pintails that wanted desperately to land among us and our fake geese. 

Often, as birds approached, I’d close my eyes and embrace the memory of those sounds, the shrill calls of working geese that I thought back then would fill that prairie every winter of my life. 

I was wrong. Most of the mid-continent snow geese abandoned Texas’ coastal prairie years ago for better accommodations farther north. I had to wonder how old some of the birds we saw were, these geese that clung stubbornly to migratory routes they may have flown for 20 or more years only to find neighborhoods and warehouses in the places where rice and soybeans, peanuts and corn once stretched to both horizons. 

I so genuinely appreciated the opportunity afforded me by John to wallow in wet rice again, shotgun under my left hand and a perpetual smile on my weathered face. 

After that second hunt, Rob, Shannon and I gathered at the lodge and talked for nearly an hour about our past experiences on the prairie, how that prairie has changed, and whether or not snow geese  might return in numbers even remotely close to what the three of us witnessed every season for several decades. Probably not, we agreed, but there still are enough to share glimpses of the past with young hunters willing to invest their time and talents.

Those two days this past December, I was right where I belonged. And there was great comfort in returning to a place that brought me so much contentment and happiness. 

For back-to-back mornings, I leaned into the board that supported my back, eyes closed, staring upward and listening to snow geese honking so loudly they seemed to be hovering directly over my head and trying to wake me…from a dream.

Special thanks are owed to John for the invitation, to Zach for documenting the whole thing, to Mitchell and Jack for hosting us, and to my friends for allowing me to join them.

 

Email Doug Pike at ContactUs@fishgame.com

 

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