Autumn sparks the flame of our primal instincts
As summer winds to its close and the second year of extraordinarily powerful storms spins chaotically toward its denouement, the evening breezes bring with them the solace of lower humidity.
Autumn sparks the flame of our primal instincts. The fragrance of a neighbor’s woodsmoke from the last firepit of the season where young and old partake of s’mores carries into our bedroom window. The wind blows in off the lake and carries the bouquet of dying lily pads and arrowroot from the shallow bays and swamps.
The abundant crop of white acorns can be heard dropping with a thousand thuds, providing our whitetails with their favorite nutrition. From across the dirt road, the sweet smell of the neighbors’ fresh-cut lawn embraces the senses.
Gardens are overflowing with tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers and the ubiquitous zucchini. It is said that if you leave your windows open when parked at the town hall, local gardeners often dump their excess harvest in your back seat.
Evening features the stellar displays of autumn sunsets of which few painters have ever captured the majestic cerulean blues, salmon pinks and sage greens layered over the mountains. Soon September will arrive and the lonely haunting call of Canada geese will be heard flying against the darkening sky headed toward their roost in the bay. Hunters will become impassioned with the urge to wake up early and set out a large decoy spread in the hayfields before first light. All these reoccurring themes drive us to participate in the harvest, be it vegetables, chanterelles, hen-of-the-woods mushrooms or taking home a large honker to put on the smoker.
And so, these primitive traditions are ritually called up by our ancient spirit to live and breathe as did our ancient predecessors. We will load up the trailer full of full-body goose decoys, layout blinds that, when camouflaged, will blend into the dew-laden grass with total invisibility.
After breaking a heart-thumping sweat from hauling all the equipment into the field, we will crawl in our blinds, which are no more than a 10-inch mound of green, and prepare our calls. Guns will be checked for safety. I have been known to throw hunting guests out of the field for playing with the safety on their gun. Click. Click. Click will get you out of the field and headed home before the first shot is fired. Safety is not a debate.
As we lie in the darkness, with the swinging doors of the blind partially open and calls around our necks, we pass the ceremonial cup of coffee and watch the horizon to the east. The eastern horizon gradually blends the dark blue to purples, then to pastel green with a layer of citrus orange. Our ears are tuned to listen for the roosting flock to awaken in the bay.
As the colors of the eastern sky begin blending into the new day, we can feel adrenaline coursing through our bodies. Guns are loaded and a second safety check is ordered. As the flock begins to awaken with an increasing tempo and tone, we all know that is the cacophony of the breakfast bell.
“Get ready gentlemen!” I whisper. “Get those doors shut and check your safety one last time. Remember, we do not shoot outside of our assigned zones and do not sit up to shoot until I give the queue.”
Minutes later the crescendo of honking rings throughout the valley followed by the powerful beating of wing pinions. I am on watch. Each of us has a job. One is a “flagger” giving motion to the flock. Two of us are callers. We alternate a sequence of vocalizations. A loud simple greeting call, followed by a simple single cluck, then a double cluck (which should not be used by anyone who is not well practiced). Finally, the feeding chuckle — a deep gravelly murmur imitating birds on the ground fighting over feed.
As the flock of 20 birds begin to set their wings in front of us, their black shoe-polished boots drop down. As the first bird touches the ground in the landing zone, I call the shot: “Take ‘em!” What appears to be organized chaos erupts and the goose closest to me folds his wings and drops beside me.
“Well done, boys!” I call out. “Now let us get out there and pay our respects.”
I reach over the side of my blind and lay my hand on the beautiful bird. Quietly, I say “thank you” to the bird and say a short prayer of gratitude and forgiveness. We are all One. We need each other to live. We need each other to maintain the connection to our food and the earth. This bird, the first of the season, will be served on the most elegant platter on opening weekend of rifle season at deer camp. And again, we will pray for the spirit of the wild goose.
Resident Canada goose season is Sept. 1-25. Hunters must have passed the hunter education course and purchased a 2024 license along with the federal waterfowl stamp and the state tag.
Remember to always get permission for any field you wish to hunt in advance of the day you’d like to be there. And respect that others may have already asked.
(Bradley Carleton is the founder of Sacred Hunter.org, a privately owned limited liability corporation that seeks to educate the public on the spiritual connection of man to nature through hunting, fishing, and foraging. For more of his writings, please subscribe.)