Humor

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As I have already alluded to, my hunting career really got started while moving pigs for a living. Not that pigs were exactly my inspiration. But I think breathing in all that "fresh air" does things to you—I'm pretty sure it bleached out my hair for starters. On a couple of occasions, a farmer dropped off some wild boar for market. That's right—those black hairy beasts that grow tusks out of the sides of their mouths. They're as ugly as their pictures and just as scary. I think it was then that I decided I would be more comfortable with a shotgun in my hand than a shorted-out cattle prod.

Nevertheless, it was during this pig-moving job that I ran into a man named Grant—a goose hunter if there ever was one. His stories of successful hunting trips (and gifts of delicious goose a la plate) convinced me there was a hunter inside of me . . . just oozing to get out.

On his advice, I bought myself a used 12-gauge shotgun. Like my infamous rifle, this gun was touted as the "standard" by which all others were measured. Excitedly, I stocked up on boxes of shells (on sale of course) and headed for the nearest crown land with my son in tow.

There's something about an admiring starry-eyed son asking his father questions about a shotgun that his dad knows nothing about. My son thought I carried a cannon. I did too and that was good enough for me. They say, "Ignorance is bliss." I'm not sure if that holds true when it comes to handling guns. What mattered to me was that I had my son's admiration.

It wasn't goose-hunting season yet, but I was hoping to bag a grouse to impress my son on his father's new hunting prowess. I also wanted to prove to my skeptical wife that I could put meat on the table with my new hobby. Well, I did manage to spook one grouse . . . or . . . should I say it spooked me—when it suddenly fluttered up in front of me. The bird was gone before I could even put the gun to my shoulder. We walked around for another hour and saw nothing. It became clear to me that my son was anxiously waiting to see the "cannon" go off.

So as not to make my first hunting trip a complete failure, I told my boy that perhaps we could blast some paper targets. He was delighted. I placed the board about a hundred yards away and prepared to show my son what kind of a "crack shot" his father was.

Proudly, I put the gun up to my shoulder and peered down the sights. What sights? It looked like the gun was missing its metal sights. There was only this tiny bead on the end of the barrel. Well, no matter—I had a son to impress. So I aimed that bead right at the bull's eye and pulled the trigger. BOOM! The blast was not as scary as the gun's recoil. I think it instantly straightened any curvatures in my back. My shoulder felt like George Foreman had just punched it.

But even that was not as painful as the embarrassment that I hadn't left so much as a mark on the target. A few blasts later, and somewhat humbled by the still untouched target, I reluctantly moved a little closer. At 75 yards, I still couldn't hit the board. "Something must be wrong with this gun," I said to my son.

I kept having to move closer to the target every few shots. I tried hitting the board at 65 yards—then 55—then 45. And the closer I had to get, the more humiliated I felt. This was not how a dad was supposed to impress his son. Each shot brought fresh "humble pie" for me to eat. At about 25 yards away, I finally hit the target with a few pellets. It looked like I had peppered the board with a toy BB gun. There was no gigantic hole as I imagined this cannon was supposed to leave.

I felt so "deflated" that I just wanted to go home. But it's amazing what a dad will try in order to wow his son. To prove to him and myself that this gun really was a cannon, I blasted a piece of plywood at point-blank range. It left a small hole, but certainly not the "plate" size that I was expecting. I was no longer convinced that this gun "could blow a bear away"—unless the bear was willing to have the barrel stuck down his throat first . . . and I didn't really want to get that close to find out.

The next day at work, I talked to my friend Grant about my gun's inability to hit a target and he just smiled . . . it was that knowing smile. He told me the difference between AIMING a rifle and POINTING a shotgun. He also told me the range of a shotgun's accuracy. "About 50 yards max," he said.

"What?" I replied in disbelief. "How am I supposed to get that close?"

"You use decoys and a goose caller," Grant said. "And the more decoys you have the better. When the real birds see the decoys, they are fooled to think it's safe to land. You know the saying, 'birds of a feather flock together.'"

"How many decoys do you use?" I asked.

"Two or three hundred," came the reply.

It didn't take long at the sporting goods store for me to realize that two or three hundred decoys would cost me thousands of dollars. There was always the cheaper two-dimensional type that one could buy. But somehow those decoys failed to impress me as being real—considering their shape transformed into nothingness if you looked at them from the wrong angle. If I couldn’t be convinced as to their reality . . . how could it convince a stupid bird? At any rate, I didn't buy any decoys that day. I did buy a goose caller, and my son and I practiced on it.

I was starting to feel the pressure. My hunting career had run into a serious snag. As of yet, I had not put a single edible thing on the table to impress my wife. And the money I had already spent on my guns, bullets, and "accessories" had not repaired the things that needed fixing around the house. So I made a tough decision—GO CHEAP. I decided to buy a dozen realistic-looking USED decoys. At least this way, it gave an appearance to my wife that I hadn't lost my head in my new passion for hunting.

Now to my hunting expeditions. "For I say . . . to everyone who is among you, not to think of himself more highly than he ought to think, but to think soberly" (Romans 12:3). It is clear to me now in hindsight, that as a hunter, I appeared to be in a constant state of drunkenness so to speak. The need for recognition—the need to succeed—the need to prove myself. Common sense should have told me that hunting was really not my cup of tea. But I was stubborn and wanted to prove otherwise. Our God is gracious. And if necessary, He will take us through the same trial over and over again until we finally GET IT.

One such memory comes to mind, in which I carefully sought permission from a landowner to hunt geese on his property. The harvest was over and the soil black from being freshly tilled. The river was off in the distance where the flock of geese would be coming from. My son and I laid down our camouflaged burlap on the black soil and crawled underneath. Even though we stood out like a sore thumb against a black background, I was convinced "undercover" work was best. I told my young son, "Don't look out from under the cover until I tell you."

It wasn't long before I could hear the geese coming toward us. We were sitting right in their flight path. "They're coming," I said through hushed breath. My heart was beating wildly as I anticipated the moment. The lead goose was talking—a honk here—a honk there—everywhere a honk, honk. Suddenly, I sat up, raised my gun, pointed at a flying goose overhead and fired. BOOM! A goose dropped out of the sky with a thump as it landed not ten feet away from my son. I was so excited—intoxicated more like it. I just nailed my very first bird and now I wanted more. I took a couple more shots, but alas, the birds were out of range.

"Did you see that?!" I said excitedly.

"See what?" replied my son, who was still lying under the burlap cover.

My moment of pride and glory was suddenly subdued, for I realized that the person I wanted most to impress never saw what his dad had just accomplished. He had obediently followed my commands and missed the whole thing. Ugh!

Now onward to my second adventure. My job with pigs had finally come to an end . . . thankfully. I was now driving for a company that took me out of the city regularly to small towns. It was on such a trip that I noticed a flock of geese near a dugout just off the highway. WOW! It was perfect. I could almost taste a delicious roasted goose on my plate. Here was a chance to prove myself to my wife and my son that I had what it took to be a hunter.

As always, I prepared for the trip: sandwiches, treats, and toilet paper. After a few excursions, I found these to be the most important items to have on hand. Needless to say, I did get permission to hunt on that property from the landowner, who reminded me not to leave a mess. I assured him that I would pick up every shell casing that hit the ground so that it didn't wind up in someone's cereal box.

By the time I reached the location, the birds were already stirring from their slumber. I parked the truck just off the highway. Like Rambo, I quietly observed the situation—calculating my plan of attack.

To the left, I could see the dugout surrounded by a six-foot-high mesh fence. Directly in front of me was a small row of bushes. According to my vision, the birds were located just on the other side of the bush. I would use that thicket as a blind to conceal my approach. Then with lightning speed, I would fall upon them before those dumb "honkers" could squawk one word of warning. The plan seemed perfect in my mind.

My son and I managed to get to the bush undetected. As I peered around the corner, "Rambo" realized he had a slight problem. There was at least a hundred yards of open field between me and the birds. Crawling a hundred yards seemed impossible. Besides, I was wearing my new outfit—I didn't want to get it dirty. There was only one solution: walk very slowly towards them and hope the geese don't notice us.

That's exactly what we did. However, after only about 10 steps, we were discovered. The goose sentries must have had binoculars to see past our camouflage clothing and realized bushes don't walk. The alarm went off. A small band of birds took to the sky. Then everybody woke up. I charged. And I need not repeat the old cliché, but the entire flock took to the air to join their brothers. I stopped and blasted off four rounds at the flighty mob, certain that ten or twenty birds would drop out of the sky . . . not a one. The only thing falling out of the sky was goose droppings.

Being that it was still early, I thought the dumb birds might return. After all, there was the slim possibility that the geese may have thought their rude awakening was just a nightmare and come back to roost. No such luck. In the meantime, we set up a blind in the open field . . . well, sort of. It was here we discovered that we could have used a sheet of plastic—between us and the globs of goose "stuff" on the ground. We had to move quite a bit of that "stuff" before lying down. Then we covered ourselves with a sheet of camouflaged burlap and waited.

It wasn't long before the steady sounds of vehicles roaming down the highway filled our ears. We would peek out every now and then to see if the flock was returning. It was then that I noticed a large truck coming down the gravel road and pulling in towards the dugout with the mesh fence.

"What an inconvenience," I thought. "Here I am with permission to hunt on this farmer's field and some other idiot has to show up and scare all the geese away!" The sign on the tanker truck read, "Wally's Septic Service." "That's odd," I thought. "What's that guy doing here at a watering hole?" It took awhile before the "light" went on and I realized this dugout was really a reservoir for raw sewage. We managed to bag a goose that day; but for some reason, I lost my appetite, and we wound up giving the bird to our dogs.

I returned home somewhat disillusioned. What do these birds eat and drink? When I came back to work on Monday, I was determined to find out more about this flock of birds. My next trip out of the city took me close to their location. These geese were no longer in the field by that dugout but were now flying several miles away on the other side of a town.

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least these geese had enough sense to know that this dugout was not good for sunbathing, swimming, or drinking from. I followed them like a secret agent on a mission. Finally, the swarm of birds came down about two miles outside of town.

I pulled my big truck to a stop. There they were—the whole flock—sunbathing, swimming, and making piña coladas in the lagoon of the town's sewage treatment plant. My stomach turned over. Goose was definitely off my list of favorite entrees.

It was time to find another source of food . . . perhaps the local supermarket? Not for this wannabe—stay tuned.



Blessings in Christ Jesus,
Paul Janz

(All Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New King James Version.)

"The Wannabe Hunter Within (Part 2) Goose Feathers" Copyright © 2010 by Paul Janz.

Paul Janz is a mature aspiring author whose writings are based on personal experiences and issues that the Lord has laid on his heart. His wit, humor, maturity, and ability to tell a good story make him an ideal writer for any Christian magazine.

Contact him directly through his website: Heaven Inspired Movies

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