Coming Home

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Today I moved back into my house (after being away for almost two years during separation and divorce). All day long the geese flew overhead, at my house, which is not unusual, but also over the place I was moving from, less usual. It seemed somewhat of a message, of goodness, as this period of being away, or at least being out of my house, is ending.

A friend helped me move the big stuff. I was moving into an empty house, and single.

It felt good to be back in the neighborhood. Sad without my family, and a bit odd without the dogs to greet me at the front door, but otherwise the same house, smells, neighbors, etc.

With about an hour before sunset I decided to grab my shotgun, and head out, as I had so many times in years earlier, but so much less so in the last couple. I was home. I could hunt.

I drove out to one of my spots, and glassed. `Green’! (Greenhead Mallards), and some hens. I parked, shed unnecessary clothes for the sneak, loaded, and headed out.

Going was noisy across the plowed and quasi frozen field. As I got closer to the creek I thought, for the first time, in the field, ... `unprotected' this is going to be loud.  Perhaps it is my age, or failing hearing, but usually that thought only comes on the range, in practice. 

At about 50 yards I slowed, to gather my wits and catch my breath. Soon I would be in good killing distance. They had not spotted me, smelled me, nor heard me ... as I knew they would not.  I didn't know exactly where they were, but my sneak was into the `middle' of them, somewhat scattered up and down the creek. Soon I was within very good killing distance. I felt good about the sit. I could not see them, nor they me.  Things can go wrong with a sneak at such a time, yet I felt there was some mystical message, some confirmation, some sign, about to unfold coincident with my moving home.

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They flushed. A green headed left upstream and I hit him with my first shot, not hard, but hard enough to allow me to turn to other birds, now all flushing from the report of the first shot. A green was flying straight away right in front – I dumped him hard with the second shot. A hen was the next prominent bird, quacking, and climbing out to the right. I crumpled her on the third shot.

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The first bird came down (?) out of sight, the second bird hard hit in the field across the stream, and the hen still alive to the right. I put a round in the open receiver and for a moment it took me a while to recall how to chamber it – having been out of this kind of action for some time. Having lost a wounded duck in this same place before I decided to dispatch her (hard).

I then chambered another round and wandered upstream for the first green. Found him belly up on the other side of the stream – he had flown on some distance, and then died. Sweet – I had all my birds.

Ripped at Triple ... Coming Home.

This is good.

It didn't sound too loud after all ... as usual, in the field.

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