The fog was thick.
How thick was it?
If you looked up into the air you might fall over from vertigo. It was the type of tule fog that would prevent us from reaching our duck club on Webb Tract before daylight, in fact we didn’t even leave the dock until nearly first light.
We’d crossed Frank’s Tract many times in darkness, so it was with little fear that we putted slowly off, me holding the tiller of the 9.5 horse Evinrude outboard motor in one hand and a compass in the other.
The heading was 340 degrees. Light from the headlamp around my forehead illuminated the compass. Rob and Fred chatted while keeping their eyes open for other boats or floating objects. With the correct heading, eventually an outline of tules would show up on the very near horizon. On very foggy days, the tules would show up thirty of forty yards out.
Rob an Fred were seated in the bow, along with my dog, Tubbs. She stood in front of them leaning out into the fog and sniffing the breeze as dogs will to.
Tubbs was always sniffing the breeze. She was a mixed breed but mostly hound. Scent was her thing. I imagine she kept a pretty good inventory of what was around by just using her nose.
The “Whaler” had been modified for our use. We didn’t need anything fancy, in fact, the steering wheel and seats that came with the boat had been removed a few years after I purchased it. It had traveled with me cross country after my discharge from the Navy in 1976.
As tends to happen with boat trailers, a bearing had gone out on the 3,000 mile trip and the Whaler had traveled the last 1,000 miles like a car-top boat, high atop my Chevy pickup and camper. It was a strange sight.
The color of the boat was camo, several layers of camo. With each attempt to make the boat disappear in the marsh it took on a slightly different shade of camo green. To others it was ugly - to us it was a beauty queen.
Tubbs was the dog of the day in the 80’s. She was in prime shape, a pretty good pheasant dog, but on the goose hunt she was mostly just company.
As the hound leaned out over the bow of the whaler, a slight trickle of water began to seep over the top of the gunwales. The seep became a trickle and the trickle a stream and then we were going down like a submarine diving, the bow was awash.
Rob, Fed and I stood. Tubbs began to jump ship, but Rob grabbed her collar and kept her on board.
As advertised, the Whaler did its thing. With water to the brim, three hunters, two dogs and a day’s worth of hunting equipment the boat not only stayed afloat, but also stayed upright with the motor running.
In the cold foggy semi-darkness, I maintained a forward motion with the motor idling while Rob and Fred converted our hunting seats (five gallon buckets) to bailing devices. Within minutes we were recovered from near disaster, a little shaken, but ready for the hunt. Waders kept us dry.
It turned out to be a perfect day. With 500 or so white garbage bags laid around us in the corn stubble, and a fog aiding our man-made illusion, snow geese passed over our blind.
I was the last without a three-bird limit. Rob and Fred waited and heckled me about my poor shooting ability. Although they were ready to head in and watch the Super bowl (Montana vs. Marino), a miss would give them enough pleasure to justify missing the first half if necessary, as there was always an element of competition between the three of us.
We had shifted positions to a tall stand of Johnson grass, a grass that grew on the edges of the cornfields and provided excellent cover for both pheasants and goose hunters. As we stared into the fog over looking the spread of while bags, a clear single honk sounded from beyond the decoys.
The three of us stiffened, as we knew the sound to mean the impending arrival of what we considered to be the trophy of the Delta, Canada geese.
Within seconds, the outline of a V appeared in the sky at an elevation of about only thirty yards. As the flock passed directly overhead, I swung the barrel of my Winchester model twelve past the lead bird. Knowing that extra lead was required with the surprisingly fast flyers, I doubled the lead over my normal duck lead and pulled the trigger. Down came the big bird.
I had the last laugh. With limits in hand (nine geese total between us), Rob and Fred could only stand and watch as the remaining 29 (or so) honkers flew off to survive for another season – it was the last day of goose season.
With as many geese as we could legally take, and almost more than we could carry, the three of us celebrated by taking photos. We made it to a nearby bar on Bethel Island before the end of the first half and watched as the 49ers beat the Miami Dophins for a Super bowl win.
The day had gone from near disaster to a perfect conclusion.
