"There's a flock of honkers," Darrel said, pointing with two fingers gripping a smoldering cigarette butt. "Let's see where they go." Below us, a long line of geese flying single file lifted above the river like a black centipede crawling upwards through the air and disappeared over the bluffs a mile downstream. Minutes later, another flock rose off the river and followed the same flight path. Darrel started the Chevy Suburban and revved the engine, making sure the old truck was ready to run. When a third flock of geese left the water, he threw the vehicle in gear, and we roared onto the blacktop, kicking up gravel. "I know where they're going," Darrel said, fastening his seat belt. "There's nothing but sagebrush on this side of the river except six or seven big cornfields." Darrel Wise has hunted geese in the waterfowl-rich Columbia Basin near Yakima, Washington, for more than 30 years. He knows Canada geese so well one might suspect that he was raised by them, and hunts the birds with an enthusiasm that is extreme, even in a sport rife with fanatics. A soft-spoken, thoughtful gentleman with a white, Papa Hemingway beard, he is the guy every waterfowler would like for an uncle. Riding down the highway, we spotted the geese flying in a wide V over a cornfield. We turned onto a gravel road and followed the flock, keeping a safe distance behind them. After leading us on a two-mile chase through a sea of corn stubble, the geese suddenly cupped their wings and fell from the sky like they had been shot. Darrel hit the brakes, pausing to create a mental topographical map of the section of the field where the geese had landed, then cautiously eased the big truck forward and parked behind a rise. Several more clamoring flocks were arriving from other directions. One formation, completely oblivious to our presence in their eagerness to feed, passed directly over the truck, the lead bird uttering plaintive honks to the geese on the ground. "What impresses me most about Canada geese is their ability to communicate," Darrel said, watching the flock parachute over the rise. "Geese have just started using this field, and, already, they're coming here from miles around to feed. I'm sure many of these geese have never been here before." As more flocks streamed past, Darrel pointed out the large western Canadas from the smaller lessors. At peak times, the Columbia Basin holds more than 100,000 Canada geese that winter along the river and surrounding irrigated grain fields. This great abundance of geese gives waterfowlers in the region the opportunity to take a daily limit of four Canadas throughout a 100-day season. Darrel and I crept forward in a low crouch to the top of the rise and looked down upon the feeding geese through our binoculars like army scouts surveying an enemy camp. I panned back and forth from one end of the drove of geese to the other, watching them peck, preen, stretch, and flap. "The most important factor that will determine the success of a goose hunt is location," Darrel whispered. "On these big corn fields, you have to set up exactly where they're feeding. That's why scouting is so important." At sunset, we walked back to the truck and waited to "put the geese to bed," as Darrel says. Since geese usually return the next morning to the place where they fed the previous evening, he doesn't leave feeding birds until they fly back to the Columbia to roost, just in case they suddenly switch to a new feeding location late in the afternoon. Darrel's intricate knowledge of the countryside and a little luck had enabled us to find the feeding concentration of geese on such short notice. However, Darrel usually isn't so fortunate and frequently drives more than 200 miles in an afternoon of scouting. When the last flock of geese lifted off the field, we drove back to Yakima in the gathering darkness. Darrel had just finished his 18-hour shift. He picked me up at my motel at 4 a.m. the next morning. I climbed into the Suburban and petted his chocolate Lab, Jess, sitting half-asleep in the back seat. Darrel was clearly more enthusiastic about the impending hunt than the dog. Later, I would learn that Jess' calm disposition is perfectly suited to Darrel's hunting methods. Darrel eased the big truck through the corn stubble to the ground where the geese had been feeding, keeping the tires in the combine ruts to avoid leaving telltale tracks in the sandy soil. By the glow of the headlights, we placed six dozen of his patented Real Geese silhouettes in family groups of six, leaving a large, open landing zone in the middle of the spread. Darrel designed the popular decoys with help from his goose hunting mentor, the late Leonard Karr, after spending years photographing and drawing sketches of feeding honkers. Real Geese silhouettes consist of 12 distinctly different forms painted to represent birds feeding at various postures and angles to create a three-dimensional optical illusion. While perfecting his decoy designs, he placed the prototypes in a stubble field and had a friend fly him over them in an ultra-light aircraft to observe his creations from the vantage point of a goose.
"Next to scouting, concealment is the most important part of goose hunting," Darrel said. "Hunters can set up in the right spot and have excellent decoys and calling, but if they aren't thoroughly concealed from the geese, they won't fire a shot. I am especially careful about concealment because I like to bring geese in close." What Darrel means by "close" is within 10 yards. In fact, he typically takes geese at such close ranges that he prefers to shoot a 12 gauge over-and-under, choked skeet and improved cylinder - not a common choice for hunting large honkers. Geese could be heard in the distance over the Columbia as the first rosy blush of dawn washed over the empty, desert landscape. Morbid thoughts aside, I lay down in the shallow grave that I had dug for myself and was immediately impressed by how comfortable lying on the contoured ground was - much like reclining in a Lazy-Boy. I had drifted off to sleep when Darrel returned from parking the truck. He covered my pit with two fiberglass lids and scattered dry topsoil and cornstalks on them to blend in with the surrounding field. He did the same for Jess, who had dutifully curled up in her pit, and then he climbed into his own. For creating movement in the spread, Darrel held a flapping device consisting of black canvas flaps attached to two crossed dowels joined with elastic bands, which can be easily operated with one hand held above the pit. "When I say take 'em, push the pit lid back behind your head and sit up to shoot," Darrel said. "Remember, I like to bring them in close, so you won't have to rush your shots."
The disorganized mob of geese fanned out into a broad wave for their final approach to the decoys. The bulk of the flock pitched on the downwind edge of the spread, but a line of several honkers kept gliding into the landing zone, floating on the crisp air as if they were weightless, their gray bellies burnished by the sun. When they began to light just to the left of our pits, so close I could see plumes of dust stirred from the ground by their wing buffets, Darrel shouted, "Take 'em!" I shoved the pit lid behind me and sat up to face a bedlam of startled honkers flailing the air with their wings to escape the ambush. The geese were too close to lead, so I pointed the barrel directly at the rising birds, and folded a pair within 20 yards of the pit. "How many did you get?" I asked Darrel. "Three." "What?" "I got two with my second shot." I looked among the decoys and counted five honkers lying motionless in the stubble. Darrel grinned with satisfaction while Jess retrieved the geese. This was the payoff for all the hard work and preparation - the chance to lure the wild birds in close enough to touch and then drop them in your lap.
The approaching geese were more cautious than the previous flock and kept well out of range, inspecting the spread for danger. While they were circling the decoys, another formation of geese arrived behind them. The two flocks merged into a great, raucous cloud as the newcomers cupped their wings and began a steep glide toward the spread, pulling the rest of the geese with them. A vanguard of more than a dozen honkers sailed straight into the landing zone to beat the others to the table, while the rest of the flock hovered above them, jostling each other for position to land. At that moment, lying underground with the big birds looming above me, I felt very small, almost invisible, and to the sharp eyes of the geese, I was. Darrel called the shot, and, following a quick volley, three geese thumped heavily onto the ground, completing our limits. It had been a very short, albeit intense, hunt. After we had gathered the decoys and filled in the pits, we sat in the Suburban, sipping coffee and watching the rest of the geese return to feed where our decoys had been only minutes before. "When I was younger, I used to love to hunt trophy bucks, and I liked elk hunting to a degree, but what gives me the biggest thrill in the world is to bring in 50 honkers with their feet down, like we did this morning," Danel said. "It's the ultimate hunting experience as far as I'm concerned, and it keeps getting better every year." That afternoon, I accompanied Darrel on another scouting expedition through the rich farmland along the Columbia. The broad, sluggish river is laced with gravel bars and shallow backwaters that are prime resting places for ducks and geese, and the surrounding irrigated grain fields provide the migrants with an almost unlimited food supply. I was impressed by the great abundance of waterfowl in the region. We watched hundreds of widgeon on shallow sloughs stealing aquatic vegetation stirred up by rafts of diving coots. Later, we passed a recently harvested buckwheat field covered with more than a thousand mallards gorging themselves with grain. And, of course, we found two cornfields full of feeding honkers. When Darrel dropped me off at my motel at the end of the day, I offered to buy him dinner, but he declined, explaining that he had to go home and get some sleep. I certainly understood why he needed his rest. He was going goose hunting in the morning. Darrel Wise's Waterfowl Adventure Rates Hunting Dates Are Booking Fast, Don't Be Left Out 3 Days, $2,500.00 American
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Darrel Wise looked through his binoculars,
scanning the blue expanse of the Columbia River below him. He was worried. The geese had
pulled one of their inexplicable dirty tricks that occasionally make his life very
difficult. For a week, he had watched several hundred Canada geese pour into one of his
leased corn fields to feed, but this afternoon - the day before he intended to hunt the
field with a writer - the geese hadn't shown. Now, with the pale November sun sinking
rapidly over the Columbia Basin, his only hope for the next morning's hunt was to spot
another concentration of geese leaving the river and follow them to a field where they
were feeding.
When the decoys were all in place, Darrel and I grabbed
shovels from the back of the Suburban and began digging our "coffin pits" on the
right side of the landing zone. We dug two long pits contoured to provide back and neck
support for ourselves and a small, round pit for Jess. Darrel covers the pits with
camouflaged fiberglass sheets, completely concealing hunters lying beneath them.
The first flight of geese didn't arrive until just after
sunrise. Peering from underneath the back of a shell decoy suspended above the pit lid, I
watched three staggered waves of honkers winging toward us Behind me, Darrel was furiously
flapping the canvas wings and calling the birds with high pitched double - clucks. The
geese broke into a wild chorus as they passed high over the spread, and the air became
charged with the low-frequency hum of vibrating goose pinions. The leaders abruptly cupped
their wings and turned back toward the decoys, forcing the geese behind them to turn
sharply as well to avoid a series of midair collisions.
Jess didn't have time to retrieve the last bird before
another flock of honkers came sweeping across the field in our direction. Darrel snapped
his fingers, pointing to the pit, and Jess dove in head first. Then, Darrel hustled back
to his pit, the aluminum goose bands on his lanyard jingling musically against the plastic
calls. 
