The first time I took my nephew goose hunting he was about 14. The hours passed quietly in our camouflaged layout blinds, hidden among rows of corn stubble as the winter light faded behind the tree line.
We hadn’t a single bird to our credit, and, in fact we never even got a look, and the silence was approaching awkward. I had hoped to make his first goose hunt memorable, but not because of a lack of action.
As luck would have it five minutes after legal shooting time, our shotguns already sheathed, a large flock of Canadas cascaded upon us, a crushing wave of honks resonating across the farm field. The young hunter...
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