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When it comes to a duch hunt, timing is everything
 

 

(And now, the thrilling conclusion to Jack’s tale from last week about his quest for a self-hunted Thanksgiving dinner …)

I knew one afternoon that I had to make some tough decisions. If a decent duck didn’t show up this evening, the undesirable coot was just going to have to do.

Sure enough, as the evening light was waning and the shadows increasing across the pond, I knew it was now or never. BOOOM! The roar of the 16-gauge echoed across the pond, and the coot was down.

Carefully unloading the shotgun and leaning it against the fork of a large willow, I waded in and began the icy trip to retrieve the coot. All of the walking and running in the old hip boots had really increased the size of the pin holes. They’d become flat-out leaks.

I could feel the icy water hitting my legs and running down and soaking my sock feet. Sloshing through the quarry pond, I failed to hear the noise in the distance. As I reached for the coot, the sound became more distinct: Honk, Hoooonkkk, Hoonk!

Unbelievable – one of the high-flying vees of a hundred or more geese was getting ready to set down on the pond – the pond where I was standing! I grabbed the coot and stuffed it in my hunting jacket. Not sure of what to do, I decided to bend over, look down at the water and try to look like a stump.

The ruse worked. I froze in place stump-like, and the flock continued to descend. Then it dawned on me: What exactly is the plan once the geese land? My gun was 60 feet away, empty, leaning against a willow tree and I had no way of getting to it. If I moved, I would blow my cover. (Stumps don’t suddenly move. Stumps don’t move.)

And, then they were on me – and I do mean, THEY WERE ON ME.

Cupping and flapping their wings, the geese began to hit the water around me. I could feel the wind off of their wings and their feathers almost brushed my hunkered-over torso.

I couldn’t stand the commotion any longer. Although some were within arm’s reach and grabbing distance, I opted for a mad dash for the bank. I would load my shotgun as fast as an Old West gunslinger, and I would wheel around and bring down a goose for the Thanksgiving table.

As soon as I straightened up, the remaining airborne geese saw my white face peering through the dim light and sounded the alarm. I’d never heard such a racket in all my life. Geese were going everywhere – up, down, sideways, landing, taking off.

Racing for the bank and splashing the icy water over the tops of the old hip boots, I made a mad dash for the willow blind and my trusty shotgun. Quickly I grabbed the 16-gauge, slapped the two remaining shells back in the magazine and cycled the bolt.

Whipping around, flipping off the safety and looking across the pond, all I saw was the tiny ripples where once there had been a hundred geese. Faintly, I could hear the flock honking as they winged to safety somewhere far away in Decatur County.

I slogged back to my bicycle in my soaked socks and pants with my coot and my gun, and I slowly pedaled my bike home in the dark. Needless to say, Mom was not impressed with the scrawny, stinky coot I’d plucked most of the feathers off of.

She said, “Bake it in any oven you want; just not in mine!” Apparently, Mom had an underdeveloped appreciation for waterfowl.

My culinary craving was about to be satisfied, however; a good friend of mine mentioned his mother was staying with his sick aunt and we could use their oven. Rubbing the coot down with some butter and sprinkling it with salt and pepper, we decided to bake it covered in foil for at least a couple hours at 375 degrees. We wanted to make sure the coot was done.

The coot got really done. The meat had taken on a distinct resemblance to a small block of jerky – very hard, stinky jerky – almost too tough to cut with a sharp knife. It had shrunk to the size of a Cornish hen, and it looked like there wasn’t enough meat on it to fix a sick man a bowl of soup. Not much of the coot was consumed, even though it was the main entrée, and we didn’t have any side dishes.

It’s as the old saying goes: “Optimism springs eternal in the breasts of hunters.”

We pitched the remains of the coot to my buddy’s dog, as I said, “You know, Christmas is coming up, and I know where we might get a goose! Can you imagine – getting a Christmas goose?”

Volunteers replant Kokomo city trees

 On Nov. 4, a coalition of regional and national partners, including RETREET, Indiana Department of Natural Resources, Keep Indianapolis Beautiful and the city of Kokomo were to lead volunteers in planting 120 native caliper trees, free of charge, at the homes of residents of Kokomo affected by the devastating EF3 tornado hitting the city in August 2016.

RETREET addresses an often-overlooked part of the recovery process. Trees are destroyed alongside infrastructure and housing in every disaster. While bringing life back to an area produces an immense psychological impact by making unfamiliar landscapes feel like home again, there are frequently no resources available to do the unique work.

Most people struggling through the recovery process do not have time, energy or funds required to replace their lost trees and, further, do not know which trees should be planted where or when is best to do so. Therefore, they are left rebuilding in utter devastation, with stumps serving as daily reminders of the catastrophe.

Of everything lost, mature trees are what will take the longest to replace. “It’s been a long journey back from the tornado. RETREET’s volunteers and trees helped my community fill voids left by the devastation and bring smiles as we watch them grow – a symbol that life is returning and this will be a great place to live again,” said Rebecca Kasbaum, a resident of Moore, Okla., pointing out the impact RETREET’s previous work had in her community.

Additional support for Kokomo RETREET is provided by The Home Depot Foundation, Heritage and Duke Energy.

 

The views and opinions expressed in this column are those of the author and not necessarily those of Farm World. Readers with questions or comments may contact Jack Spaulding by email at jackspaulding@hughes.net or by writing to him in care of this publication.

11/17/2017