Cutter's Curtain Call

 

Ok, so I posted the last article, "Cutter's Last Retrieve," and I felt like if this is his last season, we need to go out on a better note, right? So, I figured we would roll the dice a little bit and take a drive out to Eastern Montana where goose season remained open for another ten days, closing on January 24th. As Federal regulations dictate, each region only gets a certain number of days to hunt waterfowl. Because of late migrations of geese, Montana has decided to split the state up into two zones and start later in Eastern Montana and stay open later. I wish they would do that for the entire state, but we have some hunting groups who like the early season for teal, so we open up earlier in Central and Western Montana and subsequently, close earlier. Up until a couple years ago, we split the season, which meant there would be a weak off in early January and then open up again in order to catch that late migration. Of course, every year is different and sometimes it works out and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes, like last year, it was a moot point because we got really cold, really early and most of the birds were gone by January. This year, we didn't get the northern flights until it was too late for most of the state except Zone 2. So, Cutter and I loaded up three dozen field decoys, and headed east. 

I wasn't sure of the plan. (There really wasn't much of plan, which is how I roll.) I grabbed a few boxes of shells, the decoys, a couple pair of underwear and off we went. It was a Monday, just three days before the end of the season. The skies were clear, the temps were on the rise after the deep freeze we all lived through in the previous week, and I really had no idea if the birds had headed out or if they were still hanging up along the Yellowstone and Big Horn Rivers. While driving along the Stone on my way back from Minnesota in December, the birds were thick. But the cold snap could have pushed them south--only one way to find out.

I took a mental note of where I saw the most birds on my Christmas trip. Waco, MT was where the birds had been thick with a few Block Managment Areas that required a reservation to hunt but instead of calling them prior to this trip, I decided to wait until I got down there to see where the birds were before committing to anything. It was about a four-hour drive to Waco that consisted of a fair amount of doubt, then some optimism, and then doubt again as I drove past acres and acres of agricultural fields that held geese a few weeks ago but were now empty. Every once in a while, I would see a few dozen geese on a field and my heart rate would bump up to a high idle, but then the next field would be empty, and doubt would creep into the inner-dialog, and I would chastise myself for not taking the trip sooner. At some point, I began the process of self-reconciliation, pointing out that not every trip is a homerun and that's just part of the journey. Those failed trips are what makes the successful trips so good...fuck that. We need to find birds. 

I took the Waco exit and pulled onto a county road that followed the along the Yellowstone River. I had my onX app pulled up on my phone and was checking on some state land. Next to the state piece and right off the river were some prime ag fields. The only thing missing were birds. Nothing. 

I thought about getting back on the highway and heading west. It was about 2 o'clock. I could be home early enough to make dinner and relax. Instead, I turned east and headed towards Hysham. It was only a half-hour further and since I'm already here, I may as well check out the scenery. 

I was about 15 miles from Hysham when I started seeing birds. There was a field that was still covered with snow with the exception of the half-acre spot where cattle had been feeding on hay that was dumped off from the rancher. In the mud and trampled snow and hay, there were a couple dozen geese picking away at the cow pies, looking for undigested seeds. In the sky, another dozen or so geese were cupped up, coming in for a landing. As I drove by, they dropped just above my truck and gracefully sat down with the flock that was already on the deck picking seeds--a sign of hope. 

As I made my way further east, another field had a few dozen geese. We ascended uphill, to round a section of bluffs that looked out over the Yellowstone River. On the top of the plateau, another couple dozen geese resided on a grain field and as we crested and started heading back into the valley, what were a few groups of geese here and there, literally turned the skies over the horizon a darker shade of blue grey, much like the stippling affect for the shading of a tattoo. Thousands of geese, some in the tell-tailed v-pattern of travelers, and some in the more chaotic randomness of geese wanting to find a place to sit down covered the sky.  My heart accelerated like the rev'd up 350 V8 in my dad's '73 Monte Carlo while doing break stands with it as a teen. 

"Check that shit out," I said to Cutter as I looked back to see him sit up in the back seat, ears perked up and head leaning forward to peer through the windshield. 

A whimper leaked out from him as more and more geese came into view. 

"I know, buddy. Pretty crazy, huh?"

I pulled up my onX on my phone again and started looking for anything blue or gold, which would indicate state lands or BLM, or anything shaded red with dots that would indicate a Block Management Area. As we drove, I took note of fields that birds wanted to be in, which was obvious as some fields had hundreds of geese and others had none. I then referenced the map on my phone and tried to line up the occupied fields with those that were open to hunting or fields that would require me to knock on doors. Ideally, I would find a field that was both habituated by geese that was also open to hunting. Life doesn't work that way though, so I started planning my approach to knocking on doors and asking landowners for access. 

I did notice one fairly large piece of property that was a Type II Block Management Area, which meant I would have to get written permission to hunt, but it also meant they were already in the mindset of allowing hunting. That was a good sign. I also came up on another part of that BMA that was a Type I Area, which just meant there was a sign-in box with pretty much no limits on who or how many people could hunt. That parcel was adjacent to the Isaac Homestead Wildlife Management Area that was also open to hunting. However, as I scouted these areas, no birds wanted to be anywhere near them--probably because geese have an aversion to being shot at, so they figure these spots out pretty quick and avoid them.  There was one field in the middle of all of this that had a ton of geese on it, but no advertised public access so I went to the house and knocked on the door. 

After a minute or two of a very large dog barking and jumping up on the door, a young woman, still in her night-gown at 2:30 in the afternoon, answered. I hate making judgements but that's what we do as human beings, which allows us to navigate this crazy world in an expedited manner. I was pretty sure she wasn't the owner of the property so my approach to asking for permission altered. 

"Do you know who owns that property," I asked while pointing across the road.

She told me the owners, which I remembered as being the owners of the Block Management Area as well. 

"Oh, so they have the Block Management, too?" I asked but got the blank stare of, huh?

I pivoted, "So, are they just down the road here?"

She pointed to the south and gave me directions to the house of the owners of the ranch. I thanked her, jumped in the truck and headed that way. The house was only a mile or so away and again, I made the walk to the front door and knocked. 

The woman who answered this time was much older and fully dressed. She was also wearing a scoff on her face that told me she was pretty much done with hunters knocking on her door. 

"I don't mean to bother you mam, but do you guys own the block management area here?"

"Yes," she admitted in a short tone that complimented her scoff. 

"Ok, well, it's the last two days of the season and I was just wondering if I could get out on your property. I drove down from Helena today and this is the most birds I've seen all year. The weather just didn't bring them down around the Missouri..." I realized my small talk was probably just annoying her. 

"Let me grab my calendar," she cut in. 

As she came back to the door, she confirmed that she did have an opening for the next day.

"There's nobody hunting tomorrow," she said. 

"Ok, what about Wednesday, too?" 

"There's nobody hunting tomorrow," she reiterated.

"Oh, ok. Um, can I hunt then?" I asked like a twelve-year-old wanting to hang out with his older brother and his friends. 

"The sign-in box is right over there," she motioned towards a mailbox mounted onto a ranch sign with their name. 

"So, do you know of any hotel rooms in the area?" I asked, realizing I was pushing my luck. 

"No." She said, then adding, with the tiniest bit of sympathy, "You'll probably have to drive back to Billings or onto Forsythe. There might be a place in Custer but I'm not sure." 

"Ok, thanks!" I said with the enthusiasm of that twelve-year-old that just heard his brother say, 'fine'.

I jumped in my truck, stopped by the sign-in box to fill out a sheet, and then headed back to the east towards Custer. I was going to check out a couple fields that were part of the BMA along the way and make a plan for the morning. I also Googled hotels in the area and did see one in Custer. Unfortunately, it was closed. The next closest hotel was a half-hour away in Hardin, which is Indian country, bordering the Crow Reservation. I've stayed in Hardin before. As much you hear the locals cautioning you about staying on or near the res, it doesn't bother me. I've never had any more problems staying in reservation towns as any other small towns in Montana. I just didn't want to drive that far but my options were limited.  

On my way out, I scouted a field behind the rancher's house. There were pivots parked along irrigation ditches where hundreds of geese were feeding, with more dropping in as I drove by. Using my onX, I verified that this was part of the BMA and there was easy access through a maintenance road that dissected the field. 

"This is too perfect," I thought to myself and headed down the road to Hardin.

The sun was setting as I drove county road 47 up the Big Horn River. Every field along the way was thick with black heads and white cheeks as Canada geese picked away at whatever was left behind after the fall harvest. It was hard to believe there was enough grain and seeds to support the numbers of birds I was seeing but obviously, they were doing just fine. These birds were huge and the more I saw, the more my brain went to this assumption that this was going to be too easy. I would surely have my limit well before noon, so I was going to have plenty of time to fine another spot to hunt the final day. This was going to be sick. 

As I got to Hardin, I pulled into the driveway of the Super 8, left my truck running, and approached the counter where the attendant was standing behind the desk. She was a mid-twenties, Crow member, and greeted me with a smile. I asked if I could get a room and she went to work on pulling up the agreement. An older gentleman, also a tribal member, passed by several times, checking in on our conversation. The gentleman had a distinguishing trait that brought attention to him--a patch over his right eye.

"Welcome," he said, as he nodded to me. 

If you aren't familiar with this area, the Big Horn River is one of the most heavily fished and heavily guided rivers in the Lower Forty-Eight. Hardin is downstream of the Blue-Ribbon water flowing out of the Yellowtail Afterbay Damn at Fort Smith, which is about 45 minutes south. Fort Smith does have some lodges and accommodations, but not nearly enough for the thousands and thousands of anglers that come to the river every season, so there is plenty of overflow, that inevitably make their way to Hardin. Like every small town and just about every river that has developed into a fly-fishing mecca, there are growing pains, and the Big Horn is not without these contentions. In fact, I would argue there's even more resentment over the waves of rich white folk ascending upon this area because the river was closed to non-tribal members until 1981, which is partly why it developed into such a prolific trout river. One might imagine that resentment, manifesting through the way locals greet people like me, but that's not what my initial experience would reveal. In fact, these two folks were quite welcoming. Maybe that has to do with a more developed sense from local residents of not only acceptance of the situation but now a realization of the potential profiting from the situation. It's not that different from what I experienced through the years of guiding on the Missouri. Craig locals hated us fly-fishing folk for ruining their community and their river. Now, they accept us, and they profit from the anglers that visit the river every year.

I remember my first introduction to the Craig Bar in the spring of 2007. I had already decided to work for one of the shops and to guide part-time. I was fishing with the shop owner and another buddy when we got off the river and decided to go have a beer. As we sat down at one side of the bar, a cowboy with the big black hat, shit kickers, and a buckle the size of my steering wheel leaned over the bar and directed a question my way.

"Hey," he said, "you one of those catch-and-release fagots?"

"Um," I stuttered, "I mean, we do put the fish back?" 

"The only catching and releasing I do," he replied, "is catching and releasing them into a pan of bacon grease!" He punctuated his punchline with a laugh bigger and louder than the belt buckle that was desperately trying to abdicate itself from the rolls of his jiggling beer belly.

A week later, at the same bar, another local leaned over to me and also asked if I was one of them "fly-fishing fagots." He was promptly removed from the bar and his evening of drinking was prematurely suspended. That same gentleman tried picking a fight with me at Izzak's about a week later and was again, kicked out of the bar. 

A lot has changed over the years and people have become much more accepting of us, fly-fishing folk and our money. As a result, I have come to know a lot of locals in these places and have had some really fun times with them. I was actually quite interested in what Hardin was all about since I hadn't been there for years, and the more I talked with these two folks at the Super 8, the happier I was to have made the drive. 

It turns out, the gentleman with the patch is the manager of the hotel. He also did most of the artwork in the lobby, which was done by burning plywood panels with only the use of the sun and a fricken magnifying glass. Incidentally, that's how he lost the vision in his right eye and why he wears a patch. 

His name is Jonathan Beartusk and he does have an online gallery called Dance of the Sun. The artwork is so good that he was commissioned to do a portrait of President Obama and was nationally recognized for it. I saw the photos of him presenting the artwork to the president--pretty damn cool. 

After settling in at the hotel, I took a trip downtown and hung out with some other locals at the Four Aces Bar and Lounge. Much like my trip to Malta, I spent way too much time at the lounge socializing and wound up paying for it the next morning. Somehow, again like the Malta trip, my bill at the bar was only $23! That was with a chicken dinner too... 

Shooting hours started at around 7:30am. I was on the road after a couple cups of coffee and a McGriddles at around six. I drove the half-hour to Custer, pulled off the county road and onto the maintenance road after double checking that I was following the rules for the BMA per their instructions outlined on the website. I was able to park my rig about 300 yards from the pivot where all those birds were feeding the evening before. In the dark, I couldn't see the pivot, I was just guessing where I should head, so after loading up the three dozen decoys--two dozen full body and a dozen shells--in the sled, I started off across the field and fortunately, after a few minutes, saw the silhouette of the pivot come into view. I checked the onX to make sure I wasn't veering off from the BMA. I was right along the edge of the boundary, which was neither marked nor fenced off. 

As I got closer to the pivot and the irrigation ditch, I was happy to see signs of geese in the form of tracks in the snow and a healthy amount of frozen, green droppings that resembled lopped off human fingers curled up in the snow. (I know. Gross.) I also noted that there were no geese on the field when I got there. I figured that was a good thing because that meant they were roosting on the river and would be back as the temperature warmed up and the geese got hungry. The fact that I didn't spook them off the field meant they wouldn't have a reason to be alarmed. 

It took me about 45 minutes to get set up. Pounding in the stakes for the full body decoys was a bit of a chore in the frozen ground. I positioned my spread just out from the pivot so I could hide behind one of its giant wheels. If that wasn't enough cover, I could slide back to the ditch, which was only about 15 yards away. The ditch was overgrown with grasses and some Russian olives and other shrubs, which would be easy for Cutter and me, to conceal ourselves. As the sun came up, I could hear the geese squawking on the river. I could tell they were getting antsy and figured it was only a matter of time. 

 An hour passed. No birds took flight. I could still hear them. An hour-and-a-half and still no birds coming to feed. I was getting cold, so I started doing jumping jacks. I was still pretty confident but again, some doubt crept in. 

Almost two hours after shooting light, the first goose honked much closer than the hundreds I could hear on the river. A lone goose flew over the decoys, gave one look and continued on. A few minutes later, a group of 10 or so followed the same flight plan. The doubt now grew in me like the disappointing anxiety a kid feels while standing on the sidelines waving, pick me! Pick me! 

A few minutes later, another group of a dozen or more geese flew past the decoys, turned and cupped up. My heart jumped. I grabbed my goose call and tried to mimic what they were telling my spread. They weren't having it and before coming into range, they flared, and I watched as they glided to west behind me and sat down in the neighbor's field about a quarter mile away. Another group followed them and for about 30 minutes I watched as flock after flock passed up my decoys for the naturals on the wrong side of the fence.

I moved back into the ditch, thinking that was the problem. From the angle they were flying in, I thought maybe they were picking me out and I was the reason for them flaring. A few more groups came over without as much as a look at the decoys. 

Every once in a while, a group would fly just close enough that I thought I could shoot but after dumping my gun a few times, I realized it was futile to attempt these passing shots, and knowing every shell was costing me a buck, I decided to stop making these frivolous donations to Federal Arms. 

I changed up my cadence on the call and eventually a group made the turn, cupped up and wanted in. Unfortunately, I was now well behind the pivot and as the geese made their final approach, they were still 40 yards out and I would have had to shoot through the pivot, risking hitting the sprinkler heads so that wasn't going to work. As the flock busted out, I rethought my predicament. I was going to have to move back to the wheel and hope for the best. 

I did have my lay-out blind with me that I had set up under the pivot for Cutter to lay on. The axel for the pivot was only a few feet above the ground and was helping to conceal Cutter and the blind was just acting as a pad for him, warmer than laying on the bare ground. I was posted up on the edge of a stubble field with a skiff of snow on it. The blind wasn't going to do me much good. Now I was seriously doubting my set-up and as more and more geese flew on a straight line to land a quarter of a mile past me, I was thinking about all the chickens I had counted the night before. It made me think of Buddha and how all these expectations we put on ourselves leads to disappointment and unhappiness--just another example, driving that point home. Well played, Buddha. Well played. 

Then something fantastic happened. The wind shifted slightly, coming from southwest, which meant the geese coming off the river would slide past me, turn and have to come in from the northeast. I was set up on the south side of the wheel so they couldn't see me as they made their final approach. I also started finding my voice with the call and geese were responding to it, much happier to come say hello and then from out of nowhere, the first group actually landed on the deck. 

Unfortunately, that group landed a few yards out of range so I couldn't get a good shot off, but it was a start. I few minutes later, a group didn't quite reach the deck but flew directly over me and well within range, so I took my shot and dropped one. It didn't fold up immediately and wound up gliding off over the ditch, into the neighbor's field behind us. I sent Cutter after it, knowing the protocol would be to ask permission first but with the goose standing there, 50 yards away, I took my chance. I pointed Cutter to the bird and gave the command. 

Cutter reached the goose with the vigor of a line-backer, making a tackle even Troy Polamalu would be proud of and with the bird stunned, picked it up and headed towards me. I crossed back down the steep bank of the ditch, back up the other side and to the pivot wheel and after a few minutes without Cutter showing up, stood up to find him. He had brought the goose to our side of the ditch over a land-bridge a few yards to the south of where we had set up, so he didn't have to go down through the ditch with this enormous bird. That was pretty intuitive of the black dog and definitely made things easier but before he could get to the pivot, he gave up, dropping the goose and looking at me as to say, "alright, your turn." Again, these geese are huge--probably weighing a good fifteen pounds. Cutter is about 75 pounds and 12 years old, so I figured he deserved a pass. 

I helped out with the last 30 yards or so, rung the goose's neck and laid it down under the axel of the pivot. I was relieved at that point, that we weren't going to get skunked but still a little apprehensive about the relatively small spread of decoys and our setup. However, within a couple minutes, another group came in and I dumped my gun and another goose dropped just on the other side of the ditch from us. Cutter had to make another retrieve on a 15 pound, pissed off goose from about 100 yards out. 

With two of these monster geese now piled up under the pivot, I decided not to take even a marginally questionable shot. I waited to only shoot at geese that were committed to landing and if I hit one, I would stop shooting for the double and focus only on the one that was already hit. It was just too much to ask Cutter to make these retrieves and even shooting 3-inch BB's, these geese were almost impossible to kill with one shot. A few minutes later, I pulled the trigger on a group of cupped up geese and watched as one flipped, doing a 360 in mid-air before bouncing off the frozen field. Then a fourth goose dropped out of the next flock and then a 5th and before I knew it; it was 11am and I had my limit--three and a half hours, one box of shells, and five dead geese. Screw you Buddha. 

We picked up decoys and hauled gear back to the truck. With the added weight of the geese, it took two trips. I left the BMA feeling pretty good, and as we drove past the field where the majority of geese were landing that morning, they all took flight with the exception of one, so I drove into the ranch and knocked on the door. The gentleman that answered seemed to be a good guy and told me I could drive out across his hay fields to finish that goose off. Thinking I needed another place to hunt for the final day, I asked him if he would give permission. Unfortunately, he told me he leased his place out to other hunters so he couldn't. He also told me he was glad the season was ending because he was a little tired of hunters knocking on his door every day. He didn't say it like he was lumping me into that group, and he also conveyed to me that he's a hunter as well and he gets it, but it was getting a little old. I get that.

I did go out to get that cripple. My first attempt was to send Cutter after it. In the time it took us to pick up decoys and drive around to the other ranch, Cutter had stiffened up and wasn't quick enough to wrangle it down before it took flight. It was so apparent that he wasn't going to be able to bounce back for day two, I didn't take the ranchers advise to ask the neighbor to hunt the next day. I had shot enough for the brine bucket, so we headed home. 

I'm glad I decided to roll the dice on hunting that last week in Eastern Montana. It was kind of a redemption for how the season ended in Central Montana. It gave me one last good memory of hunting with Cutter, if in fact, this was his last season and I got to meet some really good folks again. And, it gives me opportunities for future hunts--hopefully with a friend or two at a time we can plan it. Good times, a good dog, and good people. 

Keep 'em where they live...