Sports: Outdoors

‘Goosed’ by a gander

Bob Kornegay

Canada geese are beautiful birds. Though I’ve never encountered any waterfowl species I’d consider difficult to look at, the regal Canada has always been especially attractive.

Of course, beauty is often, as they say, “skin deep;” and this prince of waterfowl is no exception to that old truism. I was rudely reminded of this one day last week.

 While enjoying a pleasant hike along the Chattahoochee Trail at Bagby State Park near Fort Gaines, I ran afoul of a large Canada gander that took exception to my opinion that he and his nest were ideal close-up photo subjects. Mother Goose, who was taking a feeding break, honked loudly at me from the water’s edge while Daddy Gander motivated my prudent retreat with beating wings and snapping beak. So much for Canadas being shy birds that habitually fly away or waddle rapidly out of camera range. Following a 30-yard pursuit, I was finally allowed to escape with only a few briar scratches to show for it. My dignity, however, was shattered and my astute outdoorsman’s reputation severely damaged.

I couldn’t help being reminded of an incident that took place 15 years ago when my friend Mike Stuart and I were fishing a chain of small public lakes in Southwest Georgia. That day, the wind forced us to beach our canoe on the shore of a pretty little island covered with marsh grass and driftwood.

 Deciding to fish from the island until the stiff breeze died down, Mike and I parted company; he began casting from our landing site while I trekked toward the far end of the small land mass.

Enter the goose. Or geese, as it were.

You know the old saying, “Mad as a settin’ hen?” Well, a settin’ goose, being about five times bigger, gets about five times as mad when a size-11 boat shoe lands within inches of her nest. I didn’t see her in the tall grass until she burst forth to inform me, in no uncertain terms, that I was much too close. As illustrated up front, Canada geese have no sense of humor and are less than fond of surprises.

For a moment, Mama clung to my britches leg and beat me furiously with her wings, withdrawing only after Dad flew in from the other side of the lake, attracted by all the commotion. Like most jealous husbands, the gander was impossible to convince that my involvement with his spouse was all due to a misunderstanding. He ignored my lower extremities and concentrated an all-out attack on my head. Stuart, having recently suffered a chronic hysteria attack, lay howling on the ground, unable to render assistance.

During the battle, which I was definitely losing, I noticed a long length of monofilament fishing line wrapped loosely around the big bird’s neck and wing; the classic avian death-snare, a thoughtless angler’s cast-off that would eventually tighten and strangle.

Now there were two problems: getting the gander off me and getting the line off the gander. Fate, and my feathered adversary’s aggressiveness, solved both.

Summoning his last reserves of strength, the bird closed with me a final time. My own stamina long gone, I gave up, covered my face, and rolled downhill toward the lakeshore, where I wound up half buried in red-clay mud.

The gander released me and returned to his mate, who by now was again resting peacefully atop her future gosling brood. I lay there, dazed and bruised, with Father Goose’s hank of monofilament now wrapped around my own neck.

Mike, better late than never, at last showed up to free me from the muck and unwind the line from my head and shoulders. He was even gracious enough, between outbursts of raucous laughter, to do all the paddling for the remainder of the trip.

Throughout the day, whenever we again ventured near the island, the big gander would raise his head, spread his wings, and loudly hiss as if to say, “Don’t even think about it.”

He didn’t have a thing to worry about.

Now, will someone please tell me why on earth I couldn’t have remembered that long-ago occurrence last week at Bagby?

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