By Mike Osterhout

Wild goose case

I've had a flock of Canadians pegged for a couple of weeks now. They fly into a big field across the road dotted with ponds and laced with split rail fence, at about 6:00 a.m. every morning. At dark they bunch up and with a chorus of agitated honking, form a scraggly "V" and circle into the river valley. I have a good idea where they're spending the night. If I can sneak in before dawn I might be able to get one rising off the water.

Used to be you could dig a few shotgun shells out of the drawer, buy a duck stamp at the local post office and you'd be in business. That was before non-toxic shot and split seasons and HIP numbers. Try to find a sporting goods store in Sullivan County and you may be in for a surprise. The ones that are still in business are phasing out their firearms sections, leaving you to forage at Wal-Mart where the clerk thinks Bismuth is a stomach medicine and shrugs helplessly when you ask for steel shot. Orange County is a little better. I finally secured some steel 3 in. 20 ga. #4s and headed for the school house to grab my gun and camo. I figured I'd stop by the post office on my way to the river.

I run my guide business out of a 19th century school house notched in the woods just above the river. I put up clients there, as well as store a few guns and bows. As soon as I opened the door I knew something was amiss. Laying in the middle of the floor was an old musket my grandfather and I had refinished when I was a kid. What the Hell? I looked at the phone to check my messages. No messages. No phone. No bows. No guns. No stereo speakers, etc. I picked up the musket and slumped onto the couch. I'd been ripped off.

As bad as I felt about being robbed I felt a great sense of relief cradling that old civil war muzzle loader. It was the only thing that was irreplaceable. The young cop that came by shrugged like the kid at Wal-Mart when I asked about the chances of recovering any of my stuff. I could hear the geese making their evening racket as they circled the house. I thought I detected a slight mocking in their honk.

It was over a week before I even thought about goose hunting again. They kept their daily schedule out in the field as I scoured every pawn shop and used gun store in three counties, coming up empty. Determined not to let this set back ruin my hunt, I borrowed a 20 ga., left work early on a Friday and dropped by my local Post Office to buy my duck stamp.

The young postal clerk was unusually animated as she issued me the stamp, "You missed all the excitement," she said holding up a black and white wanted poster. I read the text under the grainy mug shot. WANTED: BURGULARY. "He came in the post office and I called the State police," she announced proudly as I scrawled my name across the stamp. "Did they catch him?" I asked envisioning his car packed with my stuff. "Don't know," she said dreaming of a career in law enforcement. I headed home and called the cops.

I pictured the trooper shrugging the now familiar shrug as I asked about the post office "Perp." "Call back on Monday," he grumbled. As I hung up the phone I looked up to see a state police cruiser speeding past my house, then another and another. I jumped in my car and followed. Down the road, the front lawn of my neighbor's farm house looked like an episode of "Cops." Guns drawn, they had the place surrounded. One held the wanted poster in one hand and a 9mm in the other. "That's him!" he cried pointing at my very surprised friend, Hal. As I pulled up they trained their guns on me. Calmly and quickly explaining who I was, I pointed out that Hal was not the man on the poster. My vision of a crook's car loaded up with my possessions evaporated with a dozen cops' hope for an exciting bust. Troopers and plainclothes detectives grudgingly holstered their guns, made the obligatory collective shrug and headed back to the barracks. Hal sat down on the porch, a few years shaved off his life.

As I write this the geese are still parading across the field, ducking under the split rails and splashing in the ponds. I've got my non-toxic shells, I've called the HIP number, purchased my duck stamp, a borrowed shotgun leans against the wall and in ten minutes I have to go to work. Tonight when I get home I'll dig up some worms and go fishing. I'm sure the geese will land right in front of me.