If you drive east on Bremmer road in late November chances are good you’ll happen upon the high feast days for Canadian geese flying south along the Pacific Flyway. Flocks by the dozens line the sky in formation riding the tail winds of their fearless leader who rotates out of the lead when he tires of the head winds. Then another takes its place. Honking, they call to one another above the farm lands where they seek out rest, water and feed among the beet and grass seed crops growing in the Pacific Northwest
As a young man I hunted these creatures with my Dad, Grandad and Uncle, hundreds of miles away from Bremmer road, outside of Yuba City California.There, the beet and seed crops were replaced with rice fields and wetlands of Northern California. It was here with these men sitting in a duck blind that I first admired the size and grace of these giants of the water fowl clan. Capable of lifting their twenty pound bodies off the water with immediacy when spooked or flushed by one of the black labs chasing ahead of us on the way to the blind.
Their call, referred to as a honk, barks low to high in pitch. Yuba City’s High School is the “home of the Honkers”, they have adopted the Canadian Goose as their mascot because Yuba City is one of the great wintering destinations that these Geese on Bremmer road are making their way to. By God’s grace they will get there unless a hunter luckier than me and my family happens to shoot them down.
The last time I hunted with my grandfather down in the rice fields and wetlands outside Yuba City, it was a beautiful January day. Gramps didn’t shoot, he just kept handing me shells as I shot and missed, an entire box worth of 12 gauge shells were gone through without falling a goose. A flock of honkers flew not twenty feet over our heads but I forgot to lead my shot, and shot behind them not once but three times. My Grampas friend and our guide cursed me for missing, and it made sense, his frustration. He had been calling them over to us for the better part of thirty minutes. Finally He was able to coax a small group away from their flock to see what all the commotion was only for me to shoot at them when they finally arrived. They made it back to their friends unscathed.
I still have the pin tail of a Bull Sprig we shot that day tucked into the pages of my bible at Psalm 19, for Gramps birthday, the 19th of May. Both my Grandpa and Dad are gone now. I haven’t sat in a duck blind in years, my colorblindness so bad, I couldn’t pass the identification test that Oregon Fish and Wildlife requires you to take. These days I go on goose hunts in my truck, driving down Bremmer road looking for where the honkers are headed next.
If you turn left on Blount road off of Bremmer and drive down towards Township road, you can often find them feeding in the last field on the left just before Township. There’s a pull out across the street where I back my truck in and watch them feed, listen to them honk until eventually some noise or trucks passing by flushes up and they fly on to the next field. I will crane my neck out the window once or twice and try to call them, though my goose call isn’t what it used to be. I think from time to time I may have gotten their attention.
Sitting there on Blount road watching these majestic creatures hold court and feast before the freeze comes and pushes them further south eventually ending up in Northern California, is where I visit my Dad. I hope he is in heaven and I hope he hears me. I hope he is watching over this flock of geese with me right now and he knows how grateful I am that he took me hunting all those years ago. I’m thankful he gave me that gift, and we shared an admiration for these winged creatures. The giant V’s they form as they fly in unison, flocking in the hundreds and making their way down south and back again.
The annual pilgrimage they make reminds me much of our own rhythms. We make the trip from Summer to Winter and back again. We make this trip every year, living into these seasons with Fall and Spring shaping and forming the way we travel. Until one day your journey ends somewhere along the fly way. I didn’t think much about this when Grandpa passed. I was in my early thirties and life was full in every way. Vocationally, My marriage and four young kids. So busy you barely stop to think that we are not given an infinite amount of these trips from Summer to Winter and back again.
After my Dad died it’s been different. The kids are grown now, I’ve transitioned out of the intensity of those early years of work. I am hopefully making these trips with wisdom and intention, paying attention to the miracle that this journey is. When I was younger there was so much of everything, everywhere there were signs of miracle. In my children, in my marriage, in my work, and the beating heart of creation under my feet. Living miracle everywhere but I mostly thought of what it was I was to do next. I was busy going somewhere, getting everyone there with me and once we arrived I was planning and plotting the trip back. I realize I am speaking a cliche but don’t they say time makes cliche’s of us all, there is so much you miss when you’re trying to go fast and far.
If I am lucky enough to live the entire last quarter of my life, I will make the journey from Summer to Winter and back again, about 20-25 more times. Depending on my body which currently isn’t cooperating, I may or may not put many miles on during these trips. I can pay attention though. I can enjoy the journey. Noticing the miracle of short days, knowing our planet is orbiting at its furthest distance from the Sun in these waning days of Fall as the long night of Winter arrives. I can watch from my window how the hummingbirds feed at the feeders my loving wife continues to fill, caring for them like the Creator cares for me during the barren seasons. I can enjoy the deep belly laughs that happen gathered around the table with my Sons when we are telling and re-telling stories in ways that McKinleys have for generations. My Dad was one of the quickest witted men I’ve ever known. We laughed until we cried and did that many many times.
When the wet and dark winter gives way to Spring, I will watch my daughter plant her seeds in her greenhouse out back. Daily watching, as she tends and cultivates her plants until the day’s become warm enough for planting. When we finally arrive back in Summer, I will celebrate the beauty of the Dahlia’s, rising from the dust to announce their wonders without a word.
And I will hold the hand of my love, that hand that I have held for 37 trips from Winter to Summer and back again. I will look into her crystal blue eyes that hold the depths and mysteries of which I never tire. With bodies past their prime our love deeper and more intimate than we ever shared when we looked our best, I will dwell within her love and she in mine. For these last trips we get to take together, knowing we never know, which trip may be our last. I will hold my soon to arrive granddaughter, high above my head and thank the Lord God who made her and gave her such great parents. I will drink in and pour out love to this little life that will outlive me, and I will try to bless her in all the ways a Grandpa can and should.
And in late November I will drive my truck back down Bremmer road, turn right on Blount and park my rig across from the last field on the left. I will watch with quiet and familiar wonder, reflecting on my youth. When I got to sit with those men, my family as we watched and waited for the geese to fly into the blind. Shooting often, missing almost always, but being there, and being here and trying my best to take in the wonder of the journey. I will wonder at the mystery of how we can live for so long and yet it seems to go so fast. Lord Byron said it best, “With hearts that break and yet broken we live on.” Another trip from Summer to Winter and back again.
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