On The Wing (1938)

Wild geese on the wing, the call to arms for the hunting season. Canadian honkers, thousands of them in countless formation flights. Their white breasts like a moving cloud in the sky. Their fall migration from the breeding grounds of the north to the feeding grounds of the south brings them to this farm estate of R. R. M. Carpenter near Chesapeake City, Maryland. Flanked by marshy ponds and planted with winter wheat, the rolling acres provide the geese with a cafeteria stop and the gunner with a happy hunting ground. These southbound tourists, the wiliest of game birds, have power and stamina in their flapping wings that carry them thousands of miles in each of their yearly migration. Slow motion reveals the ease of their landing. Hardly a ripple as 15 lb of flesh and feathers settle on the pond and never so much as the scrape of a wing as each bird finds landing space. With a beating rhythm, they lift into the sky on wings that can put hundreds of feet between them and the range of the hunter's shotguns within a few seconds. Instinct tells them of approaching danger, and they take off like a swarm of seaplanes that have received the commander's order. Wherever man takes his gun, there too he takes his dog. And the hunting season brings light snowfall with work and sport for the dogs at the famous Delwin Kennels near Mount Chanin, Delaware. Here are born and bred some of the finest Chesapeake Bay Retrievers in the field. These heavy-coated Chesapeakes are the only native American breed of sporting dog. Their lineage traces back to a pair of Newfoundland dogs cast up on the Maryland shore by shipwreck. Bred to undetermined local stock, the castaways founded the breed which through careful years of selection has produced the perfect gun dog. Trainer Harry Conklin puts a novice through the final grades of his water schooling, and this fellow retrieves a buoyant dummy to pass his test with A+. Mr. Conklin is joined by his daughter Lillian, and with the dogs they head for the hunting lodge. The hunter gets up with the geese if he hopes for success. And at the rustic lodge, 5:00 a.m. find breakfast over for trainer Conklin, Elting Warner, publisher of Field and Stream, and the host, Mr. Carpenter. Fortified inside by piping hot food and outside by a roaring fire, they're prepared to match their shooting eyes against the wit and wild of the cagiest of all game birds. The excitement and expectancy makes the sport well worth the loss of early morning sleep. In this party are two of the 10 field trial champion retrievers in the United States. Delwin's champions, Montauk Pilot and Skipper Bob. There's a late November nip in the air, light snow on the field with a steady wind from the north. It's the kind of weather for a man in a canvas coat with a gun on his arm and a fine dog at his side. Headquarters for the day's shooting is a small pit called a blind. Here the hunters will maintain a watchful vigil for many transitory birds. Hours of uncomfortable waiting may bring no more than strained eyes and chilblains. The slightest movement would betray the hunters, so even the dogs go into the blind. They load up to wait for the birds huntsman call feathered foxes. But if you'd rather be on the move, you can go out and look for the geese in their favorite breakfast haunts. Lillian accompanied by the retrievers Bob of Montauk and Delwin's Jezebel goes to the marshes and on a frosty pond she spots game still too far away for a chance shot. The slightest rustle would warn her quarry. Both hunter and dogs noiselessly stalk the pond. It's a slow, painful crawl for even the snap of a twig would startle the game. Only a few more yards to go. But they hear the approaching hunter And they're on the wing. A goose takes top billing on the menu. And now comes a test for the retriever Chessabob, winner of the 1937 Sportsman's Trophy, best dog of his age in the country. Chesapeakes are particularly valuable in retrieving game shot over water, and good training tells as Chessabob grips the bird firmly but lightly so as not to break the skin. Only great gun dogs have the power to retrieve the heavy goose. The Chesapeake will brave icy water so cold as to make less hardy breeds of water retrievers hesitate. Chessabob makes the return in the championship form that has won him many blue ribbons. But back at the blind, it's a slower but still noiseless process. High over the dummy decoy geese lies a flock of birds. Inside the blind, absolute silence. The hunters must have patience, for this flock is too high, flying well out of gun range. Here they come, flying lower. And now's the time to let them have it. It's cold and damp and cramped in this pit. But now that they've made a kill, there isn't a hunter among them who'd leave without taking his crack at the game. The gunners are anxious. There's another formation flying this way. They're swooping low over the blind. And now's the hunter's chance. Another honker bites the snow. There's a single. In this sport, a hit is history. A miss is mystery. Here comes some more. There's something there. A flyer settling to the ground among the decoys. It's luck for the gunners. There's one. There's two, but the third gets away. It's getting colder down there, but four geese are in the bag and more are on the wing. They're wary now. They've heard the firing, but they keep their altitude more cautiously. The seconds creep like hours. It's going to be harder. The range at which these birds can be bagged is rarely more than 50 yards. Here come a few curious customers flying dangerously low. Their leaders in a perfect way. Timed perfectly. It's a double kill. Trading the acrid powder smoke atmosphere of the gun pit for a lung full of the crisp November air, the hunters crawl out to tally up the score. It's not difficult to spot them on the snowy ground and at a word from the handlers, Skipper Bob and Montauk Pilot go out to make the retrieve and to stretch the cramp out of their legs in their official fetch and carry capacity. Accustomed to lighter birds, the dogs find 15-lb geese a mouthful, but they respond normally. Trained to the point of perfection, Montauk Pilot whisks off on a straight and steady course, while his kennelmate Skipper Bob shows professional interest. He's waited a long time for the chance to play his part in the day's sport and he carries off the retrieve with the same dispatch that made him a champion. The bird was brought in perfectly with not a feather ruffled. These dogs are sportsmen in their own right. There are more empty shotgun shells than there are dead birds, but a brace of geese for each is a sporting number, and this is a sportsman's sport where a miss is as much fun as a hit. The hunt is over, but they'll be back again when the geese are on the wing.