this is a part of stories i have been compiling about my buddy the goat poker. we were like 10 at the time this story was taking place.
Pigeon Fishing
I had a job working on a farm at the same time, so I usually had spending money. Since we couldn’t take our .22s into the barn, I bought a nice “Daisy” pump air rifle to shoot at the birds with. We had a hard time with the kill because on average a bird of that size could take approximately eight rounds before it was rendered incapable of flight. Once on the ground it was executed with extreme prejudice and piled. I’m forgetting an important part already, so here you are. With a necessary eight shot average, the pigeons would fly out of the barn before they could be collected. We found that if you waited till nightfall, and entered the barn with flashlights during their roosting time, they became too disorientated to fly and are rendered incapable of escape.
Now there was a massacre; blissful and bloody with no thought of moral attachment. By now my friend had started smoking cigarettes with his older brethren, so we were able to share another common bond. We would stay up all night shooting birds, smoking, and talking. I think I can honestly say that those moments are my most treasured. I think it was I who came up with the concept of “pigeon fishing.” Now, we never put corn on a hook to try to capture pigeons, rather we took their dead bodies, and tied them to the end of a fishing line and pole. By the way, this was always the next morning after an all-night hunt. We would dress in camouflage clothing, and hide in ditches or along side bridges to cast our bait across the road. One of us would be look out while the other controlled the fishing pole. As a vehicle approached the “fisherman” would begin to reel in the line until the point of no return was reached, then the line was set. By “set” our definition was five feet from point of impact. The car was usually traveling approximately 55 mules per hour. We learned exactly when to tug our set line landing it directly under the tires of our unknowing “murderers”.
It was always a joy for the spotter to run into the road screaming about the loss of his favorite pet. Believe it or not, no one ever thought this was funny, but we were always ecstatic about the situation. After time it just became guerilla warfare of a sort. We would no longer rush the road lamenting a lost friend. We only hid. One time that has never left my memory was our first repeat offender…
Repeat Offender
By this time we were very experienced at handling our bait. It was approximately ten in the morning and we were at the end of our pigeon supply. It was my turn so I got down into the tall grass and waited. Within minutes Chuck spotted a victim approaching. With my adrenaline beginning to rise, I slowly reeled my line getting it set. Finally, the vehicle reached the point of no return and I tugged. WHAM!! Instantly, the car slowed and we held our breaths. An instant felt like an hour to two mischievous neophytes creating havoc wherever peace and security loitered.
Fortunately, the victim reaccelerated out of sight, unsure of what had happened, for he/she was unable to distinguish the true facts of the situation. When the vehicle rounded the corner my friend sent his cast across the road and I took watch. In seconds a white vehicle resembling a station wagon was heading our way. In reflection, I think that confirmation of the event that occurred was needed for our curious driver. Being only ten or eleven at the time no real connection was made. WHAM!!! Well the vehicle braked again and we stayed very still.
Believe me, we got worried. Anyway, the vehicle’s occupant must have realized that they didn’t kill a family pet, especially when it apparently crossed the road again, regardless of the obvious hazard, and the operator sped off again.
Now, for your general information, I will tell you that the body structure of a pigeon could withstand approximately ten to fifteen direct hits from various cars and trucks. Unfortunately only one hit was possible with dump trucks or semi-trucks. Our bait was almost at its end, and I decided that the bird could take at least one more hit, and sent it swinging through the air for the last time. As we nestled back into our hiding places a white vehicle rounded the corner down the road. It would be pure ignorance on our parts not to have already realized that this would most likely be the same vehicle as the last, but there is always a thrill in almost getting caught. My friend relayed the vehicles progress as I set the line. They approached at about forty-five mph; I timed the attack with the new rate of speed. CRUNCH! The station wagon came to a complete stop, and the rear tire came to a rest directly on top of the pigeon.
Instantly, a forty year old woman leapt from her driver side door, still unsure of our exact location. My friend freaked and sprang from the grass, leaping across the road, and sprinting almost half and acre before being spotted. I took my queue and dove into a large culvert under the road. All of a sudden I hear this lady screaming, “Get back here you little jackass!,” and all sorts of other obscenities. Laughing to myself, I crawled farther under the road attempting to observe my friend’s flight to freedom and our combined folly at work. After spouting off a few more judgments, the woman got back into her car and sped off. At this time my friend was at least two hundred yards away at what he deemed a safe distance to mock the lady with minimal recognition.
When he came back he confided in me that she had been one of his neighbors, and that was the reason he had run. Well, we were very high on life at this time and couldn’t wait to try our luck again. Unfortunately, the bait had been taken its last hit, and we were done fishing for the day. We cut loose the bird and put back my fathers fishing pole, awaiting nightfall, and the need to make bleed.
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