Mountain Clam & Geese Prevention

Two characters from my upcoming book Blucut Rills attempting wildlife management. It goes about as you’d expect.

Hank - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Head Groundskeeper
Louie - Bluecut Rills Golf Club, Mechanic

The moonlight washed the course in a soft glow. Caught between seasons, the air had turned cool. Crickets hummed steadily until a walkie crackled through the quiet.

“Mountain Clam, this is Barnacle. I’ve got three in my sights. Over,” Louie called into the radio. He inched forward on his stomach to get a better position through a thicket of chokecherry.

“Do not engage, still approaching from the East,” Hank said. “Also, what is this Barnacle claptrap? We agreed on Mop for you. How many times can I say, ‘no name changes mid-operative?’ Stick to the script. Over.”

“Relax, compadre. If I’ve learned one thing about geese, it’s that there is no script.”

Hank let out a low growl and clicked the receiver. “I should have requested overtime for tonight.”

“We’re getting paid for this?” Louie said.

Hank shook his head as he slipped his three-wheeled maintenance cart into neutral, cutting the engine noise while creeping slowly down the steep hill of the 16th Hole.

Tonight’s mission was to disrupt the family of geese who’d taken a liking to the greenside bunker of the long par-3. Hank had spent one too many mornings hosing down his rubber boots following a clash between bunker duty and the geese treating the sand trap like their personal porta-john.

Hank pulled over, then moved to the utility bed of the cart. He lowered the hatch and quietly lugged a dark box off the back. It had the shape of a small treasure chest, fitted with metal handles. A circular window the size of a quarter was positioned on top.

He clicked his radio, staring at two geese who popped their heads up from the bunker but appeared to fall back asleep. He whispered, “Have you tested this contraption?”

The walkie crackled. “Does a skunk test its spray? Does a porcupine question the point of its quills? It works.”

“Alright. Go over it again then.”

Louie sat upright in the bush, peering over the leaves. “It’s simple. You position the device near the top of the bunker. When clear, I’ll activate the porch pirate bait. It’ll spring, disorienting them in a cloud of fog. A window sensor picks up the haze, triggering the tent launch, carefully capturing them inside. Tomorrow, in your truck, we relocate the crew to Monarch Ridge, where they’ll have plush fairways and fluffy bunkers for nesting.”

Hank sighed. “And why didn’t we just set the device during the day so I could get some sleep?”

A pause.

Hank clicked the receiver. “Mop… Mop, you read me?” He bent his head around the cart to see if the geese moved. They didn’t stir. Hank sighed again. “What the hell did he say?” He pressed the walkie. “Barnucle, do you copy?”

“Sorry. Was opening a beef skinny with my teeth. That’s a no-go on daytime deployment. Scared of the dark. And it’s Barnacle.”

“You know most courses just use fake wolves or border collies. But alright. Positioning now.” Hank approached the lip of the bunker from an army crawl, dragging the device as he went. Upon reaching the crest, he settled it into position—the latch on the spring door facing toward the sand. “Positioned,” Hank whispered.

Fog from the nearby water hazard crept low across the green as Hank began to slink away.

Click. Whirr. BOOM.

A burst of compressed blue dye erupted from the device like a gender reveal gone wrong.

Hank disappeared into the plume, coughing.

The tent launched, clearing the bunker with the veracity of a t-shirt cannon and landing in the pond. The irrigation intake began making a heavy suck sound, slurping up the tent into the abyss.

One goose stood up, then re-nestled back in the bunker.

“Come in, Mountain Clam. Status of containment,” Louie said.

Hank wiped a hand across his cheek and spat blue to the grass, then engaged the radio. “Tell me the haze sensor wasn’t wired to the pirate bait.”

“Huh,” Louie said. “Come to think of it, it might have been.”

The irrigation line kept chugging before the clog ceased operations.

“Was that my good fishing net in there?” Hank said. “Thought you used a tent.”

“You can rest easy,” Louie said cheerfully. “Just onion bags I stitched together.”

Hank coughed and stared into the dark. “Skunks and quills.”

He pressed the radio button. “Let’s get back to the shed. I need your eyewash and a retirement plan.”

“Aye-aye,” Louie replied.

See you soon,

— Ricky C.