My mother hated geese, and described having been chased by a goose when she was a child in Ireland whenever the subject came up. When I was young, I laughed at the story, but I filed it away under Isn't Mom Silly? Outside of a Hitchcock movie, why would anyone be afraid of a bird?
This state of innocence persisted until I was well in my twenties, when I made the mistake of standing by a lake in New Hampshire in the vicinity of a large white goose. It ignored me at first, then without warning -- or provocation -- it attacked. I was so shocked that this, this bird was actually BITING me, that it took me a minute to react.
I assumed it would go away if I shouted or waved my arms. It did not. So I ran. It chased me all the way back to my car, and I drove away having learned two valuable lessons: Geese are mean. And they bite hard.
These particular goslings were in Jackson Hole.