Goose Shooting in Manitoba.
Perhaps there are some of your readers, especially those devoted to the
sport of wildfowling, who may like to have an account of rather a good
day’s sport I enjoyed amongst these birds in a country where they are
very plentiful.
It was a lovely day, early in the fall of the year, that I and a friend
started out from the little town of Boissevain in our four-wheeled
Canadian buggy, bound for Lake Whitewater, some fifteen miles across the
prairie, where we had heard the most wonderful reports of the countless
number of wild geese that frequented it. We were both armed with
10-bores, as a 12-bore is not very effective against these birds, owing
to the great thickness of the down with which they are covered. As we
drove along through the vast fields of stubble (the grain having been
all cut, threshed, and safely stowed in the vast elevators by this time)
we encountered numerous flocks of prairie chicken (a bird not unlike a
greyhen, and of the grouse tribe), and managed to secure two or three
brace of these birds from the buggy, the horses not minding the report
of the guns at all.
In the distance we could see the shimmer of a large piece of water
surrounded by tall rushes, which we rightly took to be our destination.
It seemed to be only two or three miles away, but as a matter of fact we
still had ten more miles before us. The air was so wonderfully clear and
transparent that we could see the people walking in the main street of
the little town of Whitewater, which stands at the north shore of the
lake from which it takes its name. As we drew nearer the lake we could
hear a noise something like a vast crowd cheering at a football match,
and we both looked at each other and exclaimed, “Can those really be
geese?”
It was now 10 a.m., about the time that the geese return to the lake
after feeding on the stubble since daylight. As far as the eye could
reach (and the country being perfectly flat for miles we could see a
tremendous distance) there were countless flocks of these birds, all
bound for the same destination, each flock in the shape of a triangle,
with a leader. Some flocks must have had from three to five thousand in
them, others only a few hundred, some less. They looked like a vast army
in battle array, some quite white (the Wavey), others of a darker colour
(the Honker), and some were cross-bred, with an occasional flock of
Brants. But they were all too high and out of range of our guns, so all
we could do was to sit there and gaze in open-eyed amazement at that
vast throng, wondering if it could be real, as we are only accustomed to
seeing these birds in singles and pairs in our native Wales, and then
but very seldom. We were now fast approaching a farmhouse close to the
shores of the lake, where we intended to make our headquarters for the
day, and, if necessary, stay the night, so as to be on the spot for the
early morning flight out on to the feeding ground (generally the best
flight of the day). The owner of the farm, an Englishman, needless to
say, received us hospitably, the more so when he heard we had not
forgotten the demijohn of rye whisky, so much appreciated by the
Englishman in Canada; this is really much better than the average Scotch
whisky, after being kept seven years in bond by the Canadian Government
before it is allowed to be sold.
After lunch we decided that the day was too still to get near the geese,
as they only fly low when there is a wind; so we hid ourselves in the
rushes, the water being up to our middles, and there to wait for any
duck, &c., that should come our way. This belt of rushes, which is about
half a mile broad and surrounds the lake, is noted for all kinds of duck
and teal. In half-an-hour I counted six different kinds, including
Mallard, Pintail, Canvass Back, Grey Duck, Blue- and Green-winged Teal,
and I managed to secure five of the latter; but they are very hard to
find when dropped in the thick rushes. By six we had each shot a score
of ducks and my friend had also a snipe to his credit, so we trekked
back to the farm to supper, and after turning to with the milking, &c.
(or “chores,” as they are pleased to call all small jobs round the
house, and I believe the word is derived from the French word _choses_)
we had a pipe and a glass of grog and turned in, as we had to be up by 4
a.m. the next morning. For a long time I lay awake listening to the
“honk, honk” of the geese returning to the lake, till at last they
settled down for the night, and all was still except for the croaking of
the frogs.
By 4.30 next morning we were lying in the long grass on the shore of the
lake, opposite a large sand-bank, on which we could dimly see dusky
forms stalking about. There was a stiff breeze from the north, and
everything augured well for our day’s sport, if only they would come low
enough and in our direction. Gradually the sun rose like a golden ball
in the east and the birds seemed to be getting uneasy. All at once there
were shrill cries, and we knew the morning flight had begun. My heart
was beating like a sledgehammer, as I had never yet shot a goose.
We had both taken the precaution to bring cartridges loaded with No. 1
shot, and I had also a few loaded with B.B. shot, as they were said to
be more effective.
I raised myself gently on my elbows, and peeping over the top of the
grass, I saw thousands upon thousands of grey and white forms circling
in the air above the sand-bank. The noise by this time was deafening,
and although we were only lying twenty yards apart we could not hear
each other speak. The noise suddenly seemed to grow louder, and looking
up I saw a large flock making straight for the spot where we were lying,
and only about forty yards high. We crouched lower and lower and waited
breathlessly. The leader was a large white Wavey, and I made up my mind
to have him somehow. Just as he got directly over my head I turned on my
back, and let drive both barrels at him. For a moment he seemed to
hesitate, the whole flock being thrown into confusion, and then he
gradually fluttered down almost on my head. I rushed upon him for fear
he should escape, and after wringing his neck madly, I danced a _pas de
seul_ round him for some minutes, quite forgetful of the hundreds of
geese streaming over my head. But my friend recalled me to my senses
quickly, and in language not quite parliamentary told me to lie down
again and not be a fool. So I got down in the grass again on my back
just as another flock came over, and out of which we got four apiece: it
being a large flock we had time to reload and get in two barrels at the
tail end. The great object is to shoot the leader, and that throws the
whole flock into confusion, and you secure more time to reload, as they
never go on till they have chosen another leader. An American told me a
yarn of a countryman of his that used to ride along on horseback under
the flock killing off the leader time after time, until he had
exterminated the whole flock, but I give you this for what it is worth.
It was now about 5.30 a.m., and they were coming over us in one long
stream all the time, evidently following the same flight which the first
flock had taken, which I believe is their general custom.
By the time the last flock had disappeared on the horizon there were
fourteen dead geese lying on the grass around us, and five wounded birds
had flown back to the lake to die. A farmer living on the north shore of
the lake told me he always went out directly the lake froze up and
gathered in all the wounded geese that had been unable to fly and got
frozen in with the ice. He said he often got from forty to fifty in this
way.
By this time we were getting very stiff with the long wait, and were
very glad to get up to stretch our legs, and congratulate each other on
our excellent luck that the flight should just have come in our
direction and within range.
We heard afterwards that more than a dozen sportsmen (amongst whom were
two well-known Wall Street brokers who had travelled 2,000 miles for a
week’s sport at this well-known Eldorado for wildfowlers) had that day
lined the west shore with the hope of their taking that course, and they
never saw a goose all day.
We now began to wonder how we were going to get our bag back to the
farm, about a mile and a half distant, as fourteen geese are no light
weight, and they were all fine fat birds (the stubble holding lots of
feed for them that year, the crop having been a good one). Eventually we
tied them all round our shoulders and waists and thus managed to stagger
back to the farm, quite ready for our breakfast.
After breakfast we hitched up the horses, and bidding our host farewell,
leaving him a few geese for his trouble, we started on our fifteen miles
back to the little town of Boissevain. It was one of those glorious
mornings with a lovely deep blue sky overhead that one only sees in
North America at this time of year. We saw numerous flocks of prairie
chicken, and added three brace of these birds to our bag.
At 12.30 we pulled up before the hotel from which we had started two
days before, and were received with eager enquiries as to what luck we
had had, or whether we had returned because the whisky had run out. Thus
ended my first experience of goose shooting, and I have often wondered
since why people use the expression “a silly goose,” for nobody could
ever accuse a wild goose of being at all stupid.
In case any of your readers should ever find themselves in the
neighbourhood of this lake I will try to give them some particulars of
its situation and the best time of year to go there.
The wild goose is the only bird in Manitoba that is not protected by the
Game Laws, and you can shoot him all the year round if you can get him.
About the second week in April they come north from Mexico and Florida,
and remain on Lake Whitewater till the first week in May, when they go
north to the shores of the Hudson Bay to breed, coming south again in
the fall of the year, remaining till the lake freezes up, when they go
south as far as Mexico for the winter. I have known keen sportsmen, to
whom time and money are no object, follow them thus through North
America. Lake Whitewater is about fifteen miles long and six miles
across, and not more than 5 ft. deep in the deepest part, with about 1
ft. of mud on the bottom. The water is alkali, and no fish are able to
live in it. Its bottom is covered with small shells and this is the only
reason I can think why the geese are so partial to it. They can feed on
the bottom of the lake with ease, and being in the centre of a splendid
wheat country they can quickly get out on to the stubble, and they feel
they can sleep safely on the lake at night. The latest reports I had
from this neighbourhood were very bad.
It appears that there is an American syndicate armed with a swivel-gun
that comes over the line (the lake being close to the American border),
and shoots the geese down in hundreds as they lie peacefully on the
surface of the water at night, and, of course, they have hitched up and
driven over the border with their spoil before daylight.
The local Game Guardian is evidently afraid to tackle them by himself,
and the Western Canadian farmer is not sufficiently a sportsman to lend
a hand. But it is a standing disgrace to the district that they should
allow such a resort for geese to be ruined by a handful of Yankees, who
have no legal right to shoot there whatever. Besides, the lake is quite
a source of income to the little town which adjoins it, where the
sportsmen who frequent this spot year after year buy all their
provisions, ammunition, &c. If the citizens would only band together and
make up their minds to catch the marauders red-handed, it could easily
be done at a small cost, and this splendid resort for the wildfowler
preserved for the future, whereas under the present conditions the birds
will soon either be exterminated or driven to choose some other spot for
their abode.