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.
Borderer, Junior.