You might remember me writing about my passion for waterfowl hunting.
Growing up in Newfoundland on the Avalon Peninsula it’s odd that I didn’t gravitate more towards our provincial game bird, the willow ptarmigan or simply partridge as we commonly refer to those speedy swift winged critters.
Back in the 70s when I first shouldered a shotgun afield, partridge were very plentiful in our Conception Bay North neck of the woods. I did shoot a few but didn’t quite catch the bug.
Other young hunters did and dived in full bore, bird dog and all. Sadly, our ptarmigan population here on the Avalon is seriously sparse compared to those days.
Yes, I caught the duck disease early in life.
I was 16 years old and an avid reader of "Field and Stream." Something about the waterfowling articles just drew me in.
You may recall a piece I wrote some years ago titled “Christmas Goose.” It was about a young fella on a quest for a Canada goose for the festive dinner table.
His dad had died the year before and they had no money for a store-bought bird. He was out in the woods day after day in snow and rain with his dad’s heavy old double-barreled 10 gauge, on the relentless hunt for an elusive goose. He was a “Hemingway” class writer and the way he described his hunts remain with me to this day. He wrote about the snowflakes drifting over the pond on a frosty December morning, the bleak yellow hayfields, the crunch of frozen marsh beneath his feet, and finally the smell of gunpowder hanging in the still morning air.
It was all wonderful and I wanted to be a waterfowler.
I earned my first paycheck that summer and ordered a Remington Wingmaster 12-gauge pump action from Outdoor Stores in Winnipeg. I bought “The Duck Hunter’s Bible,” and read it from cover to cover. I ordered black duck decoys and a duck call that I struggled with. There was no YouTube in those days.
Finally I went to Canadian Tire and bought a Polish-made canvas-backpacking tent so I could sleep by the side of the pond and be ready for incoming birds at the break of day. I was ready.
On a Friday evening I left the roadside heavily laden with grub, tent, sleeping bag, decoys, shotgun, more shells than I needed, and of course the duck call that I had no clue about dangling around my neck.
I hiked about an hour to where I had constructed a duck blind the previous weekend. I set the tent about 50 yards from the blind and lay awake all night in anticipation of shooting a duck or two. I was 16 and full of unfounded confidence without the essential foundation of any experience. I was enthusiastic though, and in the game, in my element, an element I have embraced all my life. I played over in my head how I would shoot those birds that would surely land amongst my decoys come daylight.
The calling I wasn’t too sure about. I practiced a few feeble squeaky quacks throughout the night, in the absolute silence beneath the bright twinkling stars. They shined through the tent.
My alarm went off at 4 a.m. Yes, I lugged a wind-up clock with me. I wasn’t taking any chances on sleeping in. I took the orange tent down in the dark and hid it under spruce boughs. Then I crawled out in the blind and waited in silence. It happened so bloody fast. The swish of wings at the first crack of dawn startled the wits out of me. This was getting real. Words on paper hadn’t quite prepared me. Lack of experience and enthusiasm turned to panic.
Calm down Paul.
Splash, splash , splash as bird after bird hit the water well outside my decoys and shotgun range. I fired anyway and smelled the burnt powder hanging in the still morning air. But I killed nothing. The birds left in a big hurry, about 30 of them. I was dejected, poisoned with myself. Two hours later two black ducks pitched well outside my decoys. Now I had experience, maybe only hours, but no longer a greenhorn. I waited an eternity or more before they finally swam close enough for a proper shot.
The Bible said I needed to see their eyes and I did. I killed two ducks stone dead on the water. My backpack didn’t feel even a tad heavier on the trek home, despite the ducks. I was the happiest young fella in Conception Bay.
I was some proud of myself.
I’ve spent a lot of cold wet hours lying in wait for ducks since that first morning. I can justifiably call myself a waterfowler at age 60. I’ve hunted just about every species of duck at one time or another on both fresh and saltwater. But I haven’t done much in the way of serious Canada goose hunting. I made a few feeble attempts but I’d only shot a few geese that I stumbled upon while duck hunting.
The Christmas goose hitch needed scratching.
We booked a farmer’s field goose hunt in the Codroy Valley. It’s very similar to the P.E.I.-style goose hunts only closer to home. We drove out for the weekend and stayed in our cabin on Crabbe’s River.
Hopefully 2020 would be the year of the Christmas goose for me. We drove to Searston and met with our guide about an hour before daylight. The four of us busied ourselves in the chill of the morning air to layout a big spread of decoys. I was amazed at how realistic they looked. Hopefully I wouldn’t shoot a decoy. But I’m a bit cooler headed than I was at 16. Into the blind we went and waited for daylight.
I felt 16 again, this stuff being all new to me. The sound of geese honking had me tingling with excitement.
George, our guide, started calling back to them in eloquent goose language. And George Francis is no beginner.
Sure enough the birds responded and started circling overhead.
In short order shots rang out and the wisps of burning powder hung in the air one again. We will all be eating goose this Christmas, me and my salmon fishing buddies, now goose hunting buddies, Rod, Matt, and Chris. You will hear more in the months and years to come. It looks like goose hunting might become an annual event.
Now I want a new shotgun for goose hunting.
Good Lord, this never ends.
But Christmas is right around the corner. And I want a short-reed goose call, too, and maybe a few full body decoys. Maybe some day I’ll get a haircut and a real job. But until then, I’m happy and feeling 16 again.
Paul Smith, a native of Spaniard’s Bay, fishes and wanders the outdoors at every opportunity.
