Hudson Bay Fowling

    My late friend Charlie Schwartz was a biologist from Missouri and an award-winning wildlife artist/filmmaker —he illustrated Aldo Leopold’s A Sand County Almanac. Charlie dearly loved goose hunting and used to go outfitted in a fashion the Ottoman sultans couldn’t have imagined. During the late ’50s, Charlie and his industrialist hunting partner would depart St. Louis for the wilderness of Hudson Bay in a customized, 60-foot-long Catalina PBY floatplane. The airship had been outfitted with aluminum skiffs under each wing and, after landing on the tidewater, the hunters would lower the boats and storm the beach.
    Like any good sultan, Schwartz also appreciated the spectacle of falcons in pursuit of prey. The Bay’s shorebird population provided abundant quarry for what was then one of the last strongholds of the peregrine. The atmosphere became severely strained one afternoon as the hunting partners were relaxing in camp chairs. A peregrine suddenly happened over, and Schwartz’s friend grabbed his Winchester 21 and obliterated the bird. “What did you do that for?” demanded Schwartz.
    “Because they eat ducks,” the friend replied.
    “So do you, you SOB!” Charlie said.
    Today, for a variety of reasons, most of the goose camps on Hudson and James bays have gone the way of the flying boat. One notable exception is a camp on the delta of the Kaskattama River at Cape Tatnam, in northern Manitoba. Aptly named, Kaskattama Goose Lodge has been in continuous operation since the 1960s. Present owner Randy Duvell not only has persisted in the challenging northland, but he also has made significant upgrades to the facility and staff each year.
    At 6:30 on a crisp September morning, six of us departed Winnipeg in a shiny Cessna Grand Caravan for “Kaska,” as the camp is known. Taking off in the gathering dawn, we could make out huge fields of grain scrolling slowly below the aircraft punctuated occasionally by wetlands and sparkling white geese flying out for breakfast in the stubblefields. Soon we were flying over various-size lakes as the prairie yielded to the glacier-pocked granite of the Pre-Cambrian Shield. After almost two hours airborne the granite yielded, too, and the land softened into muskeg that only a moose could negotiate.
    As we continued north by northeast, the dim blue of Hudson’s Bay could be seen off the port wing. Flocks of snows were spotted regularly, and my fellow passengers began to gabble as excitedly as the geese. A few minutes later the pilot dropped to 500 feet, and we could see the shallow, braided Kaskattama River and the “island” of land formed where two tributaries separate to join the bay at their delta. On the island were the white buildings of Kaska, a former Hudson Bay Company storehouse, and after a pass to clear the wildlife, we bounced in to land on a gravelly shore-ridge strip.
    We loaded our gear into Argo eight-wheel-drive ATVs, and after settling into the cozy warmth of the pine-paneled “Ptarmigan” cabin, our group strolled down a boardwalk to the dining room for lunch. There Randy gave options: We could hunt the “island” in established blinds or walk off of the island and freelance. Kaska doesn’t supply guides, per se. Instead the helpful staff ferries groups to one of 16 permanent blinds and helps place furnished decoys. As an extra-fee option, a Bell Jet Ranger helicopter is on stand-by for remote hunting or sightseeing. My hunting partner, Bob Stewart, who had become known affectionately as “Walking Bob” in his 11 seasons at Kaska, opted, not surprisingly, to go off-island.
    We didn’t lose much time after lunch, and our driver, Jerry, picked us up at 1 for the one-mile ride to the end of the trail system. There we donned decoy packs and guns for a hike to the tidal flats. It was a cool afternoon, with cloud-dappled sun and a brisk west wind—perfect for geese. As we began negotiating the grassy cuts draining into the bay, we saw goose droppings everywhere. It was obvious the geese had been eating blueberries. We had been walking for 15 minutes when nervous white heads showed above the low arctic willows and we could see more birds foraging beyond. At Kaska, the geese feed almost all day in an effort to fatten up during the short fall. Bob picked a likely looking spot from which 50 birds had flushed, and we deployed two dozen instantly animated windsock decoys. We set up where the droppings were thickest, and Bob commented favorably on the presence of “celery” (later identified as Senecio congestus, or marsh ragwort), a plant the geese savor.
    While we were still making blinds, a flock of snows came yelping up the lane between the decoys. Bob grabbed his shotgun and quickly downed an “eagle head” (blue-phase snow) and then one of its back-pedaling white companions. I slipped two Ecotungsten Nice Shot No. 4 handloads into my Sauer double just as a group of Canadas came beating in. From a low crouch on the tundra they looked huge, but their rapid wingbeats and soprano voices indicated “little” geese, probably Richardson’s. They came on trustingly, and my 100-year-old fowler swung hard. When the first goose folded, the flock peeled with the wind right over Bob, and he downed a long one with two shots from his Auto 5. Almost before we could pick up, another flock of geese angled in. These birds were all white—Ross’—and we used the “all-white” indicator to identify the species for the remainder of the trip. Trusting and naïve, the Ross’ geese had only recently migrated from nesting grounds on Southampton Island, 1,000 miles to the north. When the little geese tried to settle amongst the decoys, it was almost too easy, as we each took a double and then one more when the youngsters circled back.
    For the next two hours geese moved constantly, coming to the decoys or passing low. At Kaska the gunning is for easy-to-decoy family groups, not the huge flocks of wary snows and cautious Canadas seen down south. I stopped shooting after taking my “carry limit” of 10 geese.
    Bob continued shooting while I took photos and watched the plentiful bird life, including falcons, through binoculars. Suddenly my inner predator was jolted when I picked up a low flock of black ducks. I also could see more ducks slowly puddle-hopping toward us. I alerted Bob, switched to RST Nice Shot No. 6s, and placed the three mallard decoys we’d brought in a shallow cut. As the decoys began floating higher, it became evident that the birds were moving in with the tide.
     A flock of angular, wind-blown pintails came tacking up the channel. I dropped a drake showing some white in his mostly brown summer plumage. Bob shot, too, and we spent the next 10 minutes chasing his cripple with his retriever, Kaska. (As with most fowling, a dog is nice, but one is not necessary here. Our roommates had brought a pair of golden retrievers as well.)
    While walking back to the decoys, I spotted a dark bird angling our way. “Down!” I hissed, and Bob disappeared. I was fumbling for a call when Bob opened up with his Mallardtone, and the duck came in on a wire. With the roar of my Sauer, I had my first-ever black duck.
    Bob collected one more goose before the long shadows indicated it was time to head back for our 6 pm rendezvous. The long September days easily allow 12 hours of shooting if a person wants to stay out. Over the course of the trip we found the best shooting didn’t start much before 9 am, when the geese began moving in response to the warming sun.
     Although on solid ground, we struggled under the weight of our bag. Bob told me that in the past he’d often made two trips to carry out his allotted 20 white and five dark geese. (The daily limit on ducks is a generous eight.)
    When we got to the trail, James, a Cree Indian, helped us load the Argo for the trip to camp. On the drive back we jumped many small flocks of geese from tundra flats between conifer-covered ridges. Canadas were even flushing among the spruces where they were seeking the last of the blueberries.
    We hung our damp clothes by the wood stove at camp before comparing notes with Wayne, Jerry, John and Scott—two father/son hunting teams from Ontario. They had taken the helicopter to a remote duck spot and enjoyed a polar bear sighting about 10 miles from camp. It turns out that the bears don’t typically wander this far inland at this time of year, and any that come too close are “escorted” to the coast using the helicopter.

    Day two dawned with an inch of fresh snow on the ground. The northwest wind was blowing hard, and we took extra gloves and ordered a thermos of hot coffee with our sandwiches. Once we’d walked out to our spot and set up, shooting in the brisk wind proved tricky. I missed the first three shots, but then adjusted and was able to drop a small Canada as it made to windward. I folded a mature male Ross’ and then a Richardson’s, both rocketing on the gale. Bob did better on the wind-suspended geese, taking an eagle head and another snow as it sped off.
    We shot until mid-afternoon, when Bob spotted three yellowish-white blobs 700 yards away on the tundra. My binoculars quickly confirmed they were polar bears—a sow with cubs. We decided that discretion was the better part of valor and, as the day was getting late, started to pick up the decoys. On the trip out we monitored the bears and saw that they had seemingly ignored us. In fact, glassing from the high ground at our pick-up site, I could see the female splayed out on a hummock nursing her twins. While we waited for the radio-summoned Argo, several geese passed overhead and Bob took a nice gander snow. We watched a bald eagle putting up clouds of geese over the bay under rays of the setting sun.
     At camp, our roommates reported having spent the morning fishing for sea-run brook trout in the Kaskattama River and catching some beauties. All of us bemoaned the fact that the ptarmigan population was too low that year for hunting.

    The next day began cloudy and cool, with rain showers on the ever-present wind. Bob and I opted for a permanent blind and motored out to it at 8 am. True to our freelance nature, we never actually sat in the structure, choosing to set up 200 yards east where the birds seemed to be moving. Once the mixed silhouettes, windsocks and shells were arranged, we simply stood among the spruce trees for cover. What a thrill it was to see the first flock, a gaggle of 25 snows and blues, wheel in clucking. There aren’t too many places where two dozen decoys will hook snow geese. I shot freely, taking almost a full bag, but held off on the trusting little Ross’ geese. We felt justified concentrating on the burgeoning population of big snows to “save the tundra.”
    The final day dawned clear, calm and cool, with no weather delays forecast for our departure, so with a little time to kill, I talked roommate Scott Marsh into a short hunt. Bob and I had located a grassy flat that the little Canadas seemed to love, so Scott and I hurried through breakfast and jumped in the Argo. Scott’s retriever, Martha, whined anxiously as birds flushed around us, and soon we were whining ourselves for a final goose. That morning the geese apparently were waiting for the warm sun before flying. It was the high-pitched yelp of a Ross’ that betrayed a small wing-set flock planing in over the sun. Scott waited until the birds were almost overhead before letting loose with his 870. Next, a single Canada approached boldly and met its demise.
    As the sun rose higher and the birds really began to move, geese of both types began coming in. We could hear the approaching transport as a pair of Canadas flew directly into the decoys. Scott made a great shot, and we drew the line there.
    The trip had ended too soon, of course, but I knew that memories of falcons, white bears and hordes of wilderness geese would remain vivid. I also knew that Bob would undoubtedly return to Kaska, walking on through year 12.

Author’s Note: For more information on hunting at Kaskattama Goose Lodge, contact Great White North Wilderness Lodges, 204-982-9680; www.gwnlodges .com.

Clair Kofoed is an Editor at Large for Shooting Sportsman.