Author's Introduction
Chapter 1 The Roots of Our Trip
Chapter 2 A Modern-Day Tradition
Chapter 3 Prairie Pothole Duck Patterns
Chapter 4 The Duck Plucker
Chapter 5 Bread-and-Butter Water
Chapter 6 Beaver Theory of De-evolution
Chapter 7 The Classic Shoot
Chapter 8 Trip from Hell
Chapter 9 Pass Shooting at Stinking Lakes
Chapter 10 "Brother" Craton, Renaissance Man
Chapter 11 After 25 Years, Why We Moved
Chapter 12 The Canada Log
Chapter 13 Jump Shooting at Midday
Chapter 14 Good Dog; Bad Dog
Chapter 15 Very Bad Dog
Chapter 16 Why We Hunt
Chapter 17 Two No-Fail Duck Recipes and Mom's Sour Cream and Currant Jelly Gravy
Chapter 18 Shanty Bay
Author's Introduction
My family members, friends and I have been making a duck
trip to the Saskatchewan province of Canada continuously for 32
years. I attempt here to tell good hunting stories, often humorous,
from those years of chasing ducks in prairie pothole country. Each
story is combined with the many lessons learned and theories
formed about the behavior of ducks, dogs and men. Finally, I share
practical tips in the form of "Field Notes" at the close of each
chapter to help readers make their own successful Canadian duck
hunting trip.
Ten million ducks breed in the Saskatchewan prairie pothole
region alone, and 16.5 million breed in the prairie pothole region
of all of Canada. But many duck hunters in the United States have
never crossed the border to witness such awesome bird numbers.
There are more than 2.3 million goose and duck hunters in the
U.S., according to the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service. Yet the Canadian
Wildlife Service reports that only about 25,000 U.S. hunters
come to Canada each year for hunting ducks and geese, and the
Province of Saskatchewan sells just under 10,000 duck and goose
hunting licenses to U.S. hunters. Clearly there are many duck
hunters who have not yet discovered the joys of Canadian duck
hunting.
This annual trip has become a touchstone of my life. The
hunting is exhilarating. The land captures my imagination with its
muscular beauty, and the local people are as genuine and generous
as the land. The trip has cemented friendships and relationships
among buddies, brothers, sons, sister-in-laws, cousins and
nephews. Quite simply, the excursion north is one of the hubs in
my life from which the spokes of who I am radiate. In the following
pages, I hope I have captured the joy of the hunt, the handsomeness
of the land and its people and the special camaraderie of
our group.
I also hope I inspire you to catch your own Prairie Pothole
Fever.
Chapter 1 The Roots of Our Trip
"There is one more to open," my older brother Chuck said on the twelfth Christmas of my life as he handed me a long, thin wrapped box with promising heft. With a flushed face and a blank mind, I began to peel off Christmas paper as my three older brothers watched intently. First to show itself was a black shiny box with one word in gold lettering: "Browning." I tentatively and reverently lifted the high-gloss cover. There lay a 12-gauge, "humpback" Auto Light 5 with 28 inch barrels of modified choke. The barrels and receiver were covered in heavy oil from the manufacturer and wrapped in wax paper. My nostrils filled with the smell of serious weapon. What possessed my brothers to each pony up for such a gun, I do not know, but I gave them each a hug in an unusual show of emotion for our family. That gun began to shape my life and the stories of this book.
Chapter 2 A Modern-Day Tradition
Gary Cadieu, the Billy the Kid of our trip and one of my best friends for 30-plus years, is invariably the first in and first off with a shot on a jump shoot. Trying to restrain him is like trying to hold back a retriever puppy from a thrown stick. When Gary's first report shattered the tense stillness of our sneak, no fewer than 2,000 huge mallards jumped into flight. It sounded like distant, rolling thunder, and every gun came to the ready. Nine other hunters then joined Gary in a barrage of fire from virtually every direction, and the birds were totally confused. As the flock shifted south, hunters opened fire. When the mallards tried escaping west, hunters pulled the trigger. Over every hunter were two or three layers of circling and discombobulated birds. Birds were so concentrated that their wings struck each other, making scratching noises like sandpaper on wood. It was as if we had hit a beehive with a stick and watched a madcap exodus.
I dumped two ducks and saw others falling to my left and my right. Thwack, thwack. I slammed three new shells into my receiver just as another wave of 2,000 ducks lifted off a hidden part of the tangled bottom. First we heard a deep drum roll and readied ourselves during a brief delay; once again ducks were everywhere. It took real discipline to wait for close, sure shots. I hit a drake going away, then missed, then connected on an easy straight shot overhead.
Nate was a little to my left, and I heard him pounding. Ducks splashed dead at my feet, in front of me and to both sides. "Mark your ducks, mark your ducks," I yelled, but it was impossible. My voice trailed off and my eyes were inexorably pulled skyward. There were just too many ducks flying, too many falling and too much frantic excitement for careful marking. Just when we thought it was over, 1,000 more ducks jumped in unison from the dark depths with a resounding whoosh. Yet more birds filled the frame above us. Boom, boom, boom. When it ended, my son Nate let out a rebel yell, and then we all joined him in throaty whooping to the hunting gods.
Field notes:
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The Saskatchewan prairie potholes are home to more than 10 million breeding ducks, about two million of them mallards, and this, quite simply, is why a duck hunter goes to Canada. This is duck hunting of a lifetime, and hunters owe it to themselves to experience it at least once.
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There are 252,000 square miles in Saskatchewan and fewer than 1 million people. A farmhouse only comes along every two or three miles. This all adds up to lots of sparsely settled open space sporting lots and lots of wheat, water, ducks and hunting opportunities. It is not unusual to travel down a road and see a pothole every quarter mile with a dozen puddler ducks or more on each.
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There is a great sense of freedom in being able to leave a grid road and drive for miles across a harvested wheat field. When we arrive in October, the crops are mostly harvested and the wheat fields are stubble. These are safe to drive on, which means that without fences, we can pretty well go anywhere in a vehicle. When we glass ducks at a distance, we normally can get to them quickly by grid or by field.
Chapter 3 Prairie Pothole Duck Patterns
Chapter 4 The Duck Plucker
Our tradition was to eat a 4:30 a.m. breakfast at the Shell truck stop just outside of Melfort on Highway 6. Black coffee, brown toast, eggs over easy and patty sausage, all for $3.75 totaled up on a green-lined tab with butter stains. Bob explained our dilemma to a cute waitress named Jeannie. Most women in these parts are built to handle Saskatchewan farming, stocky Saskatchewan farmers and strong winds. Jeannie was unusual in her black jeans, nice make-up and white, button-down shirt. Her top two front buttons were undone and her skin was milky white.
"Say, you don't know anybody that might pluck ducks," Bob inquired with a twinkle in his eye. It was fun just to say "pluck ducks" to a pretty 20-year-old. Jeannie picked right up on the game and replied, "Hmmm. I once plucked 100 chickens. I bet I could do those ducks." "No kidding?" said Bob, looking at her over his glasses.
"I wouldn't kid you," rejoined Jeannie and leaned over to pour Bob more coffee.
"Why that's just fine," said Bob, "you're hired." And he shook her hand.
Chapter 5 Bread-and-Butter Water
Chapter 6 Beaver Theory of De-evolution
Chapter 7 The Classic Shoot
In our vernacular, a classic hunt is one where 40 ducks or more are bagged. We normally experience a classic hunt every other year. They are difficult to find. Notably, a classic hunt has never in the history of our 32-year tradition replicated itself at the same piece of water or field - not in the same year, not in subsequent years. Never. We check those waters every year, but it is a special situation that comes along only when the forces align.
Why, I am not sure. Perhaps the highest level of bird concentration and lock-step pattern only happens when new ducks are migrating into an area, or local ducks are banding together to migrate south. Perhaps hunting pressure keeps the ducks divided and off balance, and only when an area is left alone for a week or two can a strong pattern form. Or perhaps it is just serendipity, when the luck of the hunter meets the vagaries of duckdom. But when ducks decide to follow each other in a classic pattern from source water to the same field to the same small drinking water, there is the chance for thousands of birds to flock together and produce a classic hunt.
Chapter 8 Trip from Hell
Chapter 9 Pass Shooting at Stinking Lakes
Field notes:
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We have also experienced great pass shoots on points jutting into the middle of big lakes. Here we are talking about lakes big enough that shots on one end will simply move the birds to the other end, not out of the territory all together. And we are talking about points that stick at least a third of the way into a lake. As ducks return to the lake in evening from their final feed in the fields, and other ducks shift their positions on the lake to join the larger flocks, a point gives you a chance at them as they pass. If there are bluebills on a lake and it's windy, a point shoot in the evening is a particularly good bet. We normally don't bother with decoys, just take what comes. One tactic we used a few years ago worked great: Hunt a quiet bay over decoys at the base of the big point until 5 p.m., then move to the point itself for 90 minutes of pass shooting to end the day.
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Another great pass shoot we have experienced is at a Ducks Unlimited project north of Kenosee Lake. A big point leads to a large cattail bed with a canal running through it connecting two pieces of deeper lake. The bottom is firm, and even the dogs can stand comfortably in the shallow water. In the evening, flight after flight of puddlers and divers cruise down the canal and cross the point and the cattail bed to create what some in our group call "Stinking Lakes in waders." It is not unusual to have 50 or 100 ducks screaming over the top of you at 25 yards, and in this hunt, they fly both ways. In short, anytime you see two large bodies of water connected by a canal, narrow enough to shoot across with killing power, think evening pass shoot.
Chapter 10 "Brother" Craton, Renaissance Man
We are not always so philosophical and aware. In fact, "Brother" Craton had to preach his "quality versus quantity" and "search for beauty" sermon over a cattle watering hole. It was a drought year, and water was tough to find, much less ducks. Riding down a remote grid road, we saw a furry of duck activity just around the corner ahead. As we approached, the ducks swarmed in tight circles and committed.
But the setting didn't seem right. The birds were working uncommonly close to farm buildings and machinery. They must have been desperate for water, and they literally disappeared by the hundreds down into a deep cattle dugout. A cattle dugout is a pit maybe 45 feet wide, by 90 feet long, by 10 feet deep dug by a farmer to collect water for thirsty cattle, or in this case, thirsty pigs. The water was low even here. What a strange sight, ducks disappearing by the hundreds below the earth, then other ducks emerging from a subterranean hole, as even more ducks dropped in from the top.
As we all stared out the window, Craton read our minds and framed a searching question: "Given that these ducks are desperate for water, and given that this is a manmade pig dugout in a farm yard, would it be ethical for us to shoot these ducks? Wouldn't it be like shooting fish in a barrel?"
We all pondered his question while we watched 150 more ducks join their brethren. My friend Gary Cadieu then countered, "I think there is only one ethical question here: Are the pigs out of the way?" We drove on to other hunts.
Chapter 11 After 25 Years, Why We Moved
Chapter 12 The Canada Log
Chapter 13 Jump Shooting at Midday
Gary recovered his composure and looked at me gravely. He mouthed, "ON THREE!" He got to one knee, quietly gave his dog one more reminder to stay put, untangled his hand from the dog's leash and clicked off his safety. He waited for me to do the same, then lifted one finger, two fingers and finally, a third. We both
stood shoulder to shoulder.
The pregnant pause of the next few moments is among my finest and most fixed duck hunting memories. Gary and I looked out over more than 1,000 mallards frozen on a tableau of Saskatchewan grandeur. Each duck held its head erect and sat perfectly, perfectly still. There was deafening, anxious silence. Even the dogs paused at alert, essentially on point. We all just stared at each other with complete and stunned surprise. Somehow, by pure chance, we had crawled out on a little peninsula right among the entire flock. The closest ducks were not more than 15 feet away.
And then came the explosion. With a unanimous and frantic beat of their wings, every mallard on that lake lifted straight into sunlight in a magnificent display of orange, brown, green, purple and white. Every duck also sucked a vortex of water with its surge and the air filled with a fine, palpable mist, a sight I had never seen before and probably never will again. Everything seemed to be unfolding in slow motion: Powerfully curved wing beats,
stretched necks and electric black eyes, frantic and expanding ringlets of water and the whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of escape.
Chapter 14 Good Dog; Bad Dog
When Jasper died in 1993 on her 13th birthday, I wrote the following poem not only to commemorate her life but to honor all the great retrievers that have been part of our trip.
Ode to Jasper
So black, so good
Our best friend; the best one of us,
A toast, an ode.
Drain the glass, boys, drain the glass
To Jasp.
You can see her still
Alert, nay, better yet - riveted!
Nay, better yet - one with the duck!
Eyes to the skies, boys,
They're comin' in.
Hey, hey! Hi-Dee-Ho!
Go you black dog, go
Come mud, come ice, come what may
Do what God made you to do
Fire away!
And, oh, so well did she do
Back, over, under, through
Now plodding, now charging, then "wind"ing, now diving
Out of sight, at the knee.
Five for five,
The "Wonder Dog."
Drain the glass, boys,
Drain the glass
To Jasp.
The dark is here
A drake circles; "Let 'im work!"
A beckoning quack
And by the light of a harvest moon
A trusted friend with a trusted eye
Pulls the trigger one more time.
Hey, hey! Hi-Dee-Ho!
Go you black dog, go!
The steady plop, plop, plop
Of a beloved black dog
Cheers us still,
Warms us still,
Drain the glass, boys, drain the glass
To Jasp
Chapter 15 Very Bad Dog
Chapter 16 Why We Hunt
Chapter 17 Two No-Fail Duck Recipes and Mom's Sour Cream and Currant Jelly Gravy
Chapter 18 Shanty Bay
The trail opened onto a beautiful little grass field amphitheater that widened as it embraced the shore. Lining the opening left and right along the tree line were clusters of old, weathered grain bins, maybe 20 in all. We speculated they were no longer of use, and had simply been retired here. Their once-gay colors of red, green, gray and blue had faded and peeled as the weather took its toll, and they reminded us of weather-buffeted fishing shanties or old duck hunting shacks. The little shacks lit up by sunshine seemed to welcome us to a hidden and forgotten harbor.
Ahead lay the water's edge, but we were perched on a plateau 15 feet above the lake, so we could not see the shore directly in front of us. We drove the cars to the steep bank, and there sat 500 mallards on a sparkling and calm little bay off the main lake. There was a moment of mutual surprise, then the birds lifted in unison. As they rose to leave, however, 200 new ducks came circling down to land. Mature trees grew around the entire bay, so the ducks were forced to fly in a tight space. Total confusion ensued with ducks leaving, coming, landing, panicking and leaving again.
The big lake roiled beyond the little bay opening, and the mallards obviously liked this little port in the windy storm. They even tried to land with our cars parked in plain sight. Then it dawned on me: big northwest wind. These birds had undoubtedly taken a free ride south on the wings of this big blow. That would explain their frenetic feeding in the field and unquestioning commitment to this water. We were dealing with hungry northern ducks, fresh from the northern reaches, not the cautious and squirrelly locals. "These ducks want in," said Gary. "Let's get set up."