Over
the years I have shot dozens of moonflighted duck and I consider it
to be the most demanding, and thereby rewarding, aspect of foreshore
wildfowling. Success relies not only on favourable weather
conditions but considerable understanding of the movements and
habits of fowl after sunset. While some daylight patterns will hold
true, nocturnal activities are often considerable different. The
only way to find these out is to spend time on the marsh after
nightfall and to the novice gun this can be quite unnerving and even
hazardous.
However, despite my growing confidence and skill with each passing
season, I had never yet raised my gun to a goose under the moon. A
major factor in my lack of success was the scarcity of local geese.
Canada's are the only legal species that frequent the south coast in
any numbers and although I have seen them fly at night, they never
seem to be sufficiently active to predict their movements with the
degree of certainty required for shooting under a moon.
Inevitably as the years rolled by I accumulated my own shooting
milestones, the first for a species being typical, and while not
necessarily driven by a desire to reach new ones, those that eluded
my efforts figured large in the mind. Consequently for me, a goose
shot under the moon gained prominence, and once it had became clear
that I was unlikely to succeed close to home I set about trying
elsewhere.
The
exact manner by which I managed to secure an invitation to try
moonflighting Pink-footed geese I shall keep secret. But suffice it
to say that a good measure of barefaced cheek and an exceptionally
generous and understanding host was required. So it was, just a few
days short of Christmas 2002, that I embarked on a long drive
northward to an area described as having the finest private goose
shooting in the country. Better still, the invitation had been
extended to include Kern, my long time fowling companion, for whom a
moonflighted goose was also an unfulfilled ambition
Much
has been written concerning the conditions required before embarking
on a moonflight, and for the large part I cannot add any further
insight on the subject. Certainly there must be good numbers of
geese in the area, preferably ones that have had time to settle into
a regular feeding pattern and remained undisturbed. But as to the
weather, on this matter my opinion differs from the one most often
described. If you spend the season anxiously following the phase of
the moon waiting for the perfect night of thin, high clouds coupled
to a decent wind, you are seldom likely to set foot. The simple fact
is that these conditions are not common and it is rare for all the
variable to come together during the five or six full moon periods
of the open season. In my experiences with duck, if the cloud cover
lies somewhere between the extremes of none to completely overcast,
it is possible to shoot wildfowl under the moon. Don't be too
prescriptive when it comes to cloud cover and weather conditions
would be my advice.
The
forecast on the days leading up to the trip had looked promising. A
weak low losing its identity was predicted to travel slowly
northwards, proceeded by a couple of fronts, eventually running up
against stationary cold air of an arctic high pressure. If the
progress of the low continued at its current rate it would just
about meet the high a little south of our intended destination. The
outcome of which was uncertain but might result in either a patchy
band of showers with high cloud or if the cold air remained dominant
could produce a clear starlight sky.
However, after driving for over four hours under leaden skies and
patchy drizzle even my optimism began to fail. This was not what I
expected at all and if it continued all the way I feared that it
might be a wasted journey. The geese needed to see the moon and we
needed the moon to be able to see the geese. After a further hour
and a half we reached our destination, pulling into the farm that
would be our base for the next 24 hours. Following a warm exchange
of greetings with our host, Raymond, we sat down to discuss
prospect. Certainly the geese were about in good numbers. The local
roost currently held over five thousand pinks and they had been
feeding steadily across the nearby fields without disturbance for
over a week. In fact, it was rare for Ray to allow another shoot so
soon, preferring as he usually did to allow at least a couple of
weeks between each foray. But above all, it was still heavily
overcast and with what little wind there was blowing from the East,
even our host felt that the prospects were not looking good.
Still, there was always the local ducks, and so a flight on a nearby
pond was arranged and following a quick change of clothing we found
ourselves bumping along the seawall in the back of a Landrover,
accompanied by Trevor and Leroy, two of our hosts sons. When we
stopped and walked across to the chosen pond well over two hundred
Mallard sprang noisily from their late afternoon feed. Clearly the
duck had arrived early, not the best of situations, but as dusk
descended a steady stream of pairs and singletons dropped in. Ideal
sport, providing each of us with enough chances to bag a few.
In
fact, so engrossed was I by the duck, that it was almost dark before
I noticed the change in weather conditions. Just thirty minutes
before the cloud cover had been heavy, yet now large gaps had begun
to appear and stars shone brightly through them. Looking to the east
I was surprised to see the golden orb of the moon bright and clear
just over the horizon while a thin mist had begun to form close to
the ground. Shortly afterwards the faint yet unmistakably bugle of
approaching geese could be heard from the southeast. As it grew in
intensity all thoughts of duck vanished and four heads popped up
trying to catch a glimpse of the skeins. The majority passed too
low and could only be tracked by their calls, but a few skeins flew
across the face of the moon making a wonderful spectacle as they
headed back to their roost. Everything seemed to be coming
together.
Once
darkness had fallen we set about gathering the bag from the pond and
surrounding maize field. Most were gathered without difficulty but
even with a dog it took us longer than expected to find the last few
amongst the fallen cobs. The result of which was that we got back to
the farm later than intended and arrived to find Ray waiting with
three other wildfowlers who together would make up a second party
hoping for a rendezvous with moonflighted geese. Clearly they were
ready for the off and it was quite a scramble to unload the ducks,
get the netting and goose decoys onboard and swap from duck shot to
moderate loads of tungsten matrix. No sooner had this been completed
than we were back on board and heading out again. With the moon
rising early and clear, both Trevor and Leroy were certain the geese
would only remain an hour or so on the roost before returning
inland. It had now been over an hour since we had seen them head out
so it was imperative we get set up quickly.
Fortunately the field that had been selected was less than five
minutes drive away down the obligatory rough track. Although the
earth had been rolled and manured there were still plenty of old and
rotting potatoes available to the geese with the added attraction
that a few large splashes had formed across its surface. The plan
was to place the decoys both in and around the largest splash which
was conveniently about 30 yards to the south of a shallow drainage
ditch that ran alongside the track. Though not very deep it was
broad enough to kneel in and had thin fringes of foot high grass on
both its sides.
The
greater part of the cloud had by now dispersed and although it was
still early a frost had already set in and the edge of the splash
was covered by thin ice. That said, what cloud remained was in the
form of large, thin and slow moving sheets. The net result of which
was that while there were times when the moon shone brightly from an
inky black sky there was also long period when it was covered by a
perfect film. The wind remained light from the East, blowing
parallel with the ditch, and would mean any approaching geese should
come from our right. This was not ideal, as it would be difficult to
spot them while the moon could potentially silhouette us. We would
just have to remain very still and trust that the fact the geese
were well settled would give them confidence to land without too
much reconnaissance.
It
was now just after 1930 and as we knelt quietly in the ditch the
distant talk of many thousands of geese could be heard from the
roost beyond the saltmarsh. Shortly afterwards the first bell-like
chimes of pinks in flight confirmed we had only just made it in
time. Minutes passed and still more geese seemed to be on the wing.
I like to think that I have a good sense of hearing but I found it
quite difficult to judge which direction they were moving. Perhaps
it was the unfamiliarity of the ground or maybe the stillness of the
night but I certainly didn't hear the first skein that approached
us. There was just the barest murmur of geese but Trevor announced
quite casually "these sound better, get ready".
We
all hunkered down and once the rustling of coats and grass had
stopped lay in a breathless hush straining to detect the geese that
Trevor had so confidently said were coming. Seconds ticked by and
yet to my ear there was nothing to suggest any geese were within
half a mile. Then, just the faintest unmistakable babble of pinks
drifted across the still air behind me. Trevor mouth called a
greeting and there was no doubt that a party of pinks really was
approaching us. Silence again, had they changed direction and headed
away? Once again Trevor shouted a hail and from almost overhead
burst a clamour of calling. I dared to lift my head slightly and
there, silhouetted by the bright moon-illuminated cloud was first
one and then a second goose. Each bird had its wings half closed and
was stooping into the decoys. Even above the noise of my ragged
breaths and the pounding of my heart the wind whistling through
their pinions strummed load and clear.
Sliding off my safety catch, I turned to face the decoys and
immediately geese loomed in low from the right. Trevor held his fire
and called the shot just as the birds began to beat to a halt. A
single shot from Kern sent a goose plunging into the earth and I
took the next bird in line just as neatly. The remaining geese
powered away into the easterly breeze and as they loomed above the
backdrop of the far hedge I heard Leroy fire, while for my part I
poked a wayward second barrel at a departing bird as it leapt away
to my left. I ejected my empty cases, pocketing as a momento the one
from bottom barrel, and as I did so heard the familiar and
resounding thud of a stricken goose fallen to earth. Evidently
Trevor, who had graciously let Kern and I shoot first, had taken one
of the higher birds that had still be circling as the others
landed.
Unbidden we all stood up, ignoring the possibility that more geese
were coming preferring to relish the moment of triumph. Leroy moved
out with his dog to pick the geese but they were all clean kills.
Each of us had taken a single, all Pink-footed, just as simple as
that as if it was scripted. We gathered the birds and were
congratulated by the brothers on our mutual success. I remember
actually saying 'well that's enough for me, time to pack up' and I
really would have been quite happy to have left the field cradling
my goose. Yet even as we excitedly discussed the details the
strident calling of approaching geese sent us scurrying back into
the ditch.
To
describe all the details of the developing flight would require
something akin to a chapter in a book. Skeins of geese flighted off
the roost in a steady flow, some particularly large, but the
majority just small bunches of less than twenty. The larger groups
we had decided to leave alone for fear of over disturbance. When
they did approach we simply made no effort to conceal ourselves
content to just watch them wheeling around overhead. I am not sure
they actually saw us sufficiently to recognise the danger, only once
did I hear a staccato alarm call, but they clearly sensed something
amiss and would simply drift off in search of more comforting
ground.
However three particular moments stand clear in my mind and I
believe highlight the true essence of wildfowling. The first
concerned a single goose that rushed into the decoys over our
shoulders like a driven partridge. It could have been no more than
ten feet high when it passed between Kern and myself, its approach
so fast and silent that neither of us had time to react before it
landed smartly at the edge of the splash. There it stood; seemingly
oblivious to its strangely static comrades, while we quiet openly
discussed whether this was the bravest or most foolhardy goose in
England. There was no thought of clapping it off to give a simple
shot. Though it could not have known it, this goose could have fed
all night undisturbed by the four fowlers lurking just yards away.
Evidently though it had other plans and after a few minutes decided
to leave, straight out the way it had come. Only this time, with so
little time to gain height, it was no more than two feet above our
heads. If we hadn't been so surprised either of us could have made a
grab as it passed. Instead we watched it flash past and sent it on
its way with peals of laughter.
Kern
and I had each taken another goose by the time that what sounded
like a relatively large group of pinks approached from the West. It
was clear that Trevor also thought there were too many as he chose
not to call them. But despite this the geese seemed set on the idea
of coming into our field and though we were all sat up watching they
seemed oblivious to our presence. Once they were within eighty yards
it became apparent that it was a skein of around only thirty, all of
which seemed intent on calling incessantly. Clearly this had fooled
us in to thinking they were more numerous so we ducked back down in
case they continued on their course. This one seemed like a certain
chance but just as Trevor gave the go-ahead the skein started
turning away. Just this slight moment of uncertainty stopped both
Kern and Trevor from firing, as the geese seemed to coalesce into a
moving shadow rather than individuals. Such are the tricks of the
light that you encounter under a moon since although Leroy and I
were just 30 yards further along we could still pick birds and each
took a shot. Both failed to find their mark and it was now our turn
to lose sight of the birds just a fraction of a second before I
fired my second shot. For a few moments it was silent as if the
great grey birds had vanished into thin air before they once again
became visible and gave voice to their alarm. As they peeled away
into the darkness a singleton stuttered out underneath the main
group setting its wings and tracing a slow curving glide away across
the field. Initially it seemed as though it would fall short of the
hedge that marked the field’s southern edge but it cleared this
before turning sharply and disappeared over a stand of trees some
200 yards away.
This
bird would have to be searched for straight away and after a quick
discussion as to where we each thought it had had come down Trevor
set off using a powerful lamp to sweep the ground. Having checked
the field it seemed certain that the goose had made it over the
boundary and so Leroy went to assist with his dog. Kern and I stood
up and busied ourselves adjusting the geese while in the distance
the piercing beam of Trevor's lamp swished left and right before he
passed into the next field. Minutes later the light came bobbing
back towards us and when he was in hailing distance I asked if he
had found the bird. To my relief he shouted back that he had.
Apparently the bird was another 100 yards further in standing alert
and seemingly unscathed, but by shining the beam directly at it
Trevor was able to walk right up and take it in hand. Quite a feat
in itself and one for which I was very grateful. There can be
nothing more disconcerting than losing a wounded bird and every
effort must be made to recover one even if it means passing up
further chances.
Although geese were moving all around us now they were obviously
agitated by the sound of our shooting since they continually crossed
and re-crossed the entire area aware that danger lurked somewhere
below. Not surprising really since what little easterly wind there
had been had faded away and the night was now quite still. The
reports from our earlier shooting must have carried for miles. Even
the smaller bunches that were attracted by calling simply wheeled
above us ignoring both the pattern and our attempts to mimic a
contented feeding buzz. This was as exciting as it was frustrating
but we held our fire preferring to wait for better chances rather
than risk shots at long range.
As
time passed it was evident that many of the smaller skeins must have
joined together and it was noticeable that there were now several
large skeins milling about where before there had been many smaller
ones. Initially none showed any sign of returning to our location
and there calls faded away southwards but within fifteen minutes
they returned having apparently failed to find anywhere better to
feed. If they had stuck to form and ignored us all would have been
well but their approach was direct and purposeful. As they bore down
upon us from the inky southern sky it was quite impossible to seem
them and then suddenly they were coming into the decoys. I couldn’t
say exactly how many geese there were, at least fifty hung overhead
and I am sure there were more above. Up until then, we had been
anxious to avoid shooting at larger skeins wherever possible but
this group offered the perfect opportunity as it stretched right
across our front.
Picking a bird at the edge I swung, fired and saw the shot strike
true. Though it could have been for no more than a couple of second
I actually de-mounted my gun and with an entirely false calmness
waited to pick another bird. With such a weight of geese committed
to landing, those at the front were prevented from a quick escape
and could only check their descent before rushing closer towards us.
There was scant light to see them by, but the range was only about
twenty-five yards and at that distance I was able to identify a
target for my second barrel. This bird was lower than the first,
just visible above the dark background of the distant hedgeline and
while I was certain of my aim when I fired the melee of fleeting
shadow confused my vision and I didn’t clearly mark its fall. The
air was rent by a cacophony of alarm notes and the threshing of
mighty wings as the pinks made their ragged escape. Strangely enough
I never heard any other shots but my own, so intent was I on the
unfolding drama.
Before leaving the ditch to gather the fallen, Leroy did a quick
check asking each of us how many geese we thought were down, For his
part, he was certain of one but had missed cleanly with his second
shot. While for Kern, Trevor, and myself we each modestly professed
to a certain first followed by probable but not definite second. Yet
as soon as Leroy counted up he quickly realised that the probables
were in fact all certainties finding as he did seven fine Pinkfeet
lying on the dark soil. Quite simply an amazing moment or as Leroy
put it in his broad local accent "a good do's". In fact he jokingly
apologised afterwards for fumbling his second barrel thereby missing
the perfect scenario of four 'right and lefts'.
At
2100, just an hour and a half since we had first settled into
position, we decided it was time to leave. Leroy had taken a
magnificent high crossing singleton by then while his brother had
accounted for two more. We could have quite easily continued until
we had run out of cartridges, but to do so would have crossed the
boundary of sportsmanship. No, we had made a good bag, all of them
Pink-footed, and that was enough.
Conversely, the second party had not found their circumstances so
favourable. They had set up around a mile further eastwards and
while plenty of geese had neared their position, a lack of cover in
the field meant approaching skeins often saw them. To their credit,
they resisted shooting at the geese circling high above them,
preferring to be patient and only take on the few birds that came
into the decoys. That said, one of the guns made a truly remarkable
bag consisting of a Greylag, a Pinkfoot and a Whitefront. The later
being his first in almost forty years of wildfowling. A very special
achievement, the likes of which I have never heard of before.
Before arriving I had read this was the finest private goose
shooting in the country. From my own experience I am convinced this
is true. Having seen the care, respect and above all restraint shown
by our host and his sons, I felt honoured to have been allowed to
sample it. A wildfowler may spend his whole life waiting for that
one special moonflight of geese, I know I have experienced mine.
|