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. |