FOREST AND STREAM 
47 
On the Wild Duck’s Flyway 
A Few Days Never to be Forgotten in Manitoba 
By Edwin Sandys. 
Have you ever lain under the warm covers in 
the last forbidden delicious before-breakfast 
snooze, and suddenly been snapped broad awake 
by the ringing clarion of the first wild geese? 
Honk! honk-honk-honk‘ crescendo over your 
roof, until you hear the lowtoned gabble of the 
rear-guard discussing the events of the journey, 
and maybe a sharp squawk as somebody tries to 
push ahead of his place in the line and gets a 
harmful of feathers yanked out. Honk-honk! 
Honk-honk-honk! diminuendo, as the V draws 
away on its gravel north. Again you smell the 
marshes, the trickle of woodsmoke, and see the 
decoys bobbing. 
The marshes that their clarion cry recall to me 
most strongly are the marshes of Lake Manitoba, 
where I once spent a holiday and had some 
duck-shooting that—but I’m getting ahead of my 
story. 
The more important of the waterfowl that 
frequent the great mid-continent flyway of the 
migrating game birds, on which Lakes Winnipeg, 
Manitoba and Winnipegosis are the last stop be¬ 
fore they reach the nesting-grounds of the far 
north, are the swan, geese (Canada wavies and 
laughing geese) canvasback, red-head, blue-bill, 
gadwall, shoveler and teal. The swan is nowhere 
to be relied upon as a sporting bird. Only very 
young ones are fit for the table, while to shoot 
a huge adult merely for the sake of shooting it 
is not the sort of sportsmanship which finds favor 
in Manitoba. During the spring and fall migra¬ 
tions, the “honker” and the “wavy” appear in 
large numbers and tremendous bags may be 
made, but for this branch of sport few accom¬ 
plished hands care overmuch. I, myself, have 
no objection to an occasional turn at the big 
fellows, but for genuine fun, the ducks are great¬ 
ly to be preferred. 
Duck-shooting in Manitoba is a thing which, 
once enjoyed, will forever be remembered. It has 
been my privilege to shoot over the cream of the 
preserved and open marsh-lands of this continent, 
but nowhere in either east, west or south have 1 
seen sport to equal that of Lake Manitoba. There 
are other waters in the north which might show 
an equal number of fowl to the square mile but 
I have yet to see a marsh which in extent and 
every other way comes so near my ideal of a 
ducking-ground. 
Until last year, it was not easily accessible, 
but now the Canadian Northern’s line along the 
eastern shore of the lake makes it unnecessary 
to drive a long distance. From Oak Point on Lake 
Manitoba, or Winnipegosis, on the lake of the 
same name, one can get easily to the huge reed- 
grown expanse that is—well, Duckville! You 
step from sod into your canoe, and one push of 
the paddle sends the craft into plenty of water 
Then for miles and miles and miles are reed- 
lined channels, big bays and lazy locked lagoons. 
A bit of personal experience is worth a pound of 
generalities, however. 
Four of us took compact outfits from Winni¬ 
peg by rail to a point near the lake, where a 
wagon met us in response to a telegram sent a 
week ahead. By evening, camp had been made 
snug for a week’s stay, and early next morning 
four “breed” punters with their canoes were 
ready for our pleasure. The ground all about 
that part of the lake was firm and dry as an old 
pasture, and you might have walked to the bow 
of a beached canoe in slippers. The “breeds” 
knew every yard of the maze of marsh-channels, 
and because one direction was as good as an¬ 
other, the party promptly scattered for the day. 
My craft had not traveled three hundred yards 
before Baptiste warned me to be ready. In a 
moment the canoe glided through a fringe of 
tall reeds and into a small pond and before her 
stern had cleared the cover there was a thunder¬ 
ous roar of wings and what looked like acres of 
duck rose into the sunlit air. Red-heads, blue- 
bills, gray-duck, and teal were all mixed up, and 
to drop a couple of the finest was an easy mat¬ 
ter. Stragglers continued to rise while I hastily 
reloaded and a couple more paid the penalty. 
Then we “gathered” and moved on to repeat the 
thing half a dozen times. This was good enough 
for me, but Baptiste knew what he was about. 
Finally, we entered a broad, winding channel 
and a guttural voice from behind said, “Canvas- 
back 1 ” A dozen great fellows shot upon sounding- 
wings not forty yards away and it was too good 
a chance to lose. 
Then we tossed out a dozen decoys, backed the 
canoe into the reeds, tied her down till she was 
stiff as a church, and waited. Standing erect I 
could see iar across the marsh where fowl were 
stringing along in every direction. Presently, dull 
reports, swerving flocks and falling fowl, told 
where my comrades were busy, and Baptiste 
grunted “Come soon.” And did they come? 
Singles, pairs, trios, flocks, chiefly red-liead and 
blue-bill, came humming down to the decoys, 
often smashing into the water within twenty 
yards of the canoe- Such small chaps as butter- 
balls were not molested, but now and then a fat 
little teal paid the price of his curiosity. At 
intervals, a whitish cloud of canvas-backs would 
dip at the decoys and roar onward with slightly 
diminished ranks, or a line of snaky-looking 
“crow-ducks” (cormorants), would slow up and 
hover, but the principal bombardment was red¬ 
headed and blue-billed. 
Standing coatless and bare-headed in an atmos¬ 
phere suggestive of the Indian summer of the 
lower lake region, I delivered my oration to the 
ducks of the Manitoba, a number of which pres¬ 
ently paused with breathless interest. It was the 
prettiest shooting imaginable—and by that is 
meant clean, sportsman-like work in the air and 
no “flocking” or murdering fowl after they had 
