Hunting Ducks in Canada

I’d never traveled out of the country to hunt before, so when the chance to hunt in Canada came up last spring at a California Waterfowl Association auction, I bid on the trip and won. I’m glad I went, but I’ve come to the conclusion that, for me, this Canadian duck hunt falls into the category of, “that was a helluva lot of fun — let’s never do this again.”

Probably the best thing to come out of this experience is that it really highlighted why I hunt, and what it is about this pursuit that makes me want to do it so much.

Before I go into it, I need to say at the start that Silverback Lodge (Silverback is local slang for canvasback ducks) and the Ducharme family treated me well: Lead guide Tony Ducharme and his wife Gail put on a great show of hospitality and skill in the field.

I also got to meet several new friends, and to spend time with my old friend Jim who came with me. And since two of my new friends — Craig and Marlene — live in San Bernardino, I hope to be spending more time hunting with them as this season unfolds.

It was the other group of hunters that first raised my eyebrow. They were a group of five, obviously very wealthy, and they began their stay at Silverback by forcing another hunter out of his room because, as one of them said loudly, “We’re too old to be sleeping with someone we don’t know.” Sharing rooms is normal at hunting lodges, and these hunters knew that. They made the poor guy sleep on the couch for three days.

After spending three days with this group, I can’t say I detest them as much as that first moment, but they’re still the sort of aristocratic hunters I want no part of — they’re walking stereotypes out of a Hemingway novel. With the exception of a father-son team from New Jersey, I guarantee they would not give the rest of us the time of day if we were not in the same lodge.

Watching this group makes me realize that I am probably not a “sportsman” in their sense of the word: Yes, I love the thrill of a good hunt, but I’m not going to have such a great time if I can’t bring back what I am killing. To me it is the end result — the eating — that makes hunting a worthwhile pursuit. I am a cook who hunts, not a hunter who cooks. And it was a nightmare bringing home birds from Canada. 

Despite all that, I have to say the hunting was pretty thrilling.

We hunted around Lake Winnipeg in the village of St. Ambroise for three days, and the action was hot and heavy in all three hunts. The first day five of us went with Tony and his uncle Reggie to the marshes near Lake Manitoba, which is a smaller neighbor of Lake Winnipeg. Diver ducks would be our target, mostly canvasbacks and bluebills.

Now in California divers are sketchy table fare for the most part, eating lots of aquatic critters that often makes them taste fishy. Not so much as a merganser, but still too strong to eat simply with salt and pepper. Tony said they’d be fine, and I trust a man who can eat any kind of duck he wants.

Even before dawn the birds started bombing into our decoy spread. If you’re not a duck hunter, it is hard to imagine the thrill of that sight. Those first moments of a new season are like nothing else: I get the same adrenaline rush I used to get before important track races in college, that same heightened awareness and butterfly stomach. I was all set to shoot straight and shoot well.

Not so much. Diver ducks are crazy fast and fly about five feet over the water, making it a tough shot when you’re not used to it. None of us were. I think by the end of the morning I shot three bluebills and a canvasback — but needed 35 shells to do it. Yikes.

Incidentally, I also saw a dozen snipe, but shot none. I only tried a couple times, and would dearly have loved to chase them all day long, but did not get the chance. Oh well. Our season is coming soon.

Hunting these divers was a lot like hunting the east side ponds at the Y0lo Bypass, only the water was bigger and deeper. Still, it was not unlike our hunting in California. The next day, however, was something special.

Friday was the highlight of my hunt for several reasons. First, the shoot. We hunted a cut wheat field on dry land, sitting on folding chairs tucked into a treeline. Mallards were our target. Our guide was Kim O’Donnell, one of the best guides I’ve ever met — business-like but friendly, a great duck caller and a man willing to tell you why he does what he does; for me, learning new tricks is one of the reasons to hunt with a guide.

Shortly after daylight, we were covered in swarms of mallards flying in from a nearby pond. It was epic watching them — just look at the expression on Craig’s face. That’s awe you see.

Flocks of 100 or more birds would descend on the decoys, and the five of us — all serious hunters — knew to wait until they came close and had flown far enough across our firing line so that when Kim called the shot we would all have birds right in front of us. “Take ‘em, boys!” Kim would call out and we’d let loose a volley that invariably downed 3-6 mallards.

We reckoned we’d limited out at eight birds apiece by 8:15 a.m. For those of you who don’t hunt ducks, that just doesn’t happen. I might never have another shoot that good in my lifetime. What’s more, we got eight pintails mixed in with the mallards, and pintails are my favorite duck to eat: They are always fatty and sweet-tasting, mostly because they eat seeds and grain, not clams or shrimp or grasses.

The duck hunters reading this will notice that the birds are almost all in eclipse, meaning the drakes don’t have the bright plumage that identifies them easily. That’s one reason why there are no sex restrictions in Canada — there’s no way to tell a drake from a hen when they’re all brown.

Hunters are allowed to take home 16 ducks in Canada, and since a few of our group were not bringing birds home, Jim and I had our 16 easily, eight pintails and 24 mallards. A fine haul. What about the divers from the previous day? They’d be dinner that night.

Everyone in camp knew I am a wild game cook, and some had seen my articles in the Delta Waterfowl magazine sitting in the lodge. No one pressured, or even asked me, to cook dinner, but I really wanted to make something nice for the Ducharmes. I decided on something French: coq au vin, only with ducks — canard au vin.

Making dinner topped a perfect day. Tony had our 14 birds from the previous day plucked and gutted and ready for the night’s dinner. While everyone else napped, I broke down the birds and seared them off in a mix of their own fat and olive oil.

I also made a quick stock from the carcasses. After I’d strained it, I poured the stock over the duck pieces and then sauteed button mushrooms and onions. Since I was feeding 14 people, I had to split the stew into two pots.

Before everything went into the pots, I made a brown roux to build body in the stew. Each pot got a bottle of red wine and was set to a simmer for 2 hours — until the meat was falling off the bone on the duck wings and legs.

Everyone loved it, and for that night, all was right with the world. Even the haughty hunters in the other group were gracious and fun; one of them provided us all with an excellent Spanish Rioja to drink with the meal. Combined with the stellar hunt of the morning, that one day was worth all the price and effort.

The last day awoke to more mallard hunting, and this is where things went south. The hunt was nearly as good as the previous day in the field, but as it drew on I realized I could not take home any of these ducks — and I was spending something like $2 a shell shooting at them. (Kim said they give the ducks to poor people in the village.) My bloodlust had waned from the previous day, so I began shooting pictures instead of shotgun shells.

This was a defining moment for me. No matter how great the shooting was, if I can’t eat what I shoot I lose interest. This is what I mean when I say that I am probably not a “sportsman” in the eyes of many of my fellow hunters. I still shot five mallards on 12 shells, but I could easily have shot a limit had I not stopped shooting.

And then came the kicker. The only place Silverback fell down was on processing the ducks Jim and I wanted to take home. I needed mine plucked and frozen solid by 11 a.m. for the flight home, and when I came to get them, they were plucked but not frozen. With a 12-hour return trip and no ice, these ducks would have been rotten by the time I got back to Sacramento.

United Airlines also bears much of the blame. They charge $175 if you have dry ice in a cooler, and they don’t allow regular ice for some reason. That’s why the birds needed to be frozen for transport. United also charges $125 for the third checked bag, which is an outrage. I will never fly them again if I can help it.

Fortunately Jim was leaving the following day, and he is bringing back his 16 birds, eight of which I’ll get to eat. But Silverback’s slip-up and the wretched policies of United Airlines cost me my own 16 birds. As a cook, that hurts. A lot. Overall, I learned a lot on this hunt, met some good people and had three great mornings in the marsh.

But would I do it again? Only if I drove to Canada and could handle the birds myself. It’s just too important to me to have it done otherwise.