American hunters flock to Mossbank

On a mid-October Sunday morning the sun hung low in the sky, casting golden rays across a rolling field of barley stubble southeast of the town of Mossbank, Saskatchewan. In a dip between two hills rested a group of birds.

The tell-tale green heads of mallard drakes were mixed in with the pointed feathers of several pintail ducks. Beside the ducks, a group of white snow geese mingled with a few “specks,” local slang for Canadian white-fronted or Specklebelly geese. In the air a group of mallard ducks flapped their wings as they approached.

Silhouetted against the sun in the distance were hundreds of ducks and geese, traversing the continent on their yearly migration south for the winter. A group of pintail ducks passing overhead called to the birds on the ground. Without hesitation, the birds on the ground quacked back at the passing flock. Satisfied with the response, the flying ducks circled, losing altitude as they came in for a landing.

As the ducks reached the landing spot they flared their wings, beating them forward and backward, slowing down to land. At that instant the sound of quacking ducks and beating wings was broken by a voice that, in a slight Texan drawl, said, “Shoot’em.”

The incoming ducks had no idea the feeding flock of birds were actually plastic decoys or that the beckoning quacks had come from green and black plastic bird calls hung around hunters’ necks like ornate necklaces.

Even the mallards coming in for a landing were a set up. Known as mojos, the plastic decoys ‘flapped’ their battery powered wings by spinning black and white wing-shaped pieces of plastic atop a meter high post.

The elaborate ruse had been set up before the sun had peaked over the horizon by Texans Damron Henson, his wife Dayna, his friends Eric Starnater, Colby Kirchner, and local Clay Stark. Dressed in white jumpsuits, the team had lain in wait since day-break, blending in with the flock of white plastic snow geese.

            As soon as Henson called “shoot’em” the trap was sprung. The group greeted the approaching pintails with a wall of thunderous booms from their 12-gauge shotguns. Three ducks pitched sideways, the force of the impacting steel shot blowing tufts of feathers in the air. The ducks dropped out of the sky, impacting the ground one by one with low thuds.

Mariah, Henson’s black lab, yelped at the downed birds before running out to grab them in a morbid version of fetch. While the dog gathered the birds at Henson’s side the hunters traded good natured jabs about each other’s shooting. A downed pintail struggled to flap its wings on the ground, dying but not dead. In one motion Henson grabbed the duck by the head and spun its body around with a snap of the wrist, wringing its neck.

Across the Saskatchewan prairies a similar scene unfolds every fall. Migratory birds heading south for the winter meet Americans heading north looking for a good hunt. Over 10,000 non-resident hunters, mostly Americans, bring some $9.6 million dollars annually to the Saskatchewan economy, according to a 2006 report by Saskatchewan Environment.

In a distinctive southern accent Wayne Todd, or Captain Todd as he’s known locally, invites me into the small house he owns on the edge of town. A charter boat captain from Tallahasee, Florida, the Captain will spend two months living in Mossbank and hunting in the surrounding farmland. Todd tells me he enjoys coming up to Mossbank because it restores his faith in humanity. Numerous friends will come to visit and hunt with the Captain during his stay. During their stay, Todd and his guests will spend thousands on gas, groceries, home repairs and hunting supplies. Todd and his current hunting partner, Tim Baroody, even frequent auction sales in the surrounding towns.

The very nature of their passion sends hunters into rural communities, adding thousands of dollars to local business coffers. “Shotgun shell sales go up by about 50 per cent,” said Patrick Bahuaud, manager of the local Co-op gas station. The station clearly has hunters in mind instead of chocolate bars, the display case underneath the cash register is filled with ammunition.

The migrating Americans aren’t just tourists, though. Instead they establish a network of friendships north of the border. “I got invited to a wedding up here for a buddy of mine,” said Colby Kirchner, who calls Amarillo, Texas home. The Americans become regulars in town; Todd has been hunting in Mossbank for 15 years while Henson started in 2005. When I ask why they return to Mossbank year after year, they both agree that it’s the people.

“You can’t always guarantee a good hunt, but you can always guarantee good people,” says Kirchner, adding with a grin, “and good beer.”

By Matt Duguid

Photo credit Matt Duguid