So, a couple of weeks back I decided to bestir myself and take off for parts south in search of wild geese—specifically lesser snow geese who once a year migrate through Utah on their way from California to Canada. Along the way, they make a pit stop at Gunnison Bend Reservoir outside of Delta, Utah. I spent the better part of the day trying to find said reservoir, which isn’t easy to do considering the fact there are no road signs pointing the way.
Eventually, I happened upon an exit off Highway 50 to a place called Sherwood Shores. On the premise that wherever there is a shore there must also be a body of water, I took that exit and presently found myself gazing upon a vast feathered flotilla numbering in the thousands. What a sight, and what a sound! The honking biomass bobbed up and down and floated this way and that, forming and disforming according to water currents and avian instincts beyond human comprehension. The proximity of myself and a handful of fellow birders didn’t seem to faze them in the least; evidently, wild geese can tell the difference between telephoto lenses and shotguns.
Moreover, birders don’t look like hunters. We don’t set out decoys, we don’t bring dogs, and we don’t wear camo. Well, my Nikon 550mm super tele does sport a camouflaged sheath; however, the rest of me is clearly visible.
We waited and waited and waited some more for something—anything—to happen. According to a press release issued by the Division of Wildlife Resources, the flock takes wing just once a day, usually in the late afternoon. They fly SSW to neighboring grain fields for the night, returning to the reservoir the following day after ten a.m.
Around three p.m. I grew tired of watching and drove into Delta to secure a room for the night in advance of the crowds I assumed would be converging on the morrow for the official beginning of the town’s annual Snow Goose Festival, which features such events as a 10K Wild Goose Chase and a Mother Goose Craft Show. Turns out I was the first—and nearly the last—visitor to check into the Comfort Inn for the night.
Complimentary cup of coffee in hand, I returned to the reservoir and rejoined the stakeout. Some of our small crowd had given up and left; another tried approaching the shoreline while making flapping motions with her arms, but to no effect. Wild geese will not be goaded into action.
By and by I detected activities not unlike those of airline passengers whose departures are imminent. Some stood up, stretching their black-tipped wings. Others took off and circled briefly before returning to their previous spots. If wild geese had smart phones, they’d be switching them to airplane mode.
Then it happened. All of a sudden the whole bunch took off at once, flapping skyward with a mighty roar. I barely had time to squeeze off a couple of shots before they were out of range, already arranging themselves into staggered formations similar to bombers of the Eighth Air Force in preparation for a daylight raid on Nazi Germany. A minute later they had vanished, leaving me and my birdwatching friends in speechless awe.
“Wow!” someone finally said, and we all nodded in agreement.
Yesterday a picture I shot that day was named “Snapshot of the Week” during a broadcast of KSL Outdoors With Adam Eakle. Looks like I’ve won a Camp Chef stove for my effort, which I plan to put to good use come summertime.
