Hunting Canadian Geese with a Camera

habitats, in an effort to increase their diminishing numbers. In our state, Wesley Fleming, waterfowl technician for the Arizona State Game and Fish Commission, has been taking a two years' survey of feed, weather, water, and predatory conditions at isolated ponds and lakes in the White Mountain region of Northeastern Arizona. It will be interesting to follow developments, if he finds it feasible to "plant" geese.

If his studies indicate favorable conditions, a dozen young pairs, hatched from incubators, without knowledge of wild habitat, and never having nested before, will be released early in the spring. By clipping their wing feathers, the geese would have to stay at the spot selected for them, until their summer molt produced new plumage. By fall, 25 to 35 offspring should reach maturity.

Forrest also tipped us off about Henry Stieg, of Scottsdale, Arizona, who keeps waterfowl as a hobby on his fishing lagoons. Included with his collection of ducks, are several Canadian Geese living on the tuled ponds.

Contrary to popular belief, Arizona's summer heat has not caused their eggs to be infertile. Nor, has it impaired the growth of the goslings the geese have raised. To keep over-ambitious hunters from taking "pot shots," Stieg has had to keep their wings clipped.

Briefed with this information, and hearing the call of the wild goose, we sallied forth to study and photograph the undisputed lord of waterfowl. It is an avocation we have worked on for the last two years, taking us into many remote spots in Arizona.

The largest concentration of geese we observed in Arizona, not in migratory flight, was on the Colorado, just up-river from Lee's Ferry.

By ducking under brush and branches, we were able to approach within 130 to 140 feet of them. Luckily, we got a few shots in color before the birds detected us, and took off. Always cagey, they invariably leave a sentry to keep a lookout when feeding in any numbers.

We waited. Finally they came back. As they set their wings to make a pass at the river, we considered ourselves lucky to even get one picture. A flight of jets couldn't have executed a better buzz job. They honked and gabbled before alighting. But their consultations are quite practical. If one of their number sees anything suspicious, the sagacious fellow emits a single sharp h-o-n-k, and rises into the wind. Instantly, the remainder of the flock cleave the air with their wings, while crying in their familiar, sonorous voices.

During any long-distance journey, the geese fly in their well known V-shaped formation, or form a single staggered line. This enables the leader to break trail, so to speak, while the other birds fly in his wake. The weaker ones stay in the rear where flying is made easier. They exchange leaders, but only after many honking consultations have been made. Then the old leader sideslips out of the way into a less tiring position, while a fresher bird takes over the duties of flight commander.

It is amazing, when you stop to think of it, how they can fly with such radar-like precision. The converging lines of the flying geese never follow any contour of the ground, but sail straight as an arrow, over cities, valleys, mountains, and rivers. And the strangest thing of all, as we said before, is their return to the same place year after year.

None of this "Wild goose, brother goose, which is best" stuff for them. It might sound good for a song but, nothing could be farther from the truth. They mate for life. And fidelity is the basis of their home. Probably in no other instance in birdlife does this trait exhibit itself to such an extent.

During the courting season the gander displays himself to his brown-eyed choice. Though not as pompous and strutting as the turkey gobbler, nevertheless, he fights many duels of honor over his fair mate-to-be. When the chivalrous deeds are done, and she has decided he shall be her gallant swain, the two stake out a claim on their proposed homesite.

Twigs, pine needles, reeds, weed stems, grasses, tules, flags (iris), and whatever is handy for nesting material, is formed into a bowl-shaped nest.

This adaptable game bird may even use an osprey nest in a low tree and recondition it, if surrounded by water. An old snag standing starkly alone in the lake may conceal their nest. The home may be between granite boulders on a rocky shore.

A grassy mound seems to be preferable, with some cover about. Though most of the nests are hidden, they are not as cleverly camouflaged as some species of ducks and a few other types of birds. Possibly, the geese think they can fend off intruders and need not go to quite so much labor.

The female grows down upon her breast which she may or may not use to line the nest. This probably depends upon the latitude to which the geese have migrated. Up to nine eggs are laid, but five is an average clutch. They are creamy white when first laid. Incubation takes thirty days.

Obtaining pictures of their nest presented our biggest problem, but not in the way one might think. Because geese are reluctant to leave their eggs, we were sure we could get close enough with our telephoto. The trick was not to arouse the gander's ire any more than necessary. When faced with an enemy near his nest he becomes a formidable foe, indeed.

The male is always in close attendance, but never sits on the eggs. Any uneasiness on his mate's part, and instantly, his sharp eyes are scrutinizing every little movement from his nearby lookout post.

The sound of a fish jumping in the stillness of the morning will carry a quarter of a mile. But let a little water slosh against a boat, or let someone throw a rock into the water at the same distance, and immediately his long, black neck stretches out above the grasses, craning this way and that, trying to see what has interrupted their solitude.

When actually threatened, the enraged gander's neck feathers rise like the hair on the back of a dog. He charges his foes with bill wide open and neck outstretched, head close to the ground or water. Hissing vehemently, and his eyes flashing, he lashes out with his powerful wings, then feints. Retreating quickly, he wheels about, and rushes forward again, striking at his quarry from a different quarter. A couple of these wild charges with their accompaniment of wild blows, and the intruder takes to his heels, thinking twice about his indiscretion.

A Canadian newspaper account tells of a Canada Goose diving at a man, knocking him out of his saddle while he rode horseback. The victim died. Unluckily, he had ridden through the nest.

With these thoughts swimming in our heads, we gingerly approached the nest. It would be an impossible situation to have him make one of these mad charges at our little boat, beating us with his wings. We would surely capsize, losing all our equipment, plus the "big bertha." Our only procedure was to float by, ever so slowly.

Out he shot from his lookout post, hissing and with eyes flashing. He made a lunge, cracked his wings at us, and went straight to his mate. There he hovered about her. We would have gotten the punishing end of the fight if it hadn't been for our "long lens." Closer, we certainly would have shared in a dunking.

We glided by several times, always careful to approach in the same manner without moving our bodies except for camera manipulation. As we slipped by, the female crouched down on her nest, hugging her feathers tightly against her body to avoid detection. She appeared to be only half of her normal size.

At other times, the goose will stretch out her neck, and lay it flat upon the ground. This makes a very effective camouflage, especially on rocky shores of the northern lakes. Her coloration resembles the grey granite boulders to a great extent, and her black neck looks like a shadow between the rocks.

As we slid away, we observed a quaint ritual being enacted. The gander, thinking we had been vanquished (we didn't want to spoil the illusion), rejoined his mate. They bobbed up and down, while entwining their necks. He passed his head and neck around hers, while she repeated the action. Gurglings and miniature honkings emitted from their throats as they continued this happy reunion dance.

Then, the goose settled down on her eggs. Majestically, and with a last look at his domain, the gander dipped into the water, and slowly paddled off to his lookout post.

The nesting season lasts from April to June, depending upon the latitude. The goose finds life a little curtailed at this time. She frequently gets up to stretch her neck and wings, and turn her cherished eggs with her black bill.

During the heat of the day, when it is safe to leave the eggs without fear of letting them get cold, the gander escorts his mate while they forage for food. Insects, larvae, wild rice, johnson grass, sedge, arrowhead, decaying vegetable matter, snails, are all part of the menu. Grit, of course, completes the diet.

Because their legs are placed farther forward than in the case of ducks, geese are able to take long strides without waddling conspicuously. For this reason they are prone to feed in fields where more walking is necessary. Sometimes they walk when, seemingly, flying would have been easier and quicker.

As soon as the goslings have cracked their confining shells and stepped into their new world, they look toward their watery element. However, their mother keeps them under her breast for the first few hours to give them a chance to strengthen their little bodies. This accomplishes another feat too. When they cuddle under her, oily substances from her feathers begin to waterproof their down. Otherwise, they would become water-logged and drown in their first swim.

It is amusing to see them making their debut. The goslings become so thrilled with the water, they bounce up and down. Throwing water over their backs, the offspring frolic around their parents. Papa and mama stop paddling and look knowingly down upon their children.

If the little ones hatch out of a tree nest above the water, a special problem is presented. First they have to be tipped out of the nest, and secondly when the little fuzzy balls are tumbled out, any lurking enemy has to be driven off. So, at a signal from mama, papa begins to create such a din, and thresh so wildly about in the water underneath the nest, that any interloper quickly invites himself to leave, but quick.

Pike and bass swim hastily away, lurking turtles pull in their heads, even coyote, fox, and lynx retreat. Then, the little ones are gently nudged out by their mother's bill. Out they spill. When all are collected and accounted for, they swim serenely to the cover of the water plants, with papa in the lead, goslings in between, and mama bringing up the rear guard.

Along about four weeks, the goslings begin to develop their plumage. Quills appear on the body and then on the wings. Soon the yellowish, olive-green down disappears.

As the goslings develop, the parents, because of the postnuptial molt, lose their wing primaries, and are left flightless. Unlike the ducks, Canadian Geese have only one molt a year. During this period they are extremely wary, and rarely found about during the middle of the day. Along in the evening, though, they search for food. In a few weeks their entire plumage is restored.

State game and federal wildlife agencies take advantage of their flightless condition, and band a great number of the birds. They are caught by huge nets, and driven into wing drive traps, which are more or less low chicken-wire corrals.

When fall comes, the brood is full grown. The Common Canada Goose is a large bird, weighing about twelve pounds. Some have weighed as much as seventeen. Five to six feet is their average wing span.

The longer nights and the chilly winds make the geese restless. The squabble among themselves, while gabbling and craning their necks skyward. Then, a wise, old bird asserts his leadership. Circling above the flock, he calls to them. In a moment, all rise and form their familiar flight pattern.

Besides the scattered number living in the State the year around, many take advantage of the mild Arizona winter climate. They migrate to the Colorado River, spending the winter months between Needles, California, to the mouth of the Colorado in Mexico.

But according to figures compiled by the Game Department's Wesley Fleming, their numbers are diminishing. 8577 geese were counted at the end of hunting season in 1950, and only 4454 in 1953. These figures are arrived at from aerial surveys made by the State Game Department each January. Of course, the Department can not count every honker, but it sadly indicates a downward trend.

The sonorous crying of the wild geese, knifing through the misty morning air, is a heartfelt reward to hunters who have lain in cold, cramping blinds since before daybreak. But, we must remember that along with hunting these magnificent waterfowl, comes conservation.

We only have to look back a few years to realize America's once numerous passenger pigeons are now extinct.

Billy the Kid continued from page five

Now this story may have apocryphal elements, or may be made of whole cloth; but it was told by Garrett and by Otero, ignored by Walter Noble Burns in his Saga of Billy the Kid, and told by the Kid himself to his friends and associates in New Mexico. Basically, it would appear to have more than a modicum of truth.

But there can be little doubt about the Kid's third major adventure in Arizona, although the exact location cannot be substantiated. It was this "incident" that caused Billy to flee the territory, and he described it in some detail years later to J. P. Meadows in Lincoln County, New Mexico. Meadows, in turn, retold the story to Maurice Garland Fulton. If the Silver City murder is accepted as number one, and the three friendly Apaches run up the score to four, this incident accounts for the Kid's fifth victim. Although legendry claims twenty-one dead men, "not counting Indians."

The altercation was caused by gambling and drinking, the victim was a United States soldier usually identified as a blacksmith, and the killing is supposed to have taken place at Fort Grant or Fort Bowie. Another rumor suggests that the tragedy occurred at Tucson and that the soldier was from the adjacent Camp Lowell. History sometimes makes the victim a Negro, and assigns him to the colored cavalry at Fort Huachuca. The soldier-blacksmith may have been a Negro but he certainly was not stationed at Fort Huachuca when Billy shot him. Fort Huachuca was not established until 1877, and this fifth killing of Billy's took place in 1873, or not later than 1874.

Most versions of the story agree that the Kid was dealing monte in a saloon and minding both his business and his game. The soldier, who was obviously off duty and probably unarmed, played monte with Billy. He had been drinking before the "friendly little game" began and he continued to drink while he played cards. His attitude was belligerent. The Kid, to him, was a mere boy who ought to have his ears boxed. But in spite of all the soldier could do Billy continued to win. The soldier ordered more whiskey. Billy was no teetotaler, but he used whiskey sparingly, and never in the legendry of the Kid is there any account of his having been drunk. Finally the soldier became both drunk and disorderly and refused to play any more. He emphasized this by throwing the cards all over the saloon.

That was all right with Billy until the soldier also refused to pay. Then things became serious. Billy wanted to pocket his winnings. The soldier told him what he could do and where he could go. Little boys shouldn't gamble, and let that be a lesson to him. Billy insisted on his just share. Then the soldier became abusive. He gave Billy a push in the face, almost knocking him over, and with appropriate profanity warned the Kid to make himself scarce. If he didn't, the soldier threatened to do something to Billy that he wouldn't like.

Still Billy persisted.

Then the soldier went into action. He grabbed the Kid and tousled his hair; he clipped him across the face with the side of his hand; then he dealt him a blow that sent him spinning across the room and down on the floor in a corner. He followed this by hurling a chair at the scrambling Kid. Billy went down again with the chair on top of him.

That was too much for Billy. He rose from the floor with his six-shooter drawn. One shot was enough. A few seconds later the soldier lay dead.

The Kid was always reticent about describing this killing. He never boasted about any of his exploits, and for most of his victims he seemed to express a regret. In this instance the memory was distasteful to him. After giving a brief description of it to J. P. Meadows he brought the account to a succinct ending with, "I came up a-shooting." That was all.

But the incident was serious enough to Billy's mind in 1873 to cause him to flee from the scene. He was then not more than fifteen years old. He was still a boy and he was afraid of the consequences of his act. Killing a soldier of the United States Army was his greatest crime yet. Ruffians or Chinese or Indians, they might be explained away. But to have the Army after you was too much to face. This was not cowardice. The Kid was no more a coward than he was a braggart. He was simply unable to adjust to society. His teen-age policy was: when in trouble don't stay and ask for more-get out. For the second time in his life the boy experienced panic, and for the second time he ran away. He put Arizona behind him and he fled into Mexico.

The day was soon to come when he would no longer flee from a killing. But to his adolescent mind at fifteen it was still kill and run. The true elements of the defiant desperado were there in Billy's psychological make-up, but it took the Lincoln County War in his eighteenth year to bring out the fully mature, cold-blooded young killer. The Arizona soldier-blacksmith gave the Kid's career enormous impetus -down the wrong direction.

If this nearly forgotten tragedy took place in Tucson, as some believe, Billy and Alias parted there once and for all; and Billy rode south by way of Nogales Pass to the safety of Sonora. His destination would doubtless have been the Mexican town of Magdalena. If it took place in or around Fort Bowie or Fort Grant, it is likely that the Kid shook the dust of Arizona from his heels by crossing the border at Agua Prieta. One slight rumor from the fog of history suggests that the latter may be true, for the Kid is said to have set up a monte bank, with the help of a Mexican partner and saloonkeeper, in Agua Prieta in 1874. If this was the case, he soon drifted deeper into Sonora, then easterly to Chihuahua, and north once more to Texas and New Mexico. He never set foot in Arizona again.

But as soon as his death made news in 1881, Billy was well remembered in Arizona and all of the American Southwest. The editors and publishers of the rapidly selling dime novels of the day-or even the smaller nickel novels -were quick to seize upon Billy's melodramatic career as material for sure-fire sales. The result was half a dozen or more publications purporting to tell the true story of Billy the Kid. Without exception they were all hastily written by authors who had probably never been west of the Hudson River. The facts they contain about Billy are either distorted, false, or mere speculation. Many of these publications were sold by "news butchers" on railroad trains; and one title, The Life of Billy the Kid, a Juvenile Outlaw, number 3 in Morrison's Sensational Series, New York, 1881, sold, by the publisher's claim, over 100,000 copies. This success, quite naturally, resulted in many imitators.

For further information on the thrillers and pennydreadfuls of the early 1880s that made use of Billy the Kid material there is a splendid publication by J. Č. Dykes, Billy the Kid: the Bibliography of a Legend, University of New Mexico Press, 1952. Mr. Dykes' bibliography lists a rival to Morrison's Sensational Series. This was the Wide Awake Library, and it published The True Life of Billy the Kid, a dime novel (price five cents!), six weeks after the Kid's death became news in New York. It was written by John Woodruff Lewis under the pseudonym of Don Jenardo, but it is so far removed from the truth that it might be about any other desperado more readily than Billy the Kid.

Both of the above publications were sold in Arizona, and one visitor recorded the purchase of one in 1882 in a book of travels he himself published the following year. He was William Henry Bishop and his book is Old Mexico and Her Lost Provinces. Mr. Bishop had spent a few days in Tombstone, and then traveled by stage through the boom city of Contention to Benson whence he continued by railroad to Tucson. He bought a Billy the Kid dime novel from a news butcher on the train. Which of the above thrillers Mr. Bishop purchased is not clear, but very likely both were for sale. He writes: The term cow-boy, once applied to all those in the cattle business indiscriminately, while still including some honest persons, has been narrowed down to be chiefly a term of reproach for a class of stealers of cattle, over the Mexican frontier, and elsewhere, who are a terror in their day and generation. Exceptional desperadoes of this class, such as "Billy the Kid," "Curly Bill," and "Russian George," have been the scourges of whole districts in Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona, and have had their memories embalmed in yellow-covered literature.

I bought on the train, on leaving, (Benson) a pamphlet purporting to be an account of the exploits of Billy the Kid. He had committed, it appeared, at least a score of horrid murders, but "so many cities have claimed the honor of giving him birth," said my pamphlet, "that it is difficult to locate with any accuracy the locality where he passed his youth." It was finally determined, however, in favor of New York.

"It was on the Bowery," said the author, whose ideas of morality were peculiar even for a sensationalist, "that his mates learned to love him for his daring and prowess, and delighted to refer to him as Billy the Kid."

While Mr. Bishop was reading this lurid account he was travelling by train over the very ground between Benson and Tucson that the Kid had ridden over on horseback, but neither the dime novel's author nor Mr. Bishop could have been aware of that fact.

Much dialogue has been written in fiction and in biography purporting to be Billy's own words. Curiously enough, much of this has been colored by the nineteenth century pulp writers' style. The Don Jenardos seemed to strike a note that never quite lost its effect. Some of it is fantastic to the point of absurdity. There is one passage in Garrett's "faithful" and "interesting" book pertaining to the Apache Indians and water. Billy and his frier friend (it might have been Alias) are stalking redskins. The Indians are on their way to a spring, and Billy presumably whispered to his companion: "Don't you see we have got to have water? It's close by. Those breechclouts are going straight to it. I believe a little flare-up with twenty or thirty of the sneaking curs would make me forget that I was thirsty while it lasted, and give water the flavor of wine after the brigazee was over . I am going to have water or blood, perhaps both."

This is dime novel English, albeit Ash Upson's as well. It is a far cry from the true idiom of the American Southwest. All we really know of Billy the Kid's manner of speech during his stay in Arizona consists of one handeddown quotation. But it is accurate and it is the quintessence of Billy: "I came up a-shooting." That, he did.

Yours sincerely

DECEMBER ISSUE (CONTINUED): Your December issue is the best you have ever gotten out. I sent over one hundred as Christmas cards and you might be interested to know that in every case I have received a most flattering letter from the recipients commenting on the beautiful magazine I sent. I do not know for sure but I imagine by the time these magazines have made the rounds nearly one thousand people will have received your seasonal message from Arizona.

H. H. Sansome Omaha, Nebraska I know every person who has read your Christmas issue is going to have a favorite picture, but to me the very best in your whole book is Wayne Davis' study entitled "Stream near St. Johns." He has caught in this picture all the fleecy and fragile beauty that represents winter at its best. Congratulations to you and to Wayne Davis.

Homer X. Smythe New York, N. Y.

For color printing (and I might say that I am familiar with the great French magazine REALITIES and the famous DU of Switzerland), nothing, absolutely nothing can equal December issue of ARIZONA HIGHWAYS. It must be very gratifying, indeed, to be an editor and receive that kind of treatment from your printers.

Mrs. Grace S. Charms San Jose, Calif.

I am distressed. Your back cover should have been your front cover for December. The spur is ugly, representing cruelty to animals. The Nativity on your back cover expresses all GHOST TOWN Deep dust drifts in delicate Patterns over long-vacant chairs And rough-scarred table tops; Shafts of sun slant into Empty eyes of windows, piercing The ghostly gloom of dry deserted rooms; Wan listless breezes creep carelessly Over boot-worn thresholds and Slide tiredly through the Dim dust left in the dessicated Skeleton of the old town; While its once-strident Boisterous lives have now become Muted whisperings of quiet ghosts Slipping softly through the Straggling nerveless streets.

HARRIET CHAPMAN BUTLER NIGHT TRAIN CROSSING THE DESERT Intruding where adobe houses sleep, Where greasewood spreads a quilt on cooling sand, Where night songs blend with peace hung heaven deep, A raucous train appropriates the land. Beneath the quiet moon it thunders by Where creatures of the day are bedded down. Unmindful of the hogan sleeper's sigh, It whistles warning to the waiting town; It runs with time, a solitary race, Unleashes smoke, a moving ebon scroll, Till distance swallows its momentous pace And miles of midnight mute its far off roll. Then desert sounds again enchant the ear, Once more night sings, low voiced and cricket-clear.

ELSIE MCKINNON STRACHAN POLLEN BLESSING This is her day. The Indian maiden stands, proud in the flowering of womanhood. The sacred pollen falls, dusting with gold her shining blue-black hair.

Last year she ran and with her brothers shook bright grains of pollen from brown cattails beside the Bitter Lake; but now, crowned with the blessing of the fruitful dust, she must prepare to take her place among the women of her tribe, to bear strong sons who will defend the honor of the race.

"ON THE EDGE" BY CARLOS ELMER. 4x5 Burke and James press camera, 6" Goertz Aerotar lens, Kodachrome film. Exposure f.11, 1/25th second. Date: April 8, 1952. The photographer says: "Near the end of a scenery-filled day of travel from the pines of the Mogollon Rim to the desert wilderness of the Apache Trail, I saw this lone saguaro outlined against the sparkling waters of Apache Lake, a short distance west of Roosevelt Dam. The scene to me was memorable in its mood and its beauty."

GRACE S. DOUGLAS

Yours sincerely-cont.

the reverence that we should associate with the Christmas season.

Alice Sanders Dallas, Texas For a regional magazine to reach 850,000 is something out of the ordinary. I note you reached that number in your December issue. Congratulations and best wishes for your first million with the Christmas issue of 1954H. Howard Howarth Philadelphia, Penna.

VIVA THE WREN: To me, the Cactus Wren which you so eloquently described in your January issue, is one of the most amazing of birds. I have watched them closely for years and I have always wondered at their ability to live in the hot desert.

Mrs. Hubert Mammouth Tucson, Arizona Arizona could not have picked a better state bird than the Cactus Wren. A truly noble bird representing a wonderful state.

Talbot Thompson Butte, Montana

OPPOSITE PAGE "FROM BRYCE POINT" BY HUBERT A. LOWMAN. At colorful Bryce Canyon National Park, called by the Indians "Rocks-StandingLike-Men," a vast panorama of vertical formations stretches from under the feet all the way to a rim just under a distant horizon in the view from Bryce Point. Summer clouds add thrilling beauty to the scene. Although it was late in the afternoon, light was still normal and the exposure was 1/10 second at f.16 with Ektachrome film in a Brand 17 view camera and Zeiss Tessar 54" lens.