International photographer (Jan-Dec 1941)

ducks Aisd qEESE^^UNlJMJTEd By Chalmer D. Sinkey Wild Geese versus Wild Newsreel Camerainen Well, anyhow, — this is a story of a Happy Hunting Ground — a ground that stretches through a great valley of ancient, crumbling lava. According to geologists, — the ground was here ages ago, — 'way back through those eons of time that preceded our most ancient written history. Later on, — migrations of wild ducks and geese got themselves organized and made the same long journies from North to South and vice versa, — that they are making today. In the course of their ancient migrations they paused at this valley for a stop-over. In fact, this valley was a major resting spot on one of the four major flight lanes of the earth's migratory birds. In those days the valley was a huge, expansive lake, alreadv settled and fringed with tulies, while surrounding volcanoes were spouting red lava and mountain ranges were being pushed into being. Of course no one that we know of was on hand to record the events, but we surmise that Tule Lake must have been a very enticing spot for after all of these centuries the geese and ducks have never wavered from their estahlished rendezvous. When the tang of fall is in the air they descend upon the Happy Hunting Ground like swarms of insects on a gusty breeze. All of which proves that a goose is a persistant fellow else the changes that time has brought to Tule Lake, would surely have made him change his itinerary long ere this. In the first place, along about the time that the volcanoes were nicely calmed down and the earth took on a habitable form, a mysterious tribe evolved from somewhere. They pitched their dwellings on the shores of ancient Tule Lake and left a rich store of relics to challenge our imaginations. Well covered by the shifting dust, are stone pestals and mortars that once ground grain. Clean-cut obsidian arrow heads are sprinkled throughout the valley; crude, undeciphered picture writing makes wierd murals on the rotting lava walls, and forgotten burial grounds are unearthed as the sands travel imperceptibly to and fro in their painstaking cycles of erosion. Just as mysteriously as they came, these people disappeared, and we presume that a few more ages passed by. Later, when the white man pushed his way westward, stopping at the tule-fringed lake, he found it peopled with redskins, who were destined to be well known on the pages of our written history as the Modocs. Long and furious were the battles be tween the pioneers and the trihesmen, but when the smoke of battle rolled away, the Happy Hunting Ground was lost to the Redman. Then came the greatest blow of all to migratory flocks. The Happy Valley did not suit the white man, so he set about to change it. He set into motion the wheels of a great reclamation project and the vast, shallow lake, once a wealth of marsh-food, was drained into miles of pungent, dusty waste. A small section of the water was left diked up in the center of the area, eventuallv to irrigate diese same wastes. Finally, cabins of settlers dotted the desert-like reaches, and with the settlers came a miracle; a miracle that converted the barren ground into wheat-fields, unbelievably rich wheatfields that yielded between 40 to 60 bushels of grain per acre. Now, the Happy Hunting Ground must have looked strange to the migrating hordes of birds, with automobiles racing across countless miles of tumble-weeded dikes, and guns and dogs booming at them when they settled down to find themselves some food. Yet the ducks and geese have never wavered, and because they still come like chaff from the sky, the U. S. Government has taken a hand to protect them. Under jurisdiction of the Biological Survev ( now known as the Bureau of Fish and Wild Life) a large game refuge is maintained in the heart of the ancient valley. Here they build artificial nesting grounds, guard against poachers, care for sick birds and plant food that will help them to exist. Then, once each year, at shooting season, the refuge is thrown open to hunters. The spot has become a mecca for nimrods. Thousands of them gather for the opening day, and few leave without their full bag limits of birds. All of which brings us to the newsreel cameramen. "An intriguing thought." thinks the editor, "is the sight of hordes of migratory wild fowl darkening the sky, literally blotting out the landscape." But a wild task indeed, is the capturing of this picture on film. This is where the wild cameramen come in versus the wild geese. Suffice it to say, that while the birds are there, you do not merely run out. point your camera here and there and call it a day. There are various and sundry problems, such as: What film to use? How to allow for the grey, crumbling landscape and yet do justice to the brilliant sky that seems eternally filtered by a blanket of dust? Other inconveniences are a lack of safe • -*■ I Movietone's cameraman moves in for a close-up, — but finds to his dismay that his goose is a pelican. drinking water, — no accommodations at the local hotels which are all booked up by hunters. The geese themselves are downright inconsiderate. They fly when you are not expecting them to, and fail to fly when you do. If you sneak upon them at their feeding spots, they have wise old sentinels that do nothing but watch you, and the minute they calculate that your camera is in range, — WHOOF! they are off like a swarm of bees. In the heat of the day, they swim placidly on the water, masses of them that look like a mammoth oriental rug, — but, they manage to keep just out of range of your best lenses, and no amount of yelling, nor gesticulating will stir them into flight until they are ready to take off. After traipsing along nettle-strewn dikes all day, reconnoitering for good "angles" you dream about them all night, and lay awake to think up ways and means of outwitting a wild goose. The most tantalizing scene of all comes International Photographer for December, 1941