SHOOTING AROUND ST.  PAUL

By: “Alsace”

(from: Forest and Stream, 1875, v. 7, p. 354)

(Contributor’s note: For those that live in the Twin Cities, here’s a rare glimpse at what the urban core looked like a century ago.  At that time, roughly 800,000 people resided in Minnesota, and the suburbs simply didn’t exist.  The author – Alsace was a pen-name -  was a principal in the capital newspaper, the Pioneer Press, and a regular contributor to Forest and Stream.  This bi-weekly sportsman’s newsletter out of New York occasionally ran articles about the “western fontier”, including Minnesota.  The stories, while ostensibly descriptive of hunting and fishing opportunities, provide a fascinating glimpse at the habitat conditions and amazing productive capacity of the native Minnesota landscape. Tom Landwehr, State Conservation Director IA/MN, Ducks Unlimited, Shoreview, MN)

"What a pity," said my visiting friend Kilburn to me, "that you have so far to go for your shooting now; a perfect hunter's paradise this must have been in days gone by, when only Indians pursued the game." "You are quite correct in your remarks," said I, game is becoming scarcer every year in the immediate vicinity of St. Paul; but in spite of all that, what would you say to a little shoot less than a mile from here, at some very fine game, too.  I can give you a shot, I think, in less than an hour's time; how would that suit you?" "Nothing would please me better, Z, but I am really afraid you cannot make good your promise," said he, looking out from the windows upon our busy streets.  "Leave it all to me," I remarked, "it is now four o'clock, and before five o'clock you shall be gratified in your wish and I make my promise good."

Taking him into my hunting den, for the confusion reigning in my sporting room precludes my calling it by any other title, I bade him array himself in one of my hunting suits and hip boots, while I followed his example.  He looked incredulous still, but obeyed with such good-natured alacrity that in five minutes' time we were off, and in another minute were crossing the bridge that spans the "Father of Waters" at this point, and the West St. Paul flats lay before us scarcely a rifle shot distant.  While the rattle of teams over the "Nicholson" still rung in our ears I called K's, attention to a distant puff of smoke darting out of a clump of wild rice on the flat; in a moment after the report came clear and distinct, sending a pleasant thrill to our hearts.  My companion's face brightened, and he was about to speak to me when my ears caught the sound of wings.  From the direction of Pickerel Lake came a low flying flock of mallards, barely clearing the top of the bridge overhead. on the impulse of the moment I sang out sharply, "Mark!" Up went K's. gun.  "Don't shoot," I yelled, "you will be hauled up for shooting in the city limits." "Sure enough," said he, looking rather cheap, and taking down his gun, "we are hardly out of your principal street.  What a shame that I could not let them have it," he added, his face flush with excitement.

Bidding him be patient and follow me, we struck into a cow path at the foot of the bridge, and leaving the village of West St. Paul, our sixth ward, on our left we reached a little red cottage from which a hay road led toward the lake.  On getting over the bars a boat, mounted midway on two wheels, blocked our path.

"If we only had that," said my friend, pointing at the boat, “we would be fixed." "You shall have it," I interrupted; "it is mine," and taking out my whistle I blew a loud blast.  Out of the bottom of the boat from among a pile of decoys, gun and paddles, arose an apparition in the form of Ed., our printer, whom I had sent ahead to save time and put the boat in readiness.  After doing so he laid down and took a nap.  "Behold!" said I to K., "the inventor, Eddie S. To him belongs the credit of the construction, and to myself and friends the use of this novel craft, which runs on land or water with equal facility."

Placing our guns and ammunition in the boat to properly balance her, we laid hold and trotted to the water's edge; while Ed unshipped and hid the wheels in the wild rice, K. and I launched the boat together.  Embarking we paddled out into the open lake, and being familiar with the different channels through the wild rice, were shortly in position in the narrows, the spot chosen for our evening's shoot.  Overboard went the decoys.  Ed and I busied ourselves placing them in good position, K. being told to keep his eyes open and mark east, undertook his part with commendable zeal and patience.  Though intent upon his work I managed to keep an eye on K., and when I felt him give an excited start I knew what was coming.  Bang, bang! went his gun -- splash, splash! into the water went a pair of black ducks (Fuligula rufitorgues) throwing the water into my eyes, and fairly blinding me.  Through my tears I roared at K., "pull out your watch!" He did so, and it lacked eight minutes of five.  From the lower lake there came a scattering volley, and presently it was repeated in our front.  I had just time to sing out "Mark!" when the ducks went whizzing by like lightning; a pair fell to K. and myself, while Ed sat in the stern of the boat looking after the flock.

"Why didn't you shoot?" I queried.  "Shoot!" said the astonished and discomfitted boy, scratching his head, "they did not wait long enough." The deepening shadows brought the ducks on us.  Fast and furious from every point of the compass they whizzed by, every now and then leaving one or more of their numbers behind them, victims to our shots, until the water about us was dotted with OLII- game,, and we hastened to retrieve before it became too dark.  "Count them," Ed, said K, "as you throw them into the boat." He assorted them as he did so, and the result was as follows: Eleven blacks, five teal, three widgeon, one red head and a spoon-bill, fat and plump all of them, and in the best condition.

"What wouldn't I give," K. remarked again and again, "to take this bag home with me where we seldom or never see a duck, and rabbits and grouse claim our attention.  If you ever come our way I'll give you a taste of that kind of sport, and if lucky, throw you in the way of a shot at a deer."

On reaching home, after a hasty tea my friend Ben. W. Kilburn left on the evening train for his home in the White Mountains, where his name is a household word, and his pictures of the rugged hills as much esteemed as he is himself for his many noble manly qualities.  May the reader have the pleasure of sometime meeting him.

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