COLD BAY, ALASKA
Hunting the Aleutian Chain for sea ducks and Pacific brant— the most delicious game bird on the planet.
a raffle prize. The only murmur of discontent was when the young woman who had sold us the raffle tickets managed to win two guns. But her beet-red complexion and sheepish demeanor when she claimed her second rifle of the night convinced the crowd that nothing but good fortune was in her favor. tough bird I was hoping for some of that lady’s luck the next morning as I sat on a rocky beach with Wasley’s dog Annie next to me. The 11-yearold Lab was a duck-hunting veteran, and she lay still on the cold stones with her teeth loudly chattering as the tide came in, soaking her fur. She sounded like a small gas motor as she pressed against my leg, and I wished I had more warmth to offer her. She stayed still as her eyes scanned the horizon.
I shot one harlequin duck that morning as it buzzed through the decoys, a bucketlist bird for serious waterfowlers and, for its size, probably the world’s toughest feathered creature. It skipped three times on the water after its wings folded, and Annie made an easy retrieve. Using a 3½-inch shell stuffed with No. 2 high-density shot would be absurd for most birds the size of that small duck— but not for a harlequin.
By afternoon the waters had calmed down, and we were able to hunt from Wasley’s layout boats in the lagoon. This was our first crack at the brant. With a string of silhouette decoys trailing off the stern, my little one-man craft looked like a round-bottomed soap dish that had been flipped over and painted gray.
I lay back in the boat, shotgun between my legs, muzzle toward my feet, and waited. The boat rocked in the small waves, and a bit of sea water sloshed over the sides and down my back, dispelling any notions I might have had about snoozing in the afternoon sun. The decoys weren’t very realistic. They were painted in a style I’d dub nouveau kindergartener, but the brant didn’t seem to care. In short order, three flights of the geese came in, and I shot one bird each time for my limit.
Wasley stood behind the center console of his high-prowed boat and motored around to scoop up downed birds with a long-handled fishing net. The boat’s battered aluminum hull was the same nondescript dull green as the eelgrass. Any beauty one might attribute to it would have to be based solely on its utility as a working craft. After I shot my three birds, Wasley picked me up and put another hunter in my place. Soon, everyone had his three geese, and we packed up and headed back to shore. proving ground The brant were certainly the stars of the hunt. There were tens of thousands of them in the skies around us. They came in to our dekes like hungry kids being called for supper. And, as I found out, they are about the best-tasting game animal I’ve ever eaten. We still tried for sea ducks, but they proved much more difficult to bring to hand.
The other star of the show was the shotgun we had come to shoot—benelli’s next-generation Super Black Eagle, the SBE 3. The Benelli guys were eager to test the gun in the harshest shooting conditions they could find, and no place is less forgiving than Alaska.
Saltwater, sand, barnacle-encrusted rocks—all are the sworn enemy of shotguns, particularly semi-autos, which will grind to a halt if they aren’t built tough enough. Add to the environment hard-flying birds with armor-like feathers that act more like winged
terminators than normal ducks, and you have the makings of a superlative proving ground for any fowling piece.
My full review of the SBE3 appeared in the May issue, and the shotgun also performed well in our annual rifle and shotgun test (June/ July). What struck me most about the new iteration of the gun was the improvements to its handling and pointability. Changes to the stock dimensions—a narrowed forend and more vertical grip chief among them—gave the SBE3 a more nimble and lively feel, which can be tough to achieve with a 3 ½-inch gun.
Benelli also improved the gun’s recoilreduction system, and made the bolt lockup more reliable, so that having a misfire— causing the gun to go click instead of bang—is less likely.
During the weeklong hunt, my shotgun performed admirably, though I did have one curious situation where a shell I had just fired was torn in half as it was being ejected, with one piece remaining inside the chamber. That jammed the gun and cost me a bird, though I think it was the fault of the ammo rather than any issue with the SBE3. flood waters The difficulty we had in connecting with sea ducks clearly frustrated Wasley, who decided to take us to one of his favorite spots on the fifth morning. We drove out of town in the dark along a gravel road, which abruptly terminated in a river that was flowing dark and fast in the headlights of the old Suburban.
Wasley eased the truck into the water.
I was seated in the front passenger seat— literally riding shotgun, with the Benelli between my legs—when I noticed water pooling around my feet and rising fast as we bounced along the river’s rocky bottom. The water kept getting deeper, and soon our headlights were half submerged though the opposite shore was still far off. “The river’s running high,” Wasley said. Suddenly, I had a sickening feeling in my gut as the truck began to drift sideways in the current. Without speaking a word, everybody in the Suburban decided to act on the same thought: Abandon ship.
We piled out of the truck and scrambled to unhitch the Zodiac we were towing, which was now floating in the water—along with the trailer it was attached to—and yanking the rear end of the truck downstream.
The truck drifted another 20 feet and came to rest. We tried to push it out but it wouldn’t budge. After a few minutes of rumbling and gurgling in the dark, the motor died. We were well and truly stuck. Wasley had to call his two younger guides to rescue us. We ended up making a 40-yard daisy chain with tow straps and used their two trucks to pull the Suburban back to the spot where we had entered the river.
We attached jumper cables to the battery of our waterlogged truck and connected them to the battery in one of the rescue vehicles. Miraculously, the motor coughed, turned over, and started. The exhaust system disgorged water like a drowned man coming back to life, and we got back into our soggy seats and returned to town. Needless to say, Wasley’s honey hole remained unmolested, and our luck with sea ducks failed to improve.
In the following days, I did manage to shoot a gorgeous eider drake with the most magnificent plumage I’ve ever seen, as well as another harlequin. Other hunters in the group added some scoters
to our collective bag. Other than the black brant, the most numerous fowl we saw were the emperor geese that flew around us, though because of their low overall numbers, they aren’t legal game. magical meat The silver lining to our ongoing struggles was the brant—particularly at mealtimes. Eating them changed everything I thought I knew about waterfowl as table fare. I like a properly prepared mallard breast as much as the next wild-game gourmand, but brant are superior by an order of magnitude.
Keeping the fat with the legs and breast is key. Marinate the birds with olive oil and seasonings of your choice—a good steak rub works well. Fire up the grill and get it hot. Sear the meat, turning it quickly and often. Cook it to a rare or medium-rare level of doneness at the most. And eat it right away, while it is still steaming.
The dark meat of the bird, juicy and tender, with bits of burnt fat around the edges, was a culinary revelation, rivaling the finest meat— wild or otherwise—i’ve ever consumed.
As cold leftovers, the meat loses much of its magic. And if you overcook it, it takes on a liverish flavor in keeping with the reputation that most people associate with sea-going waterfowl. One thing I don’t know is whether brant is as delicious when hunted in Washington, California, or Mexico after they migrate. I suspect not, since their fat reserves would be depleted after their long journey.
So that leaves any bird hunter with a pretty clear choice. If you want to experience some of the best waterfowl hunting in the world—at least as measured by degree of adventure, number of hard-to-find species you can potentially shoot, and taste on the plate—then a trek to Cold Bay might be in order. The snow-covered volcanoes, spewing steam and smoke, that surround the town create a backdrop that few wingshooters will ever experience. And another thing’s for certain: You won’t be fighting any crowds.
from left: a double-banded pacific brant from cold bay; the author with a limit of brant taken from izembek lagoon; a harlequin hen surrounded by the type of heavy magnum shells used to take down the small but tough sea duck.
above left: plucking a brant in preparation for the grill; brant breasts and legs getting a quick sear; goose done rare, placed in a bowl and ready to be eaten. below: annie, an 11-year-old veteran with thousands of retrieves under her belt, brings a brant ashore.