In three decades of kayaking, the only injury I’ve suffered wasn’t from a pounding surf landing, a strainer or an angry grizzly bear. It came at the hands of Branta canadensis, the Canada goose, terror of kayak launches and golf courses. Carrying my kayak across the dock, I hydroplaned on a slimy layer of liquified goose poop and went stern-over-teakettle, landing hard on my wrist. Of all the critters kayakers encounter—hatch-opening raccoons, bloodsucking swarms of mosquitos or sand-lurking stingrays—geese are our true nemesis.
Kayakers beware: Geese gone wild
Hear me out.
The hairline fracture in my wrist was just one instance when my goose was cooked by the feathered scourge of city parks and shorelines. One goose guarded its bay on San Juan Island with such ferocity that as soon as we rounded the point, it sallied forth from its beach hissing. After a few days of us paddling by twice daily, it had enough and came in low and fast to bite our sterns. On a nearby island, a goose had set up its nest next to the outhouse door and assaulted anyone nearby, wings flapping, neck extended, honking obscenities. Its biological imperative to reproduce conflicted with our biological imperative to, well, you know.
We scurried past when we needed to, and the next round of honking would signal the outhouse was free. And there are countless times when I’ve pulled up to a campsite of soft green grass, perfect for strolling barefoot or lounging after long miles in the kayak, only to find the grassy lawn was only 60 percent grass and 40 percent goose poop.
What’s their problem?
Like most species that have become hassles to humans, geese are problems because we create the perfect environment for them. According to the Canadian Wildlife Service, North America has at least seven million Canada geese. Their population increased by seven percent annually between 1966 and 2019, largely due to favorable conditions thanks to urbanization.
Geese like big open areas near water, where they can feast in big family groups, see predators coming and make for the water for a quick escape. This jives perfectly with our love of grassy lawns near water and idyllic campsites for kayakers.
The roots of the conflict between Homo sapiens and Branta canadensis run deep. Those open landscapes geese love, with a view near water, are also hired-wired into humanity’s evolutionary history from our origins in Africa’s savanna. John Falk, a professor at Oregon State University, showed photos of different landscapes to people worldwide, including those who had never seen a wet savanna along the shore of a large body of water. Yet, everyone selected it as the ideal landscape for finding food and water, and avoiding ambushes by saber-toothed cats and other Paleolithic predators. Geese love the same thing; of course, we come into conflict.
The geese are winning. Attempts to keep them from pooping all over our docks, fields and campsites have involved noisemakers, wooden cutouts of coyotes, bullets, poison, dogs and even robot dogs. They’ve all failed. The geese are undefeated.
If you can’t beat ’em…
Faced with a losing battle, I’ve tried to make friends. When I led kayak tours, a goose family near our dock would inevitably charge my tour groups. One day, we encountered a squawking, panicked gosling separated from the family. We carted the caterwauling kiddo on a sprayskirt back to its home cove, where the family came to claim him. Did it result in any sort of detente? Not a chance. The goose-on-kayaker harassment continued all summer.
But our cold war with geese is more than a territorial squabble. We hate geese because they’re just like us. They hang out in family groups, eat a lot, make a mess, travel great distances by air and love waterfront property. Except they’re better at it than we are.
“Geese mate for life with very low ‘divorce’ rates, and pairs remain together throughout the year,” says the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Family groups remain together on migration and fly great distances without burning fossil fuels. They’re smart enough to let us build their waterfront property for them and then move in and make themselves comfortable. They just might be smarter than we are.
Neil Schulman kayaks, writes, photographs and tries to avoid stepping in goose poop in Portland, Oregon.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Cute today; wreaking honking havoc at your local launch tomorrow. | Feature photo: Alan Poelman
