The Dane Falls for a Redhead.

September had given way to October, in the calendar sense at least. Steady, warm, weather... an extended Indian Summer if ever there was. The preceding weekends gave way to Calvin, my faithful golden retriever, and I making our way to familiar potholes and sloughs. We'd done well on wood duck, and had even managed a teal or two. A fine start to our sport of sports.

My hunting blood was a fueled, and praised my good fortune, but... I had mallards on the mind. They'd been thus since the season prior. Never had I struggled so much at the most familiar of all duck. The kick in the teeth came the last day of the season. I saw one coming in across the bay, feet down, wings cupped, and that large northern green head was in my spread. Taking in the glory of a late season mallard landing amidst my meager spread of decoys was to be the pinnacle of a season well-fought. Calvin, aka Captain Buster, saw our fowl friend as well, and took after him before my call. In haste, I brought the barrel forward, and had him dead-to-rights, but Calvin came into my view. In seconds, that felt much longer I waited, cussed, shot, and missed.

You see, that sequence had permeated and repeated in my thoughts for a solid nine months. That's a full term of replay. Mallards were, most definitely, on my mind.

I held court with the Angry Dane, and expressed my desire. He was of like mind, and was having similar results this early part of the season. "They haven't visited my lake. Mostly teal and honkers, and they're on to the game."

"What about the marsh? Have they filled it back up yet?" The authorities had drained an honored spot of our waterfowl pursuits, and had promised to refill it sometime this fall. Upon conversing with them, their response was simply... this fall.

"I know of a spot. Hasn't been this much water in twenty years, and the beaver have been at it. In fact, it was twenty years ago when I had lugged a canoe and parked it near a beaver dam. Had a banner day. Shot my limit in half an hour! I parked the canoe, and planned to take my brother and a buddy, of far better character than you, to hunt the next day."

"You mean he was more OF a character." came my retort.

"And was far better looking and smelling than you as well, "responded the Dane. "Thing is, I had to pull the canoe over that beaver dam the day before, and my foot went in. Had to break a stick or two to free it. When we came back, there was no swamp! Dang thing drained that night. I tell you this, those beaver may construct dams of precision, but they've no sensibility for modular design! Anyways, I noticed last deer season they'd been working again. Let's give it a go."

Waking at four in the morning, brewing coffee, placing gear in the car, and driving an hour isn't for everyone. I enjoy the peace of predawn, and the anticipation of the morning flight. The fact of trying someplace new accentuated that anticipation. Does the Dane have his head on straight? Would there be birds? Any migrating birds per chance? Would it be a beauty or a bust? All thoughts, which ran through my mind, as I drove north. Calvin brought calm to my racing anxiety as he placed his head upon my shoulder from the back seat. A scratch of his ears, and I smiled, setting my mind to the task ahead.

I met the Angry Dane at the agreed upon spot, and again had that sense of doubt. We had pushed deer through this swamp many a season, and had success numerous times as well. I'd seen ducks come out of this area far to our east, way out through the cattails, and impossible to reach. What did he have cooking?

We made our way along a field edge, and indeed, there was water everywhere. When we came to its end, and slipped through a finger of wood, we came into the cattails. We took pause, as dawn was beginning to give a warm glow to the dying night. The air was full of ducks calling, eating, and chuckling. Mallards were the primary singers of this song, but I heard other species as well. Ones I couldn't make out. Had the first migrating birds arrived?

Time was now a factor, and making your way through the cattails portaging all the gear was anything but easy. The up and down over hummocks brought sweat to brow, and shortness to breath. The fact I didn't know how far we had to go did nothing to settle my nerves. At every pause we heard ducks, and the sounds grew ever closer. At long last, the Dane said, "Let's hunker down here for a bit. They may fly over for a passing shot."

I had hoped to have set out the spread, and done things proper, but I had mallards on the mind. I did as instructed, placed the backpack of decoys, down, loaded my Remington, and waited.

Those moments before legal shooting are sheer magic. Especially when you hear the quarry not fifty yards from you. The sky begins to take shape, and the changing hues that form before sunrise give the changing fall color a magnificence, difficult to capture in words. In moments, you see dark forms take to the sky. You hear the pinions of wings, as birds fly overhead, so low they look like you could touch them. The wings of waterfowl above are sweet, autumnal perfection.

No shots presented themselves, but we observed the initial flight heading south west. We then made our way to the Angry Dane's beaver dam, an impressive structure spanning a good thirty yards. I took to the chores of setting the decoys, as the Dane, and Calvin took cover for any flying friends. Fortunately the water went just above waist deep, mostly. The two dozen mallards, and one spinning decoy were placed, with two landing zones. I was able to get back to our make-shift blind in good time.

As I was settling in, we had our first visitors. I'd barely time to get tucked back in the brush as a pair of dabblers came swinging in. The Angry Dane's Beretta sent a loud volley into the morning stillness, one wood duck flew on to safer waters, the other splashed down to the outer reaches of our pond, into the rushes. Calvin took off and worked several minutes, but came back empty. Not a good start, but I marked the area in my mind. There'd be time to explore as the morning slowed.

The sunrise that morning was one that has since burned its way to memory. I think of it often these short, cold, and gray late winter days. Although the cloud cover was minimal, the gentle hues of color creeping out of the east made duck watching almost a second activity. Just then, I spotted a bird coming head-on and low. It wasn't a mallard... Its breast seemed white, and the bill seemed blue. I motioned the Dane, and whispered "Bird, dead ahead!" It seemed the Dane's to take, and he shot in haste, missing, falling backwards into the brush, and sage grass! I waited for it to pass between us, saw a red head, squeezed the trigger, and watched this strange bird drop into the swamp grass.

"Pintail! I said "I think it's a pintail!" I have seen only one pintail in our area of Wisconsin in all my years of duck hunting. To say I was excited was an understatement. As I sang out in jubilee of the shot, I looked to see the Dane, on his back, covered in the muck, and struggling to get to his feet. "Ahh, get me up!" Laughing as I helped him up, we had a time getting his leg out of the mire. I quickly turned my attention to finding this bird in a sea of tall grasses. Oh, Calvin. Please recover that bird!

That golden went right to work, moving towards the spot. I went in as well, as direct a line as I could fathom. The thought of not recovering a rare pintail, or it being crippled in the grass turned my stomach. Calvin had already fallen a touch short on that first wood duck. Earn your keep, pup!

Fortune was with us, as was Calvin's good nose. He came out of that tangle with not a pintail, but a mature redhead drake. My first! In fact, I'd never even seen this species outside of the Mississippi River, ninety minutes south.

Now, there is jubilation in any duck harvested, but I'd be lying if I didn't declare an extra ounce of excitement in that bird... sweeter yet in giving the Angry Dane first rites. Proud in making the shot when it counted, and the cherry on top... Calvin making a very difficult retrieve!

The sun was now directly in our faces. We would be made out to any duck flying by. We explored the beaver dam to the south, and found cover that still allowed us to make good use of the spread. Several flocks passed us by that morning, and we managed to miss and scrape a few birds too. The Dane missed a beautiful drake wood duck that set into the decoys. The way the sun and water made his colorful plumage glow is another image burned into memory. I could do nothing but chuckle.

The Dane came through a touch later, as a large flock of mallards gave our spread a good look. Here they finally were... mallards! I couldn't even raise my gun, as I'd been predisposed with pouring coffee. The Dane dropped a nice drake. He looked my way, and signaled victory. "Thought you wanted mallards? If you can't even hoist a gun, I'll do the job." Calvin made a strong retrieve.

Things slowed down, as they tend to do when duck hunting. Calvin and I went to investigate that first wood duck, and came back with the hen. I managed to just wet my britches in that beaver pond. There's nothing that wakes the spirit like cool October water going over the back of your waders!

We packed up the decoys, and made our way from a new spot. Although I didn't have a mallard to claim, I didn't mind in the least. It had been a great hunt, with a variety of birds, and with great company. Mornings like these are why we seek waterfowl. That combination of anxiety, planning, problem-solving, defeat, mistakes, and victory amongst dear friends is an intoxicating mix. Put it in the setting of changing season, and It draws, no pulls us back time and time again. It seemed, the Dane had indeed fallen for a redhead, but this day, I claimed the prize!