A Mallard Storm.

Although the temperature lingered in the Upper 50's, the sky loomed with a quizzical quality. Gazing out the window, I knew we were trudging east. It was an October afternoon in my rookie year of chasing fowl. I was new to the game and doubtful. We left the Angry Dane's abode in relative comfort. I hadn't much for gear in those days, a borrowed army jacket, rubber waders, a partial box of shells jammed in the pockets, and a borrowed 870 pump.

I glared menacingly at him. Was he out of his mind? The Badgers were playing soon and I didn't want to miss it. We couldn't possibly be heading to the marsh, could we? The jeep veered sharply north. He always takes the corners sharp and fast. Not only does he have delusions of driving Nascar like Mario Andretti, but gleefully enjoys making me uncomfortable. Well whatever the plan, the Angry Dane had made the call. Something was up his sleeve. I complied, albeit hesitantly.

"Nobody else will be out there, Austrian. I know of a place. Quit complaining and get ready!" the Dane commanded.

We arrived at the marsh, quickly unloaded the fiberglass skiff and began oaring east. Meaning, I oared us east. There was absolute calm at that point of the afternoon. Not a breeze stirred, yet something was building ahead. The sky took on a turbulent swirl of gray hues, which belied heavy winds, a dropping barometer, and a definite weather change.

The Dane took us away from the sunken isle I'd been accustomed to. Instead, we ventured further into this wetland to a section of submerged dead trees... limbs, more or less, as not a leaf remained on these drowned remnants. I was disheartened, as there was no hide. Simply twigs erected through the marsh muck. How would a duck not see us plain as day? I was ordered into the drink to make a set. "How deep is it?" I asked.

"Guess you'll find out," replied the Dane. Fortunately, the water was mostly waist deep, but I still had quite a time getting back in the boat. I nearly tipped my partner into the drink upon my reentry.

"Dang it Austrian! Watch it!"

"You could use a bath anyway! What are we doing out here? Look, a blind duck would see us here. How are we supposed to hide?" I asked.

"Quit your whining, or you'll be the one taking the bath."

If I'd only known how accurate that was to be. As if on cue, a moan of wind barreled across the waters, whipping the hoods of our jackets. With it came a drizzle which quickly turned to large drops of rain. To say I leered the Dane's way would not be fair. I was hot. "Is this your idea of a good time?"

"Aww, can't handle a little drizzle? Afraid you'll melt?" he replied.

As the Dane laughed, a lone mallard, descended straight down, landing twenty feet from us in the dead timber. We didn't have time to jump him, as my attention was drawn skyward. I will never forget the image of raindrops and mallards... hundreds dropping in on us. It was something out of a Terry Redlin or Les Kouba painting. The report of my borrowed 870 was stifled in the wind, but a mallard crumpled. The Dane had dropped one as well to my right. With no dog in those days and with ducks on opposite ends, we both entered the marsh. As I gathered my bird, several more mallards descended. I dropped another. As soon as I reached a bird, more would flood into that hole in the dead timber. I had five when I ran out of shells. The Dane had his limit, and too was out of shells. We got back in the boat when the sky really opened up... meaning ducks. They poured into the area, landing within feet of us. The wind that came behind them brought rain and a plummeting drop in temperature. We watched several minutes, before the chill set in. With that, we began oaring the old skiff back to the launch. As a bonus, La Vieille, the old lady of the wind, pretty much motored us to the landing.

Another truck awaited us at the launch. The driver rolled his window down, as we hit shore. The rain-stained grin on my face must have been a beacon for our neighbor. "Quit smiling, Austrian. Keep your yap shut," said the Dane. I dripped water everywhere while loading the skiff.

"Thought I heard shooting out there. Must have been quite a good time," Said the dry driver with an impish twinkle and well-earned wrinkles.

"Oh no. No shooting. That was thunder alright, but the dang lightning chased us off the marsh!" said the Dane.

"Sure it wasn't shooting? I swear I heard somebody really opening up out there," he asked.

"Nope, just the rain. We took a good ducking though." smiled the Dane.