The Weather is Harsh on the Eastern Marsh.

The agreed upon time was set for half-past four. It was now nearly a quarter to five. He was late. Brother Eric was sent a text with a few explicit adjectives. I dislike waiting. The season is too short to endure much waiting. The birds won't wait. Didn't he understand that? Youth. Calvin and I went on our way.

The engined fired, coffee was in a ready cup, and the gear was piled into the back. We ambled over the hill, out of the valley, and into the quiet fields and woods away from town. A quick look out and above showed the silver twinkling of many a star. It was going to be cold this morning. It was just past mid-October. Too cold for what we've experienced these past several years. I hoped it might bring fresh birds with it. The whine of the big golden retriever at my shoulder communicated a similar sentiment.

North and east was our path through a few sleepy towns and villages. All the while, the stars continued to dance. Not many souls were stirring at this hour, save a few deer and a wily raccoon. It wasn't terribly long before the pavement transitioned to the crunch of gravel, shaking the vehicle. We headed down familiar dirt roads and made our way to the east marsh.

I strapped a bag of mallards decoys and one goose block on my back, then slung a slotted bag of wood duck and teal blocks towards my front. The Remington was laid across the slotted bag, headlamp turned on, and our trek to the blind began. May it be said, "Work" began for this duck sherpa.

The cutover was uneven rising to the north and sloping to the south. Shrubs and foliage covered the ground hiding the hazards of branches, stumps, and sharper twig points. Double-rucking decoys made me ponder Brother Eric's absence, but there wasn't time to stay irritable. There was a set to make, and the noises of the marsh let me believe the effort would not be in vain.

The quiet calls of geese waking echoed across the water. I turned the headlamp off, thus making the trek a touch more difficult. It wouldn't do to arouse suspicions as we made our way. Stealth is a great partner when pursuing any wild quarry. Double-rucking decoy bags does little to help in this practice and no light makes it all the more fun. Even so, I only managed to slip once... or twice.

We finally made our way to the point. The blocks were spread in groups to the western shore, as a good northwest wind began to blow. I was banking on the birds keeping to the lee side this morning. The teal were in a secluded pocket in the shallows. Woodies were nearby close to submerged logs tickling the surface. Mallards were tucked along the point, with my lone goose just centered from the mallards.

Calvin and I made ourselves comfortable, taking in the magic of a fading night and new dawn. Our efforts as fowl ninjas were rewarded as mallards began to call "Good morning!" to each other. A chill wind drew my attention behind to the west. A wall of cloud had covered the stars and was moving towards us. A northern front! Ever so often, the stars align, and things work out for those pursuing fowl. This was to be a morning to remember.

With minutes before legal light, our quarry began to skirt the decoys. The whistling of wings was poetry to the ear. Flitting shadows across a gray dawn were the opening act of a duck chorus. The birds were on the move. And then, it was time.

There is a moment before the hunt officially begins... I struggle to explain, but feel may, in fact, be my favorite part of all outdoor pursuits. If homework has been done, schedules kept, and plans executed, I load my Remington 11-87. Wings whistle as duck silhouettes race across the marsh, and I look to see my dog with his head to the skies following the birds. He's all business and waiting for me to do my part. That friend is magic that never gets old. It was such this morning.

A glimpse north and flickering movement drew my attention. A trio of wood ducks were screaming by low. I shouldered and drew a bead, fired, and missed. The dog whined and gave me "the look." I hate that look but end up getting it more than I care to admit. Oh well, no time to debate it now! Another set of mallards were coming. Again from the north. They were flying a touch higher and gave us a pass. I put the call to work and drew them back. I thought they were going to do things right so I let them circle again. Something was amiss as they grew skittish and flew off.

A new flock of mallards were coming in hot from the south and flew close enough to risk a passing shot. Again, a clean miss. The dog's whine was warranted. I couldn't look him in the eye. Sorry, Calvin.

After missing at the next flock, again passing me further along the shore, the dog's whine became something of a groan. I was beginning to feel the squeeze of doubt and anxiety to connect. I often consider shooting to be streaky, like that of a hitter in baseball. When you're clicking, you can hit anything... when missing, the slump can really get you down. Fortunately, my slump ended quite suddenly. A lone drake was skimming the water, almost like a diver. I just had time to instinctually swing, fire, and he crumpled ten yards away. The dog rushed in the drink, grabbed his prize, and brought that greenhead back. Score!

As if on cue, a group of wood ducks came again from the north, I drew a bead and dropped a drake. Calvin again made a fine retrieve some thirty yards into the marsh. After giving me a bath from shaking off, we settled in to see what else may come. A pair of drakes and a multi-species day!

Things grew quiet as the morning rush had dwindled. I was just giving Cal a good scratch behind the ears when the wind picked up. With it came the first snow of the year. Here it was, October 20th and a northern front was bringing snow!

The lull was broken with fresh flurry of snowy activity. Flocks of ducks were looking for a safe place to harbor them. A large squadron of a dozen or more heard my call, saw the blocks and gave us a look. They seemed to float high above, considering the set of decoys. Struggling against the wind, craning necks, they saw something they didn't like and flared. It was the same with the next group. They must be picking Calvin and I out on the bank.

I made the decision to inch into the swampy grass and stay low to the waterline. Not an easy thing to do holding a shotgun. I also worried some for Calvin as the temperature was dropping and the wind blowing strong. You couldn't have kept him away from me, though. I found enough vegetation to keep him from being submerged.

A flock of five came into view from the southeast. I hailed them, and they moved towards the spread. The wind surged, and they again seemed suspended in the air out of range and circled but this group began to drop. I knew what was coming. One quick note on the call was all that was needed. The lead drake descended with wings cupped, feet down. The rest followed suit. I pulled up and found the lead drake, squeezed the trigger. The report was barely heard with the snow and wind. As the drake dropped, I searched for another, found him quickly and squeezed again. Two more mallards dropped to the marsh. I'd done it. My first triple! Two shots, three birds!

Calvin struggled through the swamp muck to hit open water. The wind had begun to blow the birds deeper into the marsh away from us. He found the first and brought it to hand. Like a blur that red retriever plowed in the marsh for the second. A green head and hen in the hand felt good. I pointed Calvin in the direction of the third mallard. This bird was well over a sixty yards away and the wind was pushing it past an island of vegetation. Calvin dove in again and began working. He got a little confused near the island and I had to coach him a bit, but the seasoned pooch performed admirably and brought back the drake in.

And like that, my hunt was over. The snow and wind blew strong and nearly horizontal at our backs, and although it was a consistent hum, there seemed to be a quiet peace in my mind. I'd achieved a limit of mallards. Granted, there was still one bonus duck available to my bag. Calvin and I sat and watched the show as numerous other flocks poured into the marsh. Many into our spread but all mallards. As the wind grew stronger and the temperature dropped, I thought of my wet dog and made the call to collect the blocks. What a beautiful morning. A morning meant for ducks. Oh brother Eric... He will have to wait, as will I for another morning such as this.