Paying Hommage - Shallow Bay

You know how they say time flies when you're having fun? A watched pot never boils? It pains me greatly at just how accurate those adages play out. I couldn't wait for the workday to end last Friday. I had plenty to do before the Mrs. got home. Everything needed to be laid out to make things convenient for her. It was important to leave things in shape as I had plans. Plans to meet with Lance for a hunt up north. We were hunting Shallow Bay to pay homage to Mr. President and old Mac.

For those who are not familiar, Mr. President and Mac refer to the Old Duck Hunters, Inc. The Inc. stands for incorrigible. These are stories written by the late Wisconsin writer, Gordon MacQuarrie. Mac wrote these stories in the 1930s, 40s, and 50s in many outdoor publications of the day. He was the first full-time outdoor newspaper writer in the country and worked for the Milwaukee Journal until his death in November of 1956. If you haven't read them and you've any interest in waterfowl, trout fishing, or anything outdoors check them out. They are treasures.

Lance and I had met this past summer at an Old Duck Hunters weekend in Barnes, Wisconsin. He had first been introduced to these tales as a twelve-year-old boy. I'd been inducted by my brother-in-law, the Angry Dane in my early twenties. As it happened, we were camped next to each other on the Brule River as well! We became fast friends that weekend, guided a group of canoers along the famed "River of Presidents," and agreed to hunt Shallow Bay this fall.

I was on the road near dusk. May it be said, my foot was a little heavy as Calvin and I sped north. Traveling up Highway 63, making our way through Turtle Lake, Comstock, Clear Lake, and into Cumberland I wondered how the duck hunting had been? Would our fellow fowlers have better luck here then we headed north? Would we see the divers Mac and Mr. President coveted seventy to eighty years before? Would Lance and I be able to find the "Holy Ground" to set our spread of decoys from?

Lance and I were each bringing gear to make a spread worthy of the Old Duck Hunters. I'd a couple of special decoys ready to enter the mix. The Angry Dane and I had purchased a number of Hereter's 72's in the late nineties before they line was discontinued. I hunt over my Herters mallards regularly. They're fantastic foam decoys. Large, a bit heavy, but brimming with attitude. I love how they sit on the water. The slightest breeze gets them dancing. Mine have been painted a time or two, which gives them a touch of distinction. I wouldn't call it art... distinction. Others have been given a life-like neoprene skin, created by Wild Fowlers. I'd also borrowed the Angry Dane's Herter's 72's Bluebills. These decoys had not seen a lake or marsh in nearly twenty years. In fact, I think we'd only used them once or twice!

The other decoy of significance was one of my own making. My first hand-carved decoy. The bird is a greater-scaup or blue bill. The body is made of cork. The head is basswood. I painted it with acrylics. I've since made improvements to the head, body, and coloration, as I'm learning more about carving, but I was excited to finally bring it out and hunt it. What a dream if Lance or I could take a diver over a block of my own making at Shallow Bay!

Calvin and I finally hit Highway 53 outside of Spooner and were able to gun it north. We arrived in Minong around nine o'clock. Lance had arrived a few minutes before. His olive duck boat parked parallel to the motel. We greeted each other, cracked open a barley beverage, and caught up. Lance had brought a number of outdoor magazines and MacQuarrie books. One of which I did not own, the MacQuarrie Miscellany, which he graciously gifted me. I presented him with a call lanyard, I'd crafted. As we enjoyed the beverages and such, we decided to make an early pre-run to the boat launch. I felt some hesitation. I sure wished we could have made it up at dusk to see if any rafts were floating upon the north side of the lake. As it was, we found the launch with little trouble and figured out our plan for the morning. May it be said, we discussed back up plans if needed.

The sound of electric alarms brought us into action. I'd be lying if I said anyone, Calvin included, was moving swiftly. Even so, we made it to the truck and were to the launch before five. The air had a bitter snap to it as we reached the launch. Modern phones received questionable service at best so we had to make our best guess as to how to reach the Shallow Bay Blind. All credit goes to Lance, as I'd have taken us completely in the wrong direction... probably to Iowa.

Ice was forming in the shallower places where vegetation stood as frozen sculpture atop the water. Thankfully there was plenty of open water too. My adrenaline flowed in anticipation of northern divers making a visit. Would it be as MacQuarrie wrote? Were rafts of bluebill, goldeneye, canvasback, and redheads floating in the northern section of the lake? I sure wished it to be so.

We rounded a narrow finger acting as a breaker, thus separating the lake into multiple sections. We rounded right and veered south. Shallow Bay Blind was not difficult to decipher. MacQuarrie describes it as a finger jutting with a sand shoreline dropping off to a deep point. All was accurate and lo and behold, a blind had been built up by fellow fowlers! Spent shotgun shells sat within the pine boughs that blocked the wind and our outline to flying friends. All brought a big smile to my face. Ducks must still visit Shallow Bay!

Lance parked the boat several yards beyond the blind in the midst of some downed trees. We then began to make our set. We extended our joined collection of divers along the sandbar, making a j to bring any divers close. To the left of the divers I worked on a puddler spread closer to the shore, made of mallard, wood duck, a couple of teal, and geese. I placed additional geese on the right side of the diver spread as well... just in case. Honestly, it was the largest and most splendid spread I'd ever hunted behind. My carved bluebill looked awful good among the other blocks.

As Lance, Cal, and I got settled, the sky took that all too familiar yet ever unique collection of hues. The gray led to deep violet to blue, then pink, and red to orange, and finally golden celestial daylight. Eyes were a swivel searching for birds a wing. There was not much of a flight. Geese flitted along the sides of the lake but showed no interest in our bay. It was awful quiet.

Keith Crowley wrote a piece for Ducks Unlimited in which he hunted Shallow Bay with some of MacQuarrie's own decoys! In his piece, as the afternoon waned, Keith had not much to show. Time was running short when a neighbor across the lake caught his attention and waved notice of incoming ducks. I was so disoriented as the sun broke the horizon, I'd no idea where to even look for an assist... but I assure you I sure was looking! Alas, no neighbors were out this early in the morning.

Geese continued to flit around the area but nowhere near Shallow Bay. Finally, Lance caught movement ahead. A lone duck was flying directly in front of us. I believe I heard a whisper "Goldeneye." Regardless of what I may have heard, the reports of shotguns were easy to distinguish, as was the sheepish grins we both wore after missing on the only duck we'd even seen! I believe MacQuarrie described his wingshooting as "Fair. Just Fair." I feel that's an accurate description of my own skill with the 12 gauge. The duck may have described it differently.

I wasn't the most talkative blind buddy that morning. The decoys were absolutely magnificent, shifting in the morning breeze. To know our blocks were spread out over this hallowed space... I was just taking it all in. Mac wrote the bluebills would skirt the gap we boated from and come in hot across the Shallow Bay blind. I sure was hoping for a chance. I happened to look left of the spread. Coming in on a string without a honk was a trio of canada geese. I whispered to Lance, "Get ready!" They came in, we opened up, and two dropped to the water. Calvin went after one making the retrieve but the second bird began to swim off.

Lance, decisively and quickly went to his boat, took off after the crippled bird, and brought it back. It was the largest Canada goose I'd ever seen. The head on this bird was immense! With congratulatory high fives and big smiles, we laid the birds in the blind and got back to it. A flock of ducks skirted to our right and settled further down the lake but along our shoreline. Calvin and I took off to see if we could jump them as nothing else was flying.

Mac wrote about a marsh further down the bay, choked with wild rice, and loaded with mallards! As Calvin and I worked our way along the same shoreline, I kept my eyes open for the birds that flew past our spread, but reflected upon the O.D.H.A. walking this same hillside, jumping mallards. I was so glad we'd made plans to hunt this place. The hillside along the shore sloped ever lower towards the marsh written in the stories. It definitely looked like the sort of place mallards would inhabit save the skim ice that covering everything. Someone on the opposite shore had erected a permanent blind. I sincerely hoped they had enjoyed good shooting earlier in the season. Alas, I jumped nothing.

Arriving back to the blind, Lance reported that a few other birds had skirted the decoys. He thought more goldeneyes. I shared my side adventure and encouraged him to take the walk as well. Perhaps he'd have better success. By the time he returned it was apparent that the morning flight was not to be. We'd scored on the pair of geese. That was quite fine by us! We'd hunted Shallow Bay and continued the rites of the O.D.H.A. Was Mac and Mr. President smiling down on us? I like to think so.

The bluebills, redheads, and canvasback Mac wrote, rafted up just past the red cabin up the hill, were not in this morning. Perhaps they were still downing musses and wild celery in Manitoba or Ontario. We would just need to come again... perhaps a little later in the season? Either way, hommage was paid... and we'll be back to hunt Shallow Bay again.