Dreams of a Banner Year and... Reality

Oh my fellow brethren and sistren of the waterfowl cloth. Tell me if you can not relate to this true tale of woe. After what one could only consider a banner year of duck hunting, amidst a global pandemic, of course my aims were set high! Gear was polished, or rather scrubbed, dog exercised, plans set, equipment checked, and motors tuned.

High expectations are inherently ingrained in the mindset of the waterfowler. Hope springs eternal, as the saying goes.

The years of experience were making this well-oiled machine ready to tackle the upcoming season like a champion. Tom Brady has nothing on me!

The drought of the past summer made my August scouting trips laser-focused. There really wasn't much water around. Many of the local ponds and potholes were bone dry. My East Marsh held water though. That was to be the theater of action come early October.

With a new baby at home, opportunities to get out would be fewer, so I needed to make the most of it. Early teal and goose were not an option, as sleep training was the name of the game. Finally a Saturday morning in mid-September opened up. Peter and I made our way to Mitchel's Crossing and set-up with the Angry Dane.

Geese had poured in the evening before, as a strong front, with powerful headwinds, pushed them down. We couldn't set decoys, as we had honkers right off the point! Keeping the dogs silent the final minutes before shooting light was a testament of willpower... and patience.

Finally, the time arrived. I stepped forward into the lake jumping a pair of geese. Peter and I fired and both geese dropped. Birds erupted across the bay, and flew by. Another dropped. Three geese in the first minute of the first hunt of the season! Things were going to plan!

Calvin made a retrieve of one goose, while the Dane's dog, Krieger, grabbed the second. The third floated out some distance. The excitement of both dogs was palpable but they were confused with the third gander. While the three hunters tried coaxing them to swim out, geese were setting across our point. I hit one bird and made the mistake of looking at a trailing flock. I never saw the bird go down but the Dane did.

In the lull that followed, I went to place goose decoys and bring in the downed birds. The Dane's canoe was my transportation. He instructed me to bring a dog as that last goose wasn't hit hard. I brought Calvin. As we paddled across the lake I took in the beauty of mist rolling across the water. Peter and the Dane were directing me to the left shoreline. I'd enough experience to know geese will take both banks. With the mist, I wanted to monitor both sides.

As we made our way, groups of wood ducks got up from the shorelines. Some thirty plus in differing flocks. A trio of swans acted as a pacer in front of us. Perhaps the small one was the hit goose attempting to blend in. As I neared the back bay, a flock of a dozen or so geese got up. They were flying to the away but turned. They were going to go over us off the point.

I didn't want to shoot over Calvin's head, and made the choice to shift the prow of the boat away forty-five degrees. As the flock flew over, I put the bead in front of the third goose and fired. The shot was just in front of the bird, as I debated firing again, Calvin shifted in the canoe. That changed the balance. I tried reaching for the left gunale but we were already taking on water. My right arm grabbed the gunale, and my left hand just grasped the barrel as my shotgun was slipping along my leg.

I was beyond lucky. The morning was warm, winds calm, and the water temperature in mid September was mild. My feet were not hitting bottom, I was not wearing my life jacket, and the waders took on water as I began to amble to shore. Calvin attempted to climb my back as the canoe was overturned. My grip on the canoe held. My jumbled mind calmed immediately as I knew things were going to be alright and focussed on chore of getting myself and the canoe to shore. A distance of fifty feet took several minutes.

As the canoe was emptied and drug ashore, I began removing my jacket and waders. A neighbor had seen the incident and rushed over on his ATV to make sure I was alright. I joked about my swan dive and thanked him for checking on me. After a few more friendly words he returned home.

I swam out in socks to nab the canoe paddle. I stripped down to wring out as much water as I could, then put on my shirt, pants, and socks. The gun, goose, waders, jacket and dog were all in the canoe. As we pushed off and made our way back, I again felt lucky that it was warm and there was not much wind.

It was a hundred percent my choice and it was absolutely the wrong choice! I'll never take a shot like that again, nor enter a canoe (which I'd never in my life tipped) without donning the life jacket.

Motion ahead and to the right caught my eye. There was my goose swimming ahead! I had not dry shells to use so I pulled for all I was worth on the paddle. We gained on the goose. It switched tactics and made for land. Calvin hit the shore, made quick work of the bird, and brought it back.

As I pulled to our landing zone, I raised both geese in my right hand and said, "Got the geese!"

Peter and the Dane's mouths were agape. Both said something to the effect of, "The heck with the goose! Are you alright? Are you cold?"

We made our way to the Dane's house. A change of clothes and hot coffee were provided. We sent Peter back to the blind and within a few moments we heard shots. Heading back to the blind we saw the canoe was gone. It seems Peter had his own chase, but he left without a furry friend and didn't shoot from the craft.

It was a successful first outing but anything besides graceful. The meme's and text messages from buddies of people having canoe mishaps flooded my phone for a good week. Cleaning my shotgun I found the forearm had swelled and cracked! It was promptly replaced. I had managed tipping a canoe only to lose a receiver, pair of decoy bags and my dignity, but I walked away.

Fast forward to the duck opener a week later. The forty plus wood ducks amidst hundreds of geese at Mitchel's Crossing a week earlier had the Dane and I thinking, why rough it and carry gear a half mile into the muck? My expectations soared! We would hunt the morning flight, then get after grouse and woodcock as we looked over an area we wanted to deer hunt in November. I told my wife and daughter I could come home with geese, wood ducks, mallards, teal, grouse, and woodcock... but I'd probably come home with none. The words should never have been uttered.

A flock of three woodies came upon os so fast we didn't even move our barrels. That was the action of the opener. Oh, we did get a few woodcock up, and I made a clean miss on a grouse. An empty bag to bring home for the official "Duck Opener."

The following Saturday I lobbied the Dane to put in a little work. We'd head to the East Marsh and finally bring home some ducks! He badgered me with questions about there even being water in a tri-county area. We pressed on.

To make the East Marsh, one must make their way along a wooded path. The buckthorn, ash, and poplar press upon you the entire way. There isn't much breathing room. In the dark, it is easy to get turned around. Lugging gear there is work. Plain and simply... work. Thankfully, it doesn't take much gear to get the job done. I brought one bag of a half-dozen mallards, and a pair of spinners, of which only one worked.

The blocks and spinner were set. Our blind was a clump of willows. The wind was barely a whisper in the early dawn light. The wave of ducks, some thirty, seemed a collection of mallard and teal. Most were high flyers and off to other haunts. I put a hail call out. Four responded. They came over the spread. I called again. The ducks veered, wings cupped, and they landed just beyond range.

The excitement in me boiled. I looked to the Dane. He mouthed the words, "Patience." The ducks swam in several yards, then began to swim out. Something, perhaps Krieger or Calvin spooked them. They broke in a rush! I found a drake and fired three times. One shot had the bird shake but all flew away. "Ugh! I can't believe it! They must have been just out of range," I muttered.

The Dane just chuckled.

A decent number of birds were about during the morning flight. Several flocks gave us the once-over but wouldn't commit. The Dane took a passing shot at a trio. One made its way down behind us in the floating grasses. A myriad of bog. He and Krieger searched several hundred yards behind. After fifteen minutes, Calvin and I made our way to places the Dane couldn't step (He had not worn waders). Cal and I spent a good twenty minutes trying to recover the bird unsuccessfully.

I pushed the decoys out a bit further and moved the spinners to the other side of our spread. I then turned the spinner on to get attention but shut it off as birds worked. That was the medicine.

The wind had picked up and was pushing to our faces. Not at all ideal, but small flocks of mallards continued to hit the marsh. I hailed a trio that flew over. After another hail they flew behind us, set their wings and landed right in front of us. We should have hit them right before landing. Instead I jumped them. My drake dropped. It wasn't a finishing hit. The bird swam across the marsh. Krieger was sent and was right on it. My relief was palpable but the dog quit after swimming out halfway! I went with Calvin and Krieger to retrieve the cripple. It was swimming for the boggy reeds of the other side. At some point, Krieger veered another direction. The Dane called for me to holler for him. I took my eyes off the duck to find the pooch. We never saw the duck again. I'm positive it dove under some boggy clump. Calvin worked the chunk hard. We spent a good forty minutes combing the other side trying to find that bird.

While looking, a flock passed. The Dane fired. I saw the bird begin descending my way then picked its head up and flew away. It had definitely been hit. I watched as it flew well off and above the treeline.

Upon giving up on my duck, the dogs and I began crossing back to our blind. Looking up, I saw two mallards coming in. I hailed, and they lowered. I thought the Dane was going to take them but they saw me in the marsh and swooped up and back. The Dane hit one as it passed, dropping it in the a corner channel. That duck was full of vigor. I Yelled, "Hit him again!" the Dane responded with another shot. I saw the bird as it went into a narrow channel. Again, I had more marsh and bog hopping to tackle. My legs were starting to tire!

Krieger, a German wire-haired pointer, covered great and wide distances as Calvin tends to be more methodic. Krieger was further down and out, as Calvin was working the trail close to where we last saw the drake. I felt confident he'd come through. Ahead of us I hear Krieger barking, saw grass moving, and thought, "Awesome! A duck. Finally!"

The bark quickly grew frenetic, and shrill. Then I heard growling! Krieger was yelping in pain, barking, and the grass ahead was shaking violently. "Please don't be a bear!" was my thought. A bear, no, but the largest raccoon I'd ever encountered was biting Krieger's face, scratching at his ears, with its feet ripping at his belly. Calvin moved to go in, and I called him back. The raccoon realized we were there, glared at me. I had this thought that if the damn thing charged me, I'd probably have dropped my shotgun and ran for it! Waders and all! (A real hero for sure).

The animals had separated once but the raccoon took hold again. I moved forward and the coon released his hold. Krieger shifted away. I seized the moment, being careful of the dogs, and sent a load of number 2's into the raccoon. It's look of shock still haunts me as it fell back into the watery muck. Krieger seized it by its' backside and shook and pulled at it. The coon expired. Now I needed to get the dog off and away. Everytime I tried to grab the raccoon or pooch, Krieger growled at me!

This took some doing but finally we were able to get the dogs away. The Dane fired a shot and Krieger went to him to see what had happened.

Upon returning to the blind, we'd all had enough. "I'm going to rest here for a bit. I am exhausted!" I said.

"Sorry to make you work so hard, Austrian," said the Dane.

Four ducks downed, none recovered. One beat-up, bitten dog, a tired golden retriever, and an exhausted Austrian followed the Dane out of the woods. Disappointment and frustration are part of the game in waterfowl hunting. A banner start to the season? Perhap. But you know, it could all come together next week!