Mallards and a Prayer.

The whine of the dog was warranted. It was high-time we exit the house. Brother Eric was already en route. It was unthinkable to consider him arriving at to the chosen locale before I did. We were slated for an afternoon combination hunt. We would target duck and geese but perhaps, possibly, tag a turkey. Where in the word did that daughter of mine hide my duck calls? I'd been toddled and toppled by a two-year-old. Lord Almighty, help me! Thankfully my instruments of mallard and goose music were located beneath a pile of stuffed unicorns and play dresses.

The waterfowl season in the north was turning late. It was the second week of November and our crew was distributed throughout the Western Wisconsin Outdoors. Some were putting miles on their boots chasing after roosters amidst the fields and corn rows. Others were going after fattened walleye gorging on baitfish before the big chill. Many others were preparing amidst the deer woods anticipating the opener the following weekend. I was intent on bagging a few northern mallards pushed down from Manitoba or perhaps Ontario on their annual migration. I felt confident we'd get a crack at a late-autumn turkey too.

The previous morning, at dawn, I'd been out after ducks and had heard a tom turkey. I had never heard one gobble in the fall. The area I was hunting has a history when it comes to turkey. A vivid memory of a warm October afternoon with the Angry Dane comes to the forefront.

We had shared a terrible morning on the marsh. Bitter cold weather and harsh gusting winds provided no flight. We had nothing to show for the effort save chapped hands from pulling decoys from the churlish waters amidst leaky waders. Each of us was agitated. The Dane was ready to hang it up and watch Badger football but I wasn't ready to call it quits and was sure let him know it!

"The game doesn't start until three," I exclaimed. "

"Fine, Austrian. I tell you what... Let's grab a bite and then do some jump shooting. If they aren't coming to us, we'll take the game to them!" said the Dane. I found his parlay agreeable but decried the call to stop at his abode. We ought to grab food on the road. The temptation of a warm fireplace and college football can be quite a siren's call. I could tell he didn't like it but he agreed.

With fast food sustenance bagged and in tow, we began driving to potential areas. As I was downing a cheeseburger that was ridiculously short on the application of ketchup, I noticed the sun breaking through the low ceiling of cirrostratus clouds. It shot rays of light like holes through a blanket. A harbinger of ducky luck perhaps?

When the truck was parked and Mark's dog, Fowler let loose, the wind had abated... still gusting but the temperature was climbing. We were in a stretch of, at the time, new territory to me. "We're going to split up here. I'll work towards the road. I want you to hug these pines and work towards the hillside across these bottoms. Just watch the border fence. That neighbor lady does NOT like hunters," said the Dane.

"How do you know that?" I inquired.

"She's told me so... Repeatedly!"

"Repeatedly?" I inquired a little shaky.

"She might pull out a shotgun but you've got one too. Oh, she's a terrible shot. You ought to be alright. You're wearing those leaky waders, right? You might find parts of it wet." With that, the Dane and dog started on their way. I inched forward on my own track. Yes... I did look over my shoulder a time or two.

We made our push across the bottoms although my unfamiliarity with this parcel put our rendezvous far earlier than the Dane had planned. This was in the days before Google Earth and On-X Maps. Although I took a ribbing it worked out in unexpected fashion. We spread out a good thirty yards of each other and worked toward a hill opposite. The hillside ran perpendicular to our path. The aforementioned pockets of water along the bottoms nearing the peninsula had not materialized. I did see a ribbon of creek running along beyond the end of the hill.

I made my way slowly through marshy grassland, eyes ahead, took a step, and went down nearly to my groin! I had run into a pocket of water. I've no idea how deep but my feet never touched bottom! As I clambered out of the hole, movement and the sounds of rattling grasses and canebrake drew my gaze. I thought perhaps it was Fowler pushing through the tangled mats but it wasn't movement in one spot. It was happening all around me! "What the devil?" I pondered. No matter how I tried, I couldn't glimpse nor figure out what was just ahead of me. With each step I took, a chorus of animals moving and grass dancing ensued. I finally caught a track. Turkey! Loads of turkey here in the bottoms.

I motioned to the Dane to come hither. We reconnoitered and made a plan to see if we could get them to fly. Let me say this. It happened but when it did, we were anything but ready . The eruption of fowl nearly covered the sky. They jumped near the point where the hill began and the creek ran . I just watched them go, mouth agape. I'd never witnessed anything like it and haven't since. Lord Almighty, wow!

The hunt finished with us walking the creek on the opposite side of the hill. We made out well as we jumped two pockets of ducks and connected on a few! I'll not forget Fowler struggling to make it through the muck surrounding the creek. Between the hole I found and watching the pooch, I learned you definitely can not wade anything here.

That hunt was very much in my mind as I planned this outing with Brother Eric. The Mrs. had read of a few articles on wild turkey and charged me with bringing one home for her to try. It would not do to disappoint that wonderful woman. Lord. Almighty, let me see a gobbler and get there before my brother!

As Calvin and I sped down along a hillside, we made our way round the final bend. Brother Eric's truck was already waiting. I anticipated a choice word or two for being tardy, as I am prone to pass along when the roles were reversed, but Eric was just happy to get out. As it was, Eric had only been able to get after ducks a handful of times this season.

"If we play things right, we might jump a few ducks on our way to the point. I figure we can sit off the bottom of the hill. Being the afternoon and with the temp dropping, they'll be moving to feed and loaf yet. If the action slows, one of us can maybe make a little push. Perhaps we can get some turkeys to come by." I offered.

We made our way up the hillside stepping over a tangle of cutover. A mass of cedar, birch, and poplar littered our path. Our saving grace was how damp things were. Most footsteps were masked by wet pine needles and gusts of a northern wind. As we reached the top of the hill we caught our first glimpse of the creek to our right below. With trepidation, even with the wind and damp ground, I inched along moving branches carefully as we crossed. Ducks have impeccable eyesight and better hearing than you may think. Any sudden movements or snaps would put any loafers to alarm and greatly reduce our opportunities at jumping them. It was all for naught as the birds were in other locales.

After we made our descent of the hill, I directed Brother Eric to a splendid point of cover amidst a pair of river birch. It was a fantastic hide. We were completely hidden in front and behind. No bird would make us if they flew our way. We settled in, with no decoys. I was wary of placing any blocks near that creek, as I have been deep in the muck there before. I new Calvin would have a time making retrieves but he was better suited for the work then Eric or I.

Birds were on the move. The temp dropping and the northern wind had them active long before last light. Unfortunately, none wished to be where we were. Flocks of geese would give us a look. Two flocks made a pair of passes yet we had no willing fowl enter our pocket. After a good hour, Brother Eric began shifting. Twenty or so minutes later he needed to stretch. "If you're cold, you and Calvin could always make a little push and drive some turkey to this point. I mean, I'd have happily done so but you don't have a turkey tag right?" I said.

"No. But I'm getting cold and nothing's flying. Are you sure we want to sit here any longer? We ought to jump the river," replied Eric.

"We will but the Mrs. wants a turkey. Just one teency push and we can jump the river."

Brother Eric argued that he didn't know the territory. Here is where today's technology can really pay off. I was able to walk him through the route... the same route the Angry Dane had wanted me to take a decade or more earlier. With his confidence stoked, Brother Eric meandered back up the hill to make his way by the ill-tempered lady's home. I must let the record state, she was not mentioned in my directions. I kept my fingers crossed that cool heads would prevail in any altercation. Brother Eric is good in those respects.

I resettled myself amidst the cover and let out a few quacks just to let any nearby birds know there was company over here. Mere moments later, a flock of seven mallards materialized. They were low to the flight deck and coming in on a string! Oh Eric! Why couldn't you have toughed it out five minutes longer? Oh Calvin! How or what am I going to do if I drop them in that water? I may step right through never to be seen again!

There is nothing a duck hunter loves to see more than birds locked-up with landing gear down. I let the first two splash down and jumped up to take the third at five yards in what can only be described as an epic wiff! My second shot found it's mark on a drake wheeling back. It went down in the marsh grass. I followed it with my barrel the whole way down and debated a parting shot at those late season mallards cruising along the alders. I opted to watch them disappear, then made my way to find my downed drake. He lay crumpled amongst the marsh grass. I hefted him to the heavens in salute, admiring the full plumage, iridescent head, triple curls, and red-orange feet. He was glorious! A migrated northern mallard if ever I'd seen one! Lord Almighty, thank you!

Not long after getting situated in the blind, no doubt hastened by the sounds of shooting, Calvin and Eric returned. No turkeys came running through. I showed Eric the drake and asked if he wanted to sit awhile longer. As it was, he was all about jumping the river.

We crossed the road and entered the main trail into this duck haven. We navigated the trail along the ridge and then I took them to a lower field which sits aside the river. We split up and crept along the woodline to reach the river's edge in hopes of spotting ducks or geese loafing. Empty.

I took Eric to the "pocket," a bowl in the river with placid waters where I've ambushed ducks numerous times. Empty.

We left the bottoms, climbing back up the main ridge. Tiptoeing along we tried spying ducks down along the river below. Glorious country! With the November winds doing their work, the visibility through the woods offered great visibility through the stands of trees and to the river proper. As we reached the end of the ridge and began to descend, a motion caught my eye. Apparently, our movements alerted twenty plus mallards. They launched from the pool at the hills bottom. Lords help us! We were busted.

We wandered down to the river to explore the area and plan a better approach for the next time. Eric was plodding along a marshy stretch near the river as I began traversing back. It was then when I received a phone call. One that changed everything that season.

We of the woods and water seek the adventure that the out of doors offers. Be it changes in the seasons, the coming of storms, the breakdown of equipment, and the sheer chase of game, we enthusiastically answer the siren's call. The promise and thrill of the unknown excites us. There's an empowering sense of confidence in our ability to problem-solve, adjust tactics, learn new things, and experience a little danger. It lets us know what we are capable of... we test our mettle. Unfortunately, it also proves all too often how human we are.

"Steve. There's been an accident." It was Matt, The Dane's brother. As Matt relayed what had happened, I tried to absorb what it meant, and what there was to do. Time slowed. It felt like moving through water. I knew the words, what they meant, and could picture what went down but it seemed distant... remote, or like something that just wasn't real.

I called for Eric and we made our way back to our vehicles. He headed home. I made a run to the emergency room thirty minutes away.

The Dane had fallen while setting up a treestand. As he landed, he shattered vertebrate in his back. The EMS had to cut trees and pull him from the woods and through a swamp via utv and a sled. It was a horrible predicament but those workers truly worked a miracle. In fact, there were several that day. Thankfully, the Dane hadn't been alone. A nephew was there as it happened. Matt and his wife had left them shortly before so emergency services were contacted almost immediately.

To say that life is precious gives no weight to just how powerfully profound those words really are. Especially in moments like this. My closest compadre of the woods was the most safety-conscious of anyone I knew. He did much to show me the ropes in any number of outdoor adventures, and was a stickler for safety. To him I owe much. If it could happen to him, it most certainly can happen to us all.

The drive to the hospital was one of mixed emotions. The fact he was evacuated and was receiving medical attention was good. Having someone there with him was a gift. Matt being at the road and directing the EMS was good. With the good, of course, the bad pushed its way into my thoughts as well. How the hell did he fall out of a tree? He always strapped into his harness? Did a branch break? A fail-safe fail? Was his spine severed? All of that and more went through my mind, as I'm sure it did his kids and the fam. The mind works so hard to rationalize the irrational. It can be a hell of a jagged pill to swallow.

Sombre is the tone I choose to use to describe the scene pulling into the lot. Matt greeted me and filled me in with the details. As I grabbed a coffee, we were given word that the Dane had feeling in his toes. He was already joking with a nurse and griping to have the nephew sent in. That poor boy was sheet white and as quiet I've ever seen him, but got up with a shot and rushed to the room. We all took a collective sigh. The Dane was going to be alright.

The entire tenor of the season was vastly different. Beautiful in many regards, yet estranged. Serene yet tumultuous. It'd be the first time in thirty-plus years the Dane wouldn't be chasing whitetails. At least twenty of those years had been spent together. Even so, we of our "Goof Troop" carried out the rites the following week. Opening morning, we took to our stands. Luck shined on Matt and family as they took two whitetails. I may have seen something in the swamp, but couldn't be sure. I got down from my stand and helped in dragging deer to the trucks. We made our way to lunch where the Dane would meet us, less than a week out of surgery! We would of course parlay the morning's stories. It was tough to see him as you knew he was in a good amount of discomfort, and he was in contemplative spirit. "How are you feeling?" I asked.

"Thankful. I'm just so very thankful," replied the Dane. "The luckiest guy alive. My faith got me through this. Praise God." He was to repeat and stress that profound faith time and time again to all who spoke with him.

"You got that right," I said. "Say, I think I caught a glimpse of that bruiser with the droptine. He was slinking along in the middle of the swamp. I definitely heard something large milling around this morning."

That got the fire going in the Dane. That grouchy son-of-a-gun made it perfectly clear, "You better get him this week, otherwise I'm laying claims! I'll bag the him next season. Mark my words, I'm hunting!" We of the Goof Troop looked amongst ourselves and knew he meant it. Lord Almighty... Thank you.