Season's End

Nothing good can last forever and thus it was. We said goodbye to the duck season but had one last go at 'em. An impromptu meeting was held the evening before. Peter had it on good authority there would be competition at the launch. "They've four boats and plan to put out twenty dozen decoys," he reported.

"The last time we had at least five groups out there, but they all seemed to cram to the nearest bay. That's a lot of money to travel five hundred yards," I replied.

Expensive flat bottomed boats, twenty feet long, powered by mud motors with room for gear, dogs, and friends. We paddled a simple pair of canoes to a bay further along. I managed to speak to a few of the lads, before departing, to see where they were going versus ourselves. Our half-hour paddle was well rewarded. We had the entire bay to ourselves! As it was, we also had more flocks work us than any of the masses that morning.

The wind was slated to blow from the Northwest but only around ten miles per hour. Nothing to force a duck to seek shelter. Most of the hunters would all run their expensive setups to every western finger and cove. Peter asked, "Should I load the canoes?"

"Nope. Don't bother. We're walking," I said.

A previous solo duck outing had me fighting to get to one of those northwest points, and fight I did! I hiked well into the interior over logs, muck, and grass, hauling plenty of gear. I'd tried my luck pulling a sled. They pull much better in the snow, you can be sure. I left most of the decoys and the sled as I was gassed before making the spot.

I had no luck that day. Several hundred mallards were hugging an east corner in the midst of a west wind. The one flock I had coming towards my spread were thrown off-course by the siren song of some Suzie mallard hailing them from danger.

It was this knowledge along with knowing what the competition would most likely do that hatched the plan.

I had the decoy bags set the evening before with all gear. Peter picked Calvin and me up early. He'd two friends that would meet us at the determined spot. As I was introduced, each grabbed a bag of decoys, and we began our hike to the far bay. As we meandered in the dark, the sound of boat motors resonated along with the pre-dawn quiet. Boats were fighting for position all about the big water. A moment of second-guessing had me telling Peter we could always move to a west corner if things looked cramped.

Coming out of the bottoms I looked over the expanse of the bay. Ice had washed along the beach in spots but the bay was open. I brought the group to a blind I'd made sometime before and got to work. A line of divers was placed at a forty-five from the peninsula running to our left. It was our hope it would be wide enough to guide ducks to our hole of puddlers. As the line was being set, we heard a motor. The sound was loud but we saw no lights! As it reached the west shore, lights blazed as a boat landed right near my earlier outing. I grinned knowing and hoping the ducks would play this the same way.

Puddlers were put out. A spinner placed too. I'd brought full-bodied mallards to put along the edge of the beach. Lastly, we brushed up our blind. As we settled in, that magical whistling of wings fell upon us. With the wind blowing in our faces, mallards were up an about! They were looking for a place of refuge. A flock of six came over the trees behind us and swung overhead flying along our point. The boys wanted to take a crack at them, but I urged them to wait. I wanted to see if they'd swing around and dump in. They did not, but another flock of three came in close. A shot was fired and a beautiful mallard drake crumpled up and landed a foot in front of the blind. Calvin struggled to pull the drake from underneath the branches. We were all smiles. The game was afoot!

A lone mallard came again from behind. He spotted our spread and swung out over the bay. A couple of quacks on the call had him turn to look us over. He did as mallards do, circling and circling. There was a pass where we could have taken a poke, but I again whispered to wait. He dumped just beyond our decoys.

This repeated itself several times. The neighbors across the bay stuck out like a sore thumb. The mallards wanted to land just ahead of the decoys, into the wind. The didn't like following the string of divers. They'd land just out of range, but they brought more ducks! At least seven mallards landed amidst the decoys. It was thrilling!

As we worked to coax more mallards to work we couldn't help but notice the strings of divers following the big water's main channel. Migrators. All making their way south to warmer climes. I've had little success at calling to those late birds. They either come right in or ignore us with absolute indifference. As I gazed at a string flying along, motion caught my eye much lower. A single was heading straight for us. It came right along the string of diver decoys, a goldeneye! The boys wanted to get after it early, but I whispered, "Wait til it reaches the near blue bill. That's forty yards."

The reports of four barrels was a sweet December symphony amidst the stiff west wind and gray waves. It was unclear who made the hit but we cared not. The bird crumpled amongst the mallard blocks. Calvin brought the prize back. She had done it perfectly!

As the morning progressed, we did not hear any shooting from the flotillas of decoys in the pair of bays behind us. Our friends across the way had adjusted their spreads two or three times. They hadn't fired once. We were getting the birds to work. I couldn't have been happier.

The final flock of mallards circled us four times. We knew it was now or never. I let the boys have the first crack. Three shots, three misses. Standing up, I became entangled in a branch at my back but got steady, took aim, and fired. That drake dropped with a splendid splash in the churlish bay. What a beautiful greenhead. Calvin made the short retrieve and I held that prize in my hands.

The youngster needed to head in to make an appointment, so we called it a hunt. The decoys were collected, backpacks mounted, and we hiked back. Plenty of seasons end with a taste of melancholy but that wasn't the case this time. It wasn't the greatest duck shoot I'd ever experienced. We hadn't shot limits...not even close! The weather wasn't crazy and no strange mishaps took place. What made this hunt so special was how it all came together. The boys all chipped in to bring gear. The dog performed admirably, and Calvin is getting up there in years. It just struck me that you don't need to have all the toys, the best guns, boats, decoys, or even the best wind to hunt birds. Experience, grit, and a little luck go a long way. Things worked out that morning. It'll keep me smiling this winter when I've got the itch to hit the marshes.