Southern Gales Amidst a Northern Push.

"It's technically a road..." said Lance. Family and friends had me on the east-side of the great state of Wisconsin. My son and I had arrived the evening before and were staying with Lance. We hadn't hunted together since our pilgrimage on Shallow Bay last November, to share the rites of the Old Duck Hunters Association, Inc. "I've been scouting and saw a couple hundred teal and widgeon. The only thing that worries me is the wind. When it blows south you just can't tell what the ducks will do."

We left the paved highway for county roads which transitioned into country lanes. I do love the crunch of gravel beneath the tires. It wasn't long before we came upon a rutted path, past the glowing windows of a dairy farm, that grew progressively muddier. This was a road? If so, it wasn't a two-way. The fenced edges and undergrowth pressed upon us from one side and old growth trees with a watery ditch lined the other. Lance was white-knuckled and all business but breathed a sigh of relief. "Whew! We're the only ones here." It was 4:10 in the morning.

"Folks get her this early?" I asked.

"There are guys that'll camp out the night before. This is sort of like the opener all over again." replied Lance. It was, in fact, the second opener of the Wisconsin southern duck season. The weather had turned the past couple of days. A large cold front had descended from Manitoba bringing twenty-five to thirty degree temperature drops. It had threatened snow. It held the possibility of fresh migrators on waters that hadn't been hunted in a week. The entire drive over from my neck of the woods was riddled with anxious anticipation. My hand-carved blocks would finally have their baptism to the sport. Would we be hunting divers along famed Lake Winnebago? Would I finally get a crack at bluebills and a bull canvasback? To say I was amped is an understatement.

Lance put hunting the big water to bed when I arrived the night before. "The wind will be gusting out of the south. That'll make conditions awful rough on the big water." I trusted the call and knew his knowledge of the area could be counted on. We'd be hunting a smaller marsh off a much larger piece of water not too far from the big lakes. "You never know. I've shot plenty of divers off this point." I didn't care. I would be hunting new water in a new part of the state with a good buddy. So what if we weren't hunting Butte de Morts or Winnebago. This was going to be great!

True to his prediction, a set of headlights came from behind as we were pulling the skiff and gear to the marsh edge. "See! Glad we got here when we did," said Lance. I was dumbfounded. I'm no stranger to getting up early in pursuit of fowl. Nor am I one to shun a long drive to reach a destination, but I don't believe I've ever made it to a launch this early. These eastern 'Sconnies get props from this fowler.

We got the skiff loaded and we began to make our way to Lance's point. Being from the northern zone and west side of the state, I only worried about other duck hunters on the opener. It often makes for more irritation than joy as manners aren't always practiced as people compete for a crack at ducks. I'll admit, I added a little steam to the dip and pull of my paddle. It wouldn't do to have somebody catch us from behind.

The moon was veiled by cirro-stratus clouds, allowing us a feathered glimpse of October orange. As we made our way along the corridor of water along the dike, we began to hear the music of the marsh. Thousands of sandhill cranes gave us a rousing chorus as we disturbed their early morning slumber. Even if we didn't see a duck, we'd be sure to enjoy a show.

We had to portage over the dike to access another section of marsh, and all too soon we arrived. The skiff we paddled was small but we were able to bring a couple dozen floaters from Lance. A mix of mallard, gadwall, teal, and canada geese. I had brought a half-dozen hand carved blocks of bluebills, canvasback, and a lone goldeneye. We had an hour plus before we could even set out the blocks so we settled into the cattails and cracked open the thermos of coffee. Mercy, that coffee did wonders.

This may sound strange but it is so true. The marsh harbors its own distinct set of smells. They are beautiful in their own right... not fresh cut grass and hotdogs at the ballpark, but the sentiment is much the same for me. Coffee's own aroma has a musical lift of its own that makes any day easier to bear. Somehow, and some way, the combination of marsh muck and Folgers cast a spell. It was as if the die had been cast and the game was to be played yet we'd already won!

The marsh was alive and I'm not just speaking of birds. A party of hunters were settled upon an island several hundred yards away. At least six headlamps dotted the opposite shore"I wouldn't worry too much. There's plenty of space for birds to work us both. In fact I've slept in the truck more than once to secure that spot" said Lance. Again, six hunters in one blind! Even when we had that number at home, we spread out. These eastern Wisconsin fowlers weren't fooling around. They were gamers!

The next hour was one of good companionship. Duck blinds are made for such. In one, folk tend to solve all the world's troubles. With a few stories, many laughs, and a heightened sense of anticipation the clock finally reached the hour and we could set up the decoys or spread. As we went to the skiff we heard the calling of sandhill cranes as they flew above. I've no idea the number but every now and then you'd catch the silhouette of one as it passed the twinkling stars overhead. That's a memory I hope to save many a year. The dabbler blocks were set in a small J. The pair of canada geese were set apart at a T in the waterways for visibility coming from the behind us. My divers made a leg leading parallel the bank away from our other blocks, like a runway to our dabblers.

We had just gotten resettled and poured a second cup of coffee when a headlamp came flashing right next to me. Somebody had walked all this way to the point we inhabited. We turned on our headlamps, said hello. The lone hunter was not one for talking. He muttered something and spun like he was on ball-bearing and marched his way back several hundred yards. He set up east of us. "Poor guy hiked in with that pack a mile plus," said Lance. We would have competition on two sides. Whew! This second opener was going to have some pressure! I sure hoped marsh etiquette would be followed and we weren't going to be surrounded by sky busters.

Things settled and the sky took on that familiar hue of predawn. Lance and I settled in. The whistling of wings cued us to ducks above. With minutes to go we had a number splash into our decoys. Here and gone in moments. The stage was set and what an autumn migratory display it was to be. From the first legal minute, we had birds working and it didn't take long for us to score. I must say in all honesty, I don't remember who connected first but it was a greenwing teal that splashed in the middle of the spread. It had decoyed perfectly. We'll give that one to Lance!

The southern wind had our decoys riding the water which provided great movement. I paused to admire my carved blocks down the way. Would any divers come streaming along that line? I didn't have much time to contemplate the thought though. Ducks were in the air!

We doubled up on what I thought were mallards but indeed were shovelers. Again, they decoyed perfectly. The drake spoonie was in splendid plumage already. A few more teal were added to the bag, both bluewing and greenwing. They too were quick to decoy. Then the mallards began to arrive. We called, the mallards would give us a passing look but skirt the edge of range and drop a hundred yards or so into the thick. "There must be a hole that opened up back there," said Lance. It was as if there was an invisible wall! The mallards would pitch to just at the edge of our decoys and dump into that spot. We hadn't time to puzzle it out nor had a chance to take a sip of coffee. Birds were everywhere! I don't have any other words to describe the sites of all those migrators working. The sky was abuzz. It was just magical. Migrators!

We missed on a few birds and connected on others. One of my favorite moments was having a squadron of at least nine bluewings rifle right through the spread and slash between Lance and I over the bank! We missed handily at those just feet in front of us.

The other hunters along the marsh had little to no impact on our hunt save one moment. A dark object came into view from the northeast side of the marsh. A black duck? I'd only seen one in my life! I gave a hail and it veered our way. It was coming in on a string. That truly gave me a thrill! We were going to get a crack at this dark relative to our mallard friend. Just as Lance and I were getting ready our neighboring party took shots at birds working their spread, and our black duck veered off to whereabouts unknown. Disappointment? Hardly! Ducks were everywhere.

The constant pattern that emerged was the teal and spoonies would decoy perfectly. The mallards were "buzzing our tower, Goose." Yes, I'm going with a Top Gun reference. We heard occasional geese but they were not to be seen. We had one widgeon land smack in the middle of all the hunting parties and it wouldn't come near anybody. "Yep, that's where they were all sitting the other day too. I'm not sure where they all went?" said Lance.

It was one of those days you know you'll be thinking about for years to come. I swear our necks were sore from swiveling. The sky was full of birds. It kept our attention constantly. I think we just sat on our marsh seats laughing as we took in the splendor of the migration in full swing. All the conservation efforts of so many groups and organizations were playing out in front of us. What a morning!

It took some doing but we finally connected on mallards. In fact, after Lance had limited out I dropped a hen trying to leave our area. A two-man limit before 8:30! The birds were still working. I think we both could have stayed and watched a good deal longer but I needed to make my way up the road to make a surprise party for my aunt's surprise party.

With the added weight of a two-man limit, our skiff was riding pretty low to the waterline, but we ambled back. We had one last surprise as we came across a coyote in the middle of the slough! Watching that critter swim for all it was worth in that murky, weedy mess struck us as awful comical.

As for the other fowlers on the marsh? The party across from us had done some shooting but it hadn't impacted our hunt in the least! The poor gent who had hiked in, called it quits before 7:15 and trekked back to his car. Lance's scouting and knowledge of the area had paid off in huge dividends! The Old Duck Hunters Association, Inc. would have been proud... They wouldn't have said as much, but when you bring ducks home, words aren't necessary.