I never really enjoyed duck hunting.
Despite the fact that I have lived on the waterfowl-rich Mississippi and Missouri flyways, and on the prairie pothole regions in Iowa, the sport never resonated with me. Attempts in my youth to try to like it seemed to have all been bungled for one reason or another. Duck hunting in the Midwest was accompanied by high winds, driving rain and snow. along with wind chills that penetrated even the best cold resistant clothing.
Having moved to Northwest Colorado and recognizing that I mostly enjoyed hunting birds, I decided to give duck hunting another chance. In November, after the grouse had left the lowlands for higher altitudes, I decided to pursue the many ducks I would see on the Yampa while trout fishing.
One November morning found myself hiking in the pitch black through hip deep snow to find a spot to set up on a spot of BLM land on the Yampa River. It was cold and the temperature at 6 a.m. was hovering around zero. But, heavy-laden with gear, I didn’t notice it — until later.
On my back was a bag of duck decoys that had sat unused in the basements of various houses over the years. In my left hand I carried a five gallon bucket that contained a small propane heater and a couple boxes of shotgun shells. In my right hand, my cased Remington Model 1100 12 gauge shotgun which I had purchased over thirty years prior from my dad’s friend, Bob Sullivan. My arms ached and my back hurt — all of which were reminders of why I didn’t like duck hunting.
Arriving at the river, I found a nice bend with a deep pool of water and hunkered down underneath the overhanging willows. I carefully organized what would be my home for the next two hours. It was eerily quiet in the moments before dawn as a few snowflakes danced in front of my headlamp. My companions, an aging German wirehaired pointer and a lively Longhaired Weimaraner, ran through the brush searching for God knows what.
Sitting on the bucket in my makeshift blind, I began to think. Perhaps this is why I do not like duck hunting — too much time for thinking and introspection.
I decided to choke my thoughts and get to work setting decoys. Not many would be needed in this small river and too many would not fool the ducks. Reaching into the bag, I carefully unwrapped the frayed cords and took the anchors off the necks before throwing them into the icy water. They were an odd assortment of hand-me-downs from my father and my great uncle — most of them manufactured by the Herter’s company in the 1950’s. They were faded and worn from years of not being used. On the bottom, I noticed that my father had written our last name in large block letters.
I smiled.
After sludging through the cold water back to the blind, I lit my propane heater — another hand-me-down from my father-in-law that was used when we would sit on the ice on Lake Okoboji in Iowa not catching perch. Another useless outdoor endeavor akin to duck hunting. While I sat and warmed myself, I watched the decoys bob and sway in the slow current. The dogs watched them curiously as well. I could not choke my thoughts in the stillness of the coming dawn. I started to think again about why I did not like duck hunting.
Memories of past duck hunts began to emerge as I sat in the dark listening to the hiss of the propane burner. Hunting ducks in the Midwest was usually associated with strong cold fronts that brought high winds, pelting sleet, rain and snow. Once, when I was a young high school teacher, I went to a local slough when school was closed early due to an impending October snow storm. I hiked a mile to the pond with the same decoys and shot two mallards as they cupped their wings against a gale-force wind. When the storm hit, I was caught in the middle of what would become one of the worst ice storms in Iowa history — the Halloween storm of 1991. I barely made it back to my rickety apartment when the electricity went out for the next three days. The only food I had were the two drakes.
That memory reminded me that I never really liked the taste of duck. After having good luck one weekend hunting on the Missouri River north of Omaha, Nebraska, I prepared three roasted mallards for some college buddies who were visiting for a pheasant hunt. I had carefully roasted them and was quite proud of my culinary skills. But no chef in the world can cover up the taste of a migratory duck that has been feeding on snails, worms and leeches in a Canadian slough for the summer.
The ducks went into the garbage and pizza was ordered instead.
Checking the time on my phone, I still had twenty minutes until shooting time. Even with the heater, I was shivering and my legs were cramping. The dogs were restless, as they thought the decoys were live birds. The Weimaraner was locked on point.
I really did not like duck hunting.
The coffee in my thermos was lukewarm. Overhead in the dim light, a flock of ducks flying high in a disciplined V formation emerged following the course of the river. I checked the time. Five more minutes until legal shooting time. I uncased the Remington and thoughts again began to rise from the recesses of a distant past.
I had always used double barrel shotguns. In my early adulthood, when I aspired to become a duck hunter, I felt the need for something that would have a third shot. My dad’s lifelong friend, Bob Sullivan, was selling his Remington 1100. Bob was a small man with the shortest arms I have ever seen. He resembled a Tyrannosaurus Rex and claimed his fingers did not reach the trigger of the gun and so he needed to get rid of it.
I think he hated duck hunting as much as I did.
Carefully loading the ultra heavy shotgun, which featured a 30 inch barrel, I sat on my bucket and waited. Shooting time had arrived. There were no ducks except for the high flyers. It was cold and the landscape in the hazy early morning hours held no color. A black and white world had emerged.
It was fitting. It reflected my mood.
Suddenly several teal whizzed in front of the blind. The Remington snapped to my shoulder and thundered three times. The only thing that fell to the ground were empty shotshells. The dogs looked at me in a manner that could describe disappointment or disgust — I couldn’t tell or didn’t want to know.
Another reason I didn’t like duck hunting. They are fast with no time to set up a shot over a pointing dog. They appear and then are gone.
Settling back in the blind the cold began to permeate my body. I was cold. Ice had begun to form on the beaks of the antique decoys. Soft snowflakes covered the backs of the dogs who huddled in semicircles next to the heater. Discouragement set in. Then, out of the gray landscape, a lone mallard drake zipped in front of me hugging the surface of the river. It happened so fast that I could not get a shot. But he had seen the decoys. Making a large loop, he turned. I steadied myself. He came back and cupped his wings overhead. The Remington roared and the mallard fell downstream into a willow thicket.
My Weimaraner raced down the edge of the riverbank and disappeared. I could hear him grappling in the snow. A minute later, he appeared with a beautiful drake in his mouth and dropped it at my feet.
Moments later, another lone drake flew down the river — a difficult right to left passing shot — a shot I hated. Placing a lead on the green head I patiently followed through until he was flying to my left and pulled the trigger. A splash hit the water. This time, it was the old Wirehair’s turn. A natural water dog, he remembered what his aging body was for and crashed into the water after the flailing bird. He returned to the blind and, as was his lifelong habit, reluctantly gave up the bird.
I was happy.
Two ducks were in the bag. That was enough for the day. The clouds were starting to part as the sun began its rise over the mountains in front of me. Snow was settled on the pines and the aspens stood like imperial towers. A trout rose on the surface in between my decoys.
I no longer felt the cold. I sat on my bucket and simply watched the glory of a dawning day. Dozens of ducks flew by, but I did not shoot. I did not need any more this day.
Deciding to leave my nest, I waded into the river to collect my decoys and then collected my gear. The dogs did not want to leave, even though ice had enveloped the muzzle of my Wirehair. Arriving at the truck, I kenneled the dogs and started the engine. Waiting for it to warm, I poured one last cup of cold coffee and gazed at the valley in front of me. It was breathtaking. Ducks continued to follow the river now unencumbered by any hunter. It was their valley and their river.
And for a brief moment, it was shared with me.
Driving through the snowpacked mountain road on my short journey home I suddenly realized something — a feeling fleeting and seldom felt.
I loved duck hunting.