One is Better than None

Second guessing waterfowl movement and migration is an exercise in futility, but it's just one of the reasons why I love duck hunting so much. Most of the times you guess wrong. Either your timing was off; you set up in the wrong spot; or a migration just didn't occur even though a blustery north wind had every hunter with a pulse out in a duck blind. However, there are times when almost every thing falls in to place, and it's those all too few hunts that hook the weak-minded and foolish into this dastardly sufferable past time. My last hunt, which took place on the 26th, was not one of those times.

The weather was right, the wind was right, and we set up in a very likely though unproven spot; however, the birds were simply a no show- yet the morning was far from a waste. The air was crisp and the sun shone brilliantly through the thin, wispy clouds that sailed smartly south on the northern wind. We bided our time by watching an adult bald eagle cruising up and down the river channel which displeased the murder of local crows who felt the need to cry out in protest of this intruder, albeit from a safe and distant perch of course. We marveled at the handy work of the invisible beavers who had fashioned the dam that made the pothole we were hunting possible. Other than that, my brother and I laughed about silly things and recalled past hunts all the while knowing we were well on our way to receiving our first official skunk on the year. Basically, neither of us felt like picking up the dekes and hiking back to the truck so we stalled, leaning against crooked willow trees and staring at empty skies.

A barely audible noise filtered down from some unknown height... it almost sounded like the guttural whistle of a drake mallard. I wondered, 'have a group of mallards somehow slipped through the radar and be quietly circling our spread?' With one peek from under the brim of my hat I realized what a foolish thought that had been. It was merely the sound of a lonely, single drake who appeared desperate yet cautious for a place to land. He circled once, I called out 3 or 4 quiet quacks. He circled again this time a bit lower. Again, I blew a few hushed quacks when he passed the hole while my brother used his drake whistle for a little extra enticement. The next we saw of him he was fluttering down with an outstretched neck looking for a place to nestle amongst the decoys, and a moment later in the mouth of my dog, Nellie.

Funny how sometimes an uneventful hunting outing can still be memorable. Sometimes one duck, especially when it's a handsome & fat greenhead, is enough.

Merry Christmas!

If any of you guys need a last minute gift idea for that special lady I recommend something you can make yourself. Nothing makes a woman feel closer to you than a gift that is a part of you:

Yankee in a Rut

Unfortunately, the pictures did not come out very good (I had to photoshop this one just so it would show up at all), but there were still 3 eye witnesses to the events that played out late in the afternoon on Friday December 15, 2006. The story isn't unlike thousands of others: Yankee gets his Ford (Powerstroke Diesel F-350 1 ton crew cab, mind you) stuck in some thick mud & mire; 2 southern country boys come along with a Chevy (Silverado 1500 extended cab, mind you) and a little common sense to pull him out. I believe when the above picture was taken the Yankee in question was lamenting the fact that a Chevy was about to get his ass out of a bind and going on about all the Dodge and Chevy trucks he has pulled out over the years and other fruitless commentary that is often made by a man when he is at the end of his rope, or in this case, tow strap.


Long story short, the little Chevy pried the mighty Ford from the cursed mud with a few well-timed and well-positioned lurches. Admittedly, the Yank's powerstroke was stuck and stuck deep, heck, I even had to put my Silverado in 4-wheel drive! Like I said, the before pictures didn't come out too well, but the pictures of the aftermath tell the story well enough. Below, you can see the conquering hero in the background and the muddy maiden in front.



Peace.

A Dog's Life

I realize that is possible to go duck hunting without a dog, I'm just not sure why anyone would? You miss out on so much, not the least of which is a large number of wounded ducks that prove to quick and cunning even when severely disabled to be caught by human hands. Yes, there are times when having a dog can frustrating like when the pee on your dry bag or when they break in excitement and spook a group of working mallards. However, they will always provide more enjoyment and helpfulness than they take, enriching the whole experience of waterfowl hunting even more.

During a recent hunt my dog, Nellie (pictured with my brother Tyler above), attempted and nearly succeeded in retrieving a very much alive and unshot gadwall drake that had fluttered into our decoy spread that we were busy constructing in the full moon light. I had heard a duck plop down on the surface of the water somewhere behind me. I turned around and could make out the silhouette of a duck swimming towards me in the bright full-moon light. I grabbed the spotlight and turned it on the duck that was now swimming abreast of a couple mallard decoys that were bobbing along with the current. For a split second I thought to myself, 'I wonder what Nellie thinks about all this.' In less than a millisecond that question was answered, as she tore through the water and out towards the drake gadwall.

I don't know if the gadwall was blinded by the spotlight or just stupid, but it seemed to be oblivious to the mound of hair & teeth was was barreling through the shallow water towards it. Nellie almost jumped on top of it for some reason which didn't allow her to get a very good initial bite on the duck, only getting a piece of the wing in her maw. The duck let out a terrifying series of quacks and flapped its wings in earnest. Nellie brought the duck back close to her body in an attempt to regrip the duck, but the gadwall must have sense the release in pressure and took advantage of the moment, the gadwall disappeared into the early morning darkness.

Never one for complacency, Nellie had one more trick for us on this day. Later in the morning, Tyler shot one more gadwall, which seemed to be everywhere that day, as it flew by us. It dropped down into a brush pile that had gathered along a bank next to a huge cottonwood tree whose infinite root system had become partly exposed due to some expansive bank erosion and the handy-work of beavers. We knew that the small gadwall was still very much alive and would probably hunker down into some clandestine corner of the immense brush pile never to be found. I sent Nellie out to investigate and she busily tested the brush pile with her nose at first but then began to dive into the pile of leaves and limbs in search for the elusive gadwall. We expected her to return with the duck at some point as she was obviously on its trail so I just let her fumble through the thick pile of brush as she wished- I didn't have clue where it was at anyway. We watched with curiosity then worry as she made her way to the bank and the large ball of roots from the cottonwood tree and then disappeared down a large beaver hole that was just above the water's edge about a foot or so. I immediately got up and made my way over to the tree, concerned that she might get stuck or come face to face with a mad beaver and those large teeth. However, by the time I got to the tree Nellie emerged from an unseen entrance on the other side of the root wad... duck firmly grasped in her mouth.

It's things like this you miss out on when you don't have a dog. My recommendation to any beginning duck hunter is, even before you buy a boat, do your homework and buy the best dog you can afford. Train it, love it, and train it some more. It will seem like a lot of work at first and there will be times when they try your patience to the max, but hopefully in the end you will have not only a great retriever but a beloved hunting partner as well.

Rain, Ice, Snow, Bitter Cold, and then, Ducks

I had almost forgotten how bitter and relentless a winter storm can be as we in the Southwestern portion of Missouri have had several mild winters in a row with barely a trace of winter precipitation since about '01 or '02 (How I enjoy pronouncing the early years of this century as ought-one, ought-two and so on though I do not know why). You have to take predictions that weathermen foretell with a grain of salt. I suspect most of them to be sadists and enjoy spouting prophecies of doom a little too much, perhaps even when meteorological evidence would suggest otherwise. They must enjoy sending the old & the anal among us scurrying like ants to the grocery and hardware supply stores for enough nonperishable items, candles, shovels, & chains for a hunting trip to the Yukon. However, every now and again, against all odds, they get one right.

First off, whenever you have an arctic cold front, and an influx of Gulf of Mexico moisture you might want to delay any travel arrangements or plans of any consequence for the foreseeable future; oh, and if there is lightning during an ice storm I would recommend enjoying your last few seconds of electricity while you can because you will be without its services for perhaps several days. Which brings me to what I was doing during the height of the ice storm as well as the following day that brought with it Currier & Ives type landscapes and pee-freezing temps (that's when it's so cold that when you take a piss it instantly turns to yellow ice). I spent all day Thursday, Thursday night, & a majority of Friday supervising a tree trimming crew whose job it is to free power lines & utility poles from downed limbs and trees so that linemen can repair the lines and get the power back on for the public. Usually, I am tucked away in an office busily working on drawings that are related to substation design & engineering, but during severe power outages I am often called out to supervise a tree trimming crew. It's a great way to make some overtime, but the conditions are usually miserable at best and life & limb threatening at worst. Anywho, during the maddening scurry of getting all Springfieldians back on the grid Thursday, I witnessed a major migration of waterfowl throughout the day which naturally dampened my mood and made me anxious to go duck hunting as soon as possible.

Flock after flock of snow geese, Canadian geese, and mallards passed overhead all day long while the incessant rain/sleet/snow mixture pelted down from the ominous grey sky. They teased me with their clucks and fluttering wings as they hurriedly retreated towards the south and more weather-friendly environs. Surely, I thought, we would have most people turned back on by tomorrow morning, but that was before the ice and snow really picked up.

By mid-morning on Friday I was chomping at the bit to go hunting. There wasn't a cloud in the sky but snow geese were still riding the piercing north wind, only a lot higher up. By 1:00 in the afternoon I was told I could leave if I wanted to. I can't remember if I said bye or anything at all, but I do recall speed skating over the parking lot to my truck and heading home. After running a few errands, my brother and I were headed to the river by 3:00. The ice and snow covered roads hindered our drive and I knew that we would have only about an hours worth of huntable daylight by the time we got the decoys thrown out and setup.

We threw the bare minimum of hunting paraphernalia into the boat: a few dekes, a few shotgun shells, and our dog, Nellie. The 55 lbs. thrust trolling motor blades whirred to life and sent us and our layout boat down the river to a secluded eddy that is favored by groups of waterfowl looking for a place to rest and dine on acorns, vegetation, and invertebrates. A cathartic giddiness took over our anxious dispositions as all manner of puddle ducks began leaping off of the water and flying down the river channel in front of us. Might the duck gods smile down on upon us and grant us a memorable hunt in the remaining minutes of daylight on this most frigid of days? What would have been far fetched only moments before now seemed plausible.

We haphazardly threw out 6 to 8 decoys in the current that was a little stronger than I had realized as we ended up losing two dekes in the quickening pace that the storm precipitation had set in motion. We took cover in a blind I had, earlier in the week, fashioned primarily utilizing a large uprooted tree that had firmly entrenched itself along a shallow sandbar. We watched and waited for the ducks to return.

We began seeing large groups of flight ducks, 100 to 200 birds strong flying southward in misshapen V's and M's. The flights of ducks (that seemed to be primarily mallards) were so plentiful that we quickly lost track of the number of groups and estimated duck count, but if I had to guess I'd say we saw somewhere around 1500 to 2000 ducks high-tailing it to a warmer climate. The sun had all to quickly began to disappear behind a distant hill leaving an orange streaked sky in its path. Even in the waning light the ice covered tree limbs sparkled as if they had been encrusted with a thick dusting of crushed diamonds which with the heavy snow had transformed the countryside into some fantastic, but cold, dreamland.

The sound of wings came from out of nowhere, but that particular sound was unmistakable; it was the hurried fluttering of wings that mallards make just before they sit down on the water. It sounded like a large group of ducks just downstream, but the massive root wad of the upturned tree we were using for a blind was blocking our view. I gave only a couple of contented quacks and then the group finally showed itself, appearing suddenly before us from behind the twisted roots & limbs like so many winged phantoms- all I could hear or see was whistling wings and orange feet. The 15 to 20 mallards hung in midair, searching for a safe spot to land but unfortunately for them, there were no safe spots.

"Let's takem'!"

A thunderous volley of cannonade echoed up and down the river valley. Ducks plummeted back toward earth with a pleasing splash on the river's surface and then almost immediately began floating downstream. When hunting rivers always send your retriever ASAP, or the downed ducks will quickly be lost to the current. If you do not have a dog then don't bother attempting to hunt the rivers. We only shot greenheads, 3 in all. Yes, we likely should have done better but under the circumstances we were pleased. We had come only to get out into the elements and give it a try and we had been blessed by a close encounter with a decent sized group of mallards and three bulky greenheads to add to the "popper pile." There were still a handful of huntable daylight minutes left, but we sensed that those minutes would be better utilized by picking up the decoys, heading upriver, and loading the boat.

I hunted the next two mornings in the ice & snow after that and was rewarded with 2 more good hunts. If memory serves we took 13 birds in all on the weekend, 8 of which were mallards and all of those were drakes. It was the start of a memorable week of duck hunting in Missouri.

Happy Thanksgiving

Hope everyone has a great Thanksgiving holiday. Whenever I think about Thanksgiving I can't help but also think about Air Supply...

I Didn't Die

Forgive me father, it has been over a month since my last blog. A lot has happened over the last month, and I can't believe I haven't taken the time to write about any of it. Firstly, my Cardinals finally won another World Series, their 10th one to be exact, breaking a championship drought of 24 years. It was an incredible and unlikely post season run, which brings to mind once again the dichotomy of media coverage and hype when it comes to professional sports and especially Major League Baseball. As per usual, the Cardinals were given little chance in competing in the post season, but there was even more skepticism than normal (even within the ranks of the Cardinal faithful) as this team had backed into the playoffs with admittedly one of the worst regular season records. However, the Cardinals soon raised the eyebrows of the legions of naysayers and the hopes of their fans as they dispatched the lowly San Diego Padres who are owned by St. Louis in the post season; 1-12 or 1-15 or something like that.

Ok, that was cute, but now the mighty Mets were ready to bring the redbirds back down to earth, and thus the baseball gods, the Fox network, and the biased portion of the media could yet still be appeased even though the Yankees had already been eliminated by Detroit. However, what resulted was the 3rd riveting NLCS in as many years involving the Cardinals- not that anyone has noticed. Game 3 notwithstanding, every inning seemed to carry immense weight in the final outcome of each game. Pitch selections were agonized over and managerial decisions were examined ad nausem, which naturally resulted in a memorable series that was pushed to an excrutiatingly nerve-racking game 7 at Shea.

After the elimination of the Mets and, ultimately, the Detroit Tigers, the Cardinals were less a team who finally played to their potential on the sport's greatest stage and more lucky overachievers who surely must have made a deal with the devil himself to earn the franchise's 10th World Championship. Hell, if it had been the Yankees or Red Sox in the same position then all we would have heard how it was one of the greatest comebacks of all time; I can just hear the lame, over-produced lead-in to Baseball Tonight that would have surely happened if the roles could have been reversed. Cue cornball gladiator music, misty edged video featuring humiliating defeats leading up to a championship crescendo, and the narration of Harold Reynolds Karl Ravech:

"Against all odds, great teams find the courage to compete when it counts the most no matter what obstacles litter their path. There are few teams that could muster the wherewithal to finish the regular season like a lamb but come out of the post season like a lion. However, not all teams can look to their past for inspiration and call upon the ghosts of DiMaggio, Gehrig, and the Babe for guidance. Only the men who wear pinstripes are capable of writing this unlikely story, only the Yankees can pull off this sort of miracle."

...And fade to black.

You laugh, but even honest Yankee fans would acknowledge that if a similar situation would befall them as fate had in store for the Cardinals this year then the story would sound completely different. I don't know, I guess I really don't give a shit what the rest of the world thinks, it's just that I don't want to hear how the 2006 World Champion St. Louis Cardinals are the luckiest team in the history of the universe for the rest of my life.

Oh well, as always, go Cards!

Stay tuned for tales from South Dakota and highlights of the 2006 pheasant hunting trip.

Beer Flavored Chips

There are times when I think that perhaps I was born a couple of centuries too late. I contemplate the romantic idea of being a frontier trapper & fur trader; bartering slick deals with the local Native American tribe with my only company being the pristine virgin fields & forests of 18th century America and her unlimited bounty. Then there are days when I realize that these modern times truly are an age of reason & enlightenment. This is one of those days.

Today I learned that the UK chip company (they call 'em crisps over there), Kettle Chips, have recently introduced an aged cheddar & beer flavored chip. That's right sports fans... beer flavored.

Alternating current, the automobile, the telephone. All were great discoveries, inventions, and innovations, but really, a beer flavored potato chip? My life is complete.