Time Well Spent

The cold front did indeed arrive as forecasted last week. Thursday morning greeted me with a thin layer of the season's first snow along with a biting north wind, naturally, I couldn't get out of the office soon enough. I lasted until 11:30 which wasn't too bad, I actually got a lot done that morning. I spent the rest of that afternoon puddle jumping ducks, and when I say puddle jumping I really mean puddle jumping. We located several ducks, mainly green-winged teal with a small scattering of gadwall and even fewer mallards, along a shallow creek that remained relatively free of ice because of the slight current that trickled over the stream's timeless rocks and worn limestone slabs. The blustery north wind allowed me, despite my size 14 boots, to surreptitiously encroach upon likely ambush spots which would have been impossible on a calm day. The only problem was that sometimes I was more surprised than the ducks; a mallard drake let me walk within feet of him after I thought I had already compromised my position by tripping over a small, beaver-felled, sapling stump. The greenhead lurched from a small hole, kept open by a busy beaver- in the literal sense, and looked over its back momentarily as it quickly put real estate between us.

Further down the stream I took advantage of a twisted pile of driftwood, left high and dry on a steep cut bank by a past flood, and sat down on a large limb that was perfect for sitting, offering up a concave cradle to straddle for a spell that overlooked the clamoring creek. This particular area of the stream is heavily timbered with all varieties of hardwood species represented in differentiating sizes. However, there are a handful of Sycamores that tower over the bottom and stand sentry in gnarled arches over the creek; most are long dead but a few still endure with bark starkly colored in strange patterns of muted green and bleach white. The waning afternoon sunlight filtered down through the leafless menagerie of trees, casting long shadows onto the open forest floor and played on the creek's slow moving surface with intermittent bright shimmers of quivering white light. The tiny stream begged to be gawked at and loitered by as if it were some lazy, uneventful early summer's day instead of a brutally cold December afternoon. I held Nellie's black muzzle in my left hand and scratched her chin and then rubbed her cold ears.

It was then I heard an almost imperceptible whistle from behind me. I turned slowly, straining to peer over my left shoulder and through a knotted wad of tree roots that splayed out from the pile of driftwood and toward the stream. A single green-winged teal drake swam in and out of my window of view, a mere 10 to 15 yards away, periodically splashing water on himself and whistling to his unseen brethren. I patiently watched between the menacing wooden tentacles as another drake teal swam from behind a partially submerged log, that had been silted in place along an eroding gravel bar, and clumsily waddled onto land only for a moment before gracefully easing back into the water with a series of high-pitched whistles. It is times like these that all hunters cherish. To watch your chosen quarry engaging, without worry, in their natural habitat is like being in the know of some forgotten secret told only to those who take the time to look and listen to the beautiful world around them.

My eyes and body shifted instantaneously from casual dreamer to methodical hunter, a trait that separates us from other mammalian predators, for I doubt the mountain lion holds the white-tailed deer in high regard or that Alaskan grizzlies often wax nostalgic over their symbiotic relationship with spawning salmon. It's the respect given to our prey, and also to our fellow predators, that adds the human touch to the hunting experience. I quietly and slowly reach for my shotgun, keeping my head still and eyes fixed on the teal at all times. As I strained to pivot my hips and simultaneously mount my shotgun to my shoulder, the proud drake teal that I had been watching broke his contented, loafing pose to one of caution- neck stretched high, head twitching nervously while enigmatically attuned eyes peered with suspicion into the shadowed background around me. I had been made by the adept vision that all waterfowl share, an exclusive avian attribute that borders on the supernatural.

Realizing that my cover was blown, I intuitively moved my feet perpendicular to the pool of teal in order to position myself for a more ideal shot. The drake fervently protested to this movement by sounding alarmed whistles and anxiously darting on the sublime green water. I rose from my hunkered position and raised the stock of the shotgun until it nestled against my cheek in one balanced motion. The two visible teal leapt from the water followed closely by the 6 to 8 more that had remained hidden behind the gravel bar and half-sunken log. The first two crumpled over the stream with consecutive shots but the third shot failed to ruffle a single posterior feather on the quickly departing green-wings. Nellie brought the first drake back before I could reload my gun and had the second drake in my hand shortly thereafter. I killed two additional teal within a few more minutes, limiting out on the little buggers after hunting only a little over an hour.

The rest of day was spent watching over a small hole kept open by a miniscule current that meandered haphazardly until ultimately dumping out into Stockton lake. The remainder of the day lingered stubbornly and with little bird movement until the sun finally fell into a hidden abyss over a tall western hill. The last 30 minutes of daylight was spent shivering and watching large groups of ducks rise from the main lake in unorganized blobs, undulating in unison, form into broken lines and then vanish in the distant southern sky. By Friday morning Stockton was locked up with ice as temperatures struggled to stay above 0.

I hunted parts of the next 3 days (Friday, Saturday, & Sunday) with little to show for my efforts. I chose to hunt secluded holes along the rivers that had enough current flowing through them to keep them relatively free of ice. This is normally a recipe for success, but the water is abnormally low this year and not overtly attractive to the ducks. The majority of birds seemed to be flying to feed in surrounding clandestine row-crop fields throughout the morning from the areas kept open on the lake only by the sheer volume of waterfowl consistently roosting on the same area night after night. Some ducks would give you a look, but most had the same predetermined route to and from known "safe water" and food. My next step is to try and find these furtive fields that the ducks have been using and then to ask the landowner for hunting permission.

The weekend ended with one mallard, 5 green-winged teal, a handful of gadwall, and at least another half dozen missed opportunities and "shoulda-woulda-couldas." Sometimes it's not all about the amount of birds in the bag but the quality of time spent away from the office, away from the house, or simply put, away from it all. I went from having only duck hunted twice this year to chasing ducks for 4 days in a row during a significant migration. I may not have been able to stock my freezer full of duck meat, but I at least got to be out there doing what I love doing.