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.