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DUCKS THE HARD WAY
Back before politicians banned lead shot, I loved to hunt ducks. Seeing the sun rise or set over a marsh is special. All those colors. The sound of the water. Rustling grass. Wind. The scenery alone was worth the trip. When it wasn't raining or snowing. Yet, those always seemed to be the best times to hunt. Ducks were moving. That was exciting. Sitting in a blind with your dog. For I learned, the hard way, how important it was to have a dog. Mine was Black. She was a lab. Whether we were in a blind or a boat, she would just quiver with excitement when she saw ducks. Any kind of ducks. And, therein emerged another problem. It got so I needed a rule book. All those combinations. Points. Limits. I didn't know what to shoot. And, about then, along came the lead shot ban.
By that time, I'd managed to get some really nice shotguns. I didn't want to shoot the "new" steel shot through them. So, I threw the rule book away, sold my little 12 foot flat bottom boat, the oars and 3 horse motor. I became an upland bird hunter. No more loading and unloading that boat off the supports on top of my car. No more hauling the motor. All those decoys. Waders. I took a lot of stuff along to hunt ducks. By comparison, upland bird hunting just seemed like a nice walk in the country.
Now, as I look back, I can still see those magnificent skies. Morning and evening. Smell the marsh. Hear the sounds of ducks in the air. Splashing down. Watching Black break skim ice to nudge a decoy into what she thought was a better spot. Leaning against me in the doldrums, looking up to get her ears rubbed. I was always amazed at her ability to find and retrieve the ducks I shot. Some were truely miracles.
In the early days, before Black and all the stuff I thought I needed, I jump shot ducks. Along canals. Deep and wide. Just me and a second hand shotgun. It was a 12 gauge 3 shot Remington Sportsman with a polychoke that had spent most of its life, before I got it, behind a farmers back door.
I knew that farmer. As a kid I would walk out to his place. He paid 75 cents an hour to hoe his row crops. Load bails of hay onto a wagon. That was work. He threw in lunch. If he only knew, I would have worked for him just to get that lunch. I didn't know people ate like that. His cook made our crew roast beef. Mashed potatoes. Gravy. Green beans. Milk. Bread. Butter. Pie. On week days! For lunch! It was great.
Years later, when I was in college, I went to see him. We made a trade. I gave him my 20 gauge single shot and $50. That single shot was my first shotgun. By the time I got it, several other people had owned it. Came to me as a Christmas present. Plastic stock and fore end. I loved the freedom it gave me to hunt. Hated the way it looked. Today, it would be in vogue. Back then, I wanted wood. One of my pals and I refinished the stock and fore end of that Sportsman. Sanding it. Rubbing it with a coke bottle. Getting it smooth. Had to be careful. Neither of us knew how to checker so we refinished around the checkering. Looked good. To us.
So, one cold winter day, snow blowing, I parked my car along side a gravel road. By then I had a teaching and coaching job. This was a good outlet. A place to get away. Be alone. Hunt my dinner. I walked a mile or so. Nothing. Should be something. This canal connects the farm fields to the big bay. Saginaw Bay. Starting to get dark. Then I heard them. Three mallards. Flying from my left to right. In a line. I'd read somewhere that you should shoot the duck furthest back in a situation like this. So, pow. Last duck in the line hits the water. Pow. Middle duck hits the water. Pow. Lead duck hits the water. Wow. A triple. Three shots. Three ducks. First time.
Problem. Two of the three ducks have drifted over to the other side of the canal. No bridge. No dog. I picked up the one duck that had drifted to my side. Beautiful. Brilliant colors. A mallard really is a good looking duck. Tasty too. A little water in one of those big old dark blue roasters. You've seen 'em. The ones with the white speckles. A little rice. Put it in the oven. Clean the shotgun. Put stuff away. Take a shower. Kitchen all warm. Smelling good. Come on, snap out of it, you're daydreaming again.
It's not warm here. It's cold. Snowing. Getting dark. Skim of ice along the shore. One of those peak moments they talk about has arrived. Do you do what's right? Even if it's stupid?
Yup, you do. Off comes my coat. The boots. Wool pants. Hat. Leave the socks and long underwear on. Too cold to edge my way in to that freezing water. Half lean. Half dive. Bright lights go off in my head. That water is COLD! OK. Swim. Can't be more than 30 yards. Made it. Got both ducks now. Hmmmmmm. Didn't think this one through did I? Heck, if I'd thought it through, I wouldn't be here!
OK. Two hands. Two ducks. One in each hand. I can do this. Sure seems to be a long way back. Guess its the darkness. Freezing. Floundering along. This long underwear is getting heavy. Maybe I should have taken it off. Trying to swim with a big mallard in each hand. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't make it. Then, just as I was about to go underwater from shear fatigue, my numb feet sank into some mud. I was almost there. Scramble up that steep bank. Pull on my pants. Coat. Hat. Boots. Pick up my shotgun. No gloves. That's a mistake. Start hiking through the dark. Blowing snow. Can't feel my feet. Actually, it's kind of pretty out here. That swirling snow. Sort of makes me feel a little bit dizzy though. That wind is like a knife. Cutting into me. Right through my coat. Everything's wet.
In Chicago, when the wind blew like this, people said: "The hawk is flying tonight". Used to go to Chicago. The south side. Buy booze. Take it to Saginaw. Sell it. Pay for the trip. Sometimes my cousin would drive all the way out to Colorado. Fill a uhaul trailer with Coors beer. Bring it back. Sell it. That's what you do when you have family in the bar business. Seeing that business up close is one of the reasons I'm not a drinker. Never saw booze make anybody's life better. Yet, a stiff shot of something right now might do me some good. Day dreaming again. Got to stop that. Don't want to start wandering around. Get lost in this swirling snow.
Wish I could feel my feet. Walking sort of stiff legged through all this snow. No big deal. I've been tired before. College. Sports. In the ring, as a boxer. In stadiums, as a football player. Got to remember, times like this, it's a head thing. More than a body thing. You do what you gotta do. Dying is easy. It's the living that takes some effort. OK. Here's the car. Made it. Come on fingers. Not so easy getting out keys, unlocking a door and starting a car when your hands are so cold and stiff that you can't feel 'em.
By the time I get home, I'm sort of warm. Cleaned one of the mallards, hung the other two in the garage. They will keep until tomorrow. In the kitchen now. Turn on the oven. Get out that old blue and white speckled roaster. Add some water. Dump in a couple handfuls of rice. Put it in the oven. Get in the tub. Soak in that good hot water. Then a shower. Cloths in the washing machine. All of 'em. Cold cycles to get the muck out. Short spin in the dryer. Not too long. Starting to smell good in here! Hang the pants and coat up. Let 'em dry slow. Better clean my shotgun. Can't ask for it to do more than it did. Three shots. Three ducks.
Once, many years later, on a private ranch in Montana, because of the kindness of my guide, the owner, who also had a tag and asked me to fill it for him, I was able to double on turkeys. Never figured out which was better: A triple on ducks or a double on turkeys. I think I've tripled on quail. I know I've doubled on pheasants. Never doubled on doves or sharp tails. I have doubled on grouse. Singles. Doubles. Triples. They're all good. I guess, at times, it comes down to instinct. With the ducks, those were planned and aimed shots. Same with the turkeys. The quail and grouse: Pure instinct. Point and shoot. Move from one blur to another to another. Good thing they limit how many shells you can carry in a shotgun these days. I've been so in tune with my shotgun, sometimes, I think I could shoot as many birds as I had shells. It's not a thinking process. It's a reaction process. Like the time I swung and shot that mountain lion in the ear. I don't even remember seeing that lion in my scope. Guess it comes if your gun fits you and you practice enough. Hunting and shooting. Sometimes you shoot good. Sometimes you don't. That's part of what makes it interesting.
Anyway, back to that duck. The one in the oven. Smelling good. Before I went to bed late that night, I ate the whole duck! And all the rice. Greasy but good. I'd worked up an appetite. And, I'd learned to carry gloves.
Once I got Black, my lab partner, the boat, oars and motor life got easy. It took awhile to get cumbersome. And we hunted ducks. Lot's of ducks. Saginaw Bay. Houghton Lake. Every river we could get that little 12 foot boat into. On some days the fall colors were so bright and beautiful they brought tears to my eyes. I still have a picture in my head of Black sitting in front of a white birch tree. Colored leaves on the ground. In the trees behind her. Our boat pulled up along the bank of some long forgotten river. That old Remington Sportsman 12 gauge leaning against the birch tree. Big open mouth tongue lolling grin on Black's face. A sack lunch. Sharing the food. That's as good as it ever has to get for me to be happy.
Other days meandering along the open water trails in a marsh off the lake. Lazy. Just looking around. Exploring. Doing what you can't do with big boats. Those were good days. Years. Sometimes we shot ducks. Sometimes we didn't. Good feeling. Out with your boat, dog and shotgun.
Now, I don't hunt ducks.
Well, there was one exception. Julie, my German Shorthair Pointer, at that time, was sick. Lymphatic cancer. We were doing the chemo therapy but we were still hunting. She loved to hunt. One day we were upland bird hunting, working along some railroad tracks. Got into a marshy area. She froze on point. One of her last. I decided to take whatever she flushed. She deserved it. A mallard exploded out of the grass and water. One shot from my Model 21 Winchester brought it down.
Julie dove into the water, muck and grass. She had a tussle with that duck. I hadn't shot it as well as I should have. Might have been some tears in the way. Finally, with great pride and dignity, Julie presented the mallard to me. She even let me hug her. And that took some want to because she was covered with muck! I wiped her off as best I could and we headed home. I ran a bath. We both got in. Laid down side by side in the tub. She put her head on my shoulder. Sighed. Relaxed. We took a good soak. Both of us. Then a shower. Oh, did I mention, that duck went into a roaster. A big old dark blue one with white speckles on it. A little water. A little rice. Put it in the oven. By the time we got clean and the Model 21 got clean it was starting to smell pretty good in our little apartment.
And, as upland bird hunters, we were lucky, we didn't get arrested for shooting a duck with lead shot.
That was our last game bird, for Julie and I. She died that winter. With calm dignity. Looking right into my eyes. She's buried on a little hill. Her grave covered with rocks. Under a big shady pine tree. Johanna, my current German Shorthair Pointer, and I go there quite often. Pay our respects. Julie earned it. She was a bird dog. A true partner in every sense of the word.
Of all the ducks I've taken, the only ones I really remember anymore are the ones that came to me the hard way.
Some were physically hard.
Others, emotionally hard.
CJ
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