Real-life duck hunting

I’ve always been fascinated by stories of the pioneers making their arduous way across the prairies during the 19^th century. Drawn by the promise of fertile land or mineral riches, they battled harsh weather, equipment failure, extreme fatigue and, in some cases hostile natives, to reach their destinations. As a product of the 20^th century, I never faced those kinds of challenges. I have an idea of what it must have been like, though. I’ve been a duck hunter.

The outdoor programs you see on television or commercially-prepared CDs make it seem that all waterfowl hunters have to do is leave their cozy camp, motor a short distance to a spacious, comfortable duck blind and then blast away as mallards, pintails, Canada geese and other migratory birds drop into the decoys by the dozens. Of course, the hunters on those shows rarely miss and, instead, slap each other on the back while a beautiful, non-slip retriever fetches their birds. Bull!

In the real world, duck hunting is very different, at least for those of us not privileged to be members of exclusive, high-dollar clubs with hired staffs. For most of us it’s more like what those folks on the frontier experienced – without marauding Indians, of course. And, the actual shooting of game is just a small part of the package. Getting there can be more exciting or, in some cases, traumatic than what comes after.

For example, while on a trip to Arkansas a few years ago, a couple of friends and I were being transported to a blind located on the White River. To get there we had to cross a rice field that would ordinarily have been ankle-deep in water. Because of flood conditions, however, it was closer to waist-deep. Our guide loaded one guy on the back of an Argo ATV and told me to “jump on the front.” He obviously didn’t understand that you don’t jump anywhere while wearing chest waders. Once I managed to clamber and pull myself up onto the little vehicle, I found that sitting on the cargo rack on the front was like perching atop a chain link fence.

We went bumping off across the flooded field in the dark with me holding on for dear life, feeling certain that parts of my anatomy were going to require major surgery when we returned home. It couldn’t get any worse, or so I thought. Suddenly the bumping stopped. But before I could say “ahh,” I got a sensation that we were moving sideways rather than forward. I wasn’t sure because it was hard to determine direction in the dark but, then, the driver started calling for a fellow on another, larger vehicle to give us a hand. We had reached a deep place in the field and the Argo, which was buoyant, was getting swept away by a stiff current. The moment was made especially poignant by the image of a group of hunters coming within a hair’s breadth of swamping a small john boat in another field the previous day. We were told later that the water where that happened was about 8 feet deep. I could just picture the story in my hometown newspaper – “Local Man Drowns in Arkansas Rice Field.” I could also imagine my wife’s reaction – “What a doofus!”

Obviously, we didn’t perish and I continued to hunt ducks in places closer to home. I discovered that one of my favorite spots could be accessed in a canoe paddled through a series of mosquito ditches that criss-cross a coastal marsh. It was a great way to get to where I wanted to hunt – larger craft can’t negotiate the narrow channels and my light paddle craft was protected from winds. The first time I used the route, I wound my way through the reeds until I reached bigger water where I set out my decoys and waylaid a few teal and widgeon. It was great. At least until the time arrived to make my way back to where I put in. What I found was that the narrow paths I had followed earlier split, crossed and went in all directions with no landmarks to follow. It was like being in a maze, complete with dead-ends where the channel was so narrow I had to paddle backwards to get back to where I had started. An hour or so and at least a few uttered oaths later, I lucked upon the right path and found my way out. I learned the value of the modern version of a bread crumb trail - few pieces of bright surveyor’s tape tied at strategic points along your route.

On another waterfowling trip, this one to a Jones County swamp, I learned the importance of checking the weather and paying attention to your surroundings. A friend and I drove his utility vehicle down a rough logging road and then an even rougher path that led into some flooded bottom land. When we stopped, we were in mud that came nearly up to the vehicle’s hubs. No problem, we thought, we had four-wheel drive. Besides, it was cold enough to freeze most areas of standing water and the ducks would be forced to our hunting spot where there was a little current. It was perfect. At least until it came time to head home. We hadn’t realized that it was also cold enough to freeze the mud around our vehicle’s tires. Four- wheel drive is useless when the four wheels can’t turn. It was like being locked in cement. We finally managed to wiggle and jerk enough to break free but there were some long, hard thoughts about the long, hard hike we were going to have if we couldn’t get out.

In retrospect, getting there and getting back has been one of the most memorable aspects of my duck hunting experiences over the years. It hasn’t always been fun but it has often been exciting. Like the time a small boat I was in swamped in neck-deep water in the Pamlico River; or when a friend and I ran through an unmarked net in that same stretch and spent the best part of a pre-dawn hour cutting ourselves free. There have been trips across Core Sound to a stake blind when the spray from the breaking waves were like having a fire hose turned on us, and easy mornings floating down the Neuse River in Johnston County, jump shooting mallards and wood ducks and watching squirrels romping in the tree tops.

In the process, I’ve learned a few things. One is that there is no excuse for not wearing a PFD when you’re on the water, especially during cold weather. Another is that there is no substitute for a good map, a compass, a waterproof container with dry clothes, and basic survival gear anytime a hunter leaves the dock. Most important, I’ve learned the veracity of the old saying, “Getting there can be half the fun.”