I learned this much about duck hunting: never, EVER give away the location of your favorite water hole. In this way, waterfowl hunting is a bit like fishing. I was sworn to secrecy as to the location of the pond. It was dark enough on our drive I might as well have been blindfolded. Combined with my ignorance of backcountry roads of the valley, the unnamed location is safe from any intruder I might inadvertently send its way. In addition, my duck hunters requested anonymity. So be it.
MISSION VALLEY — The hunt begins long before dawn, with a preparatory meal designed to fill one’s belly for the hours in the blind.
My host made us oatmeal: fast, and to the point. The quick bowl of cereal gave way to hurried layering in waterproof gear. Then it was off to the truck, load the dogs, and on to the pond, where headlights alone broke the blackness. It was “0’deer-thirty.” Silent as death.
There is beauty in rising before the light. Sounds lay low upon the earth, and the distant howl of a passing train is eerie as a coyote’s cry.
At the pond, the water was flat. A moonless sky held storm-filled clouds, that hid any fracture of light that otherwise would have come through. The ker-spalsh of decoys tossed into the water was muffled by the darkness. The dogs romped playfully, obviously excited for what lay ahead. I was the only one lost, uncertain as to what the eventual light would hold.
We finished the set up, and hunkered into the blind: a remarkably natural-looking enclosure. From the shore, it looked liked a cluster of reeds. From within, it was the secret hideout every child dreams of: You can’t see me! But I can see you…
We sat on a bench, raised off the water’s surface on a platform of planks. A gentle breeze fluttered the cattails. Vague grey overtook the squid-ink darkness. An edge of blue peered in.
The dogs were crouched at our feet, shaking in anticipation.
Above, the quarry: a flock of mallards quacked into weak light.
Watches were read. Charts consulted. Disappointment voiced.
Regulations state that, for non-tribal members, waterfowl shooting must wait until sunrise.
“Fifteen minutes yet.” We stayed silent. The ducks flew on.
Behind us, in the almost-darkness, a shot burned through. Was it someone ignoring the dawn-light start?
“Probably shooting at a coyote,” my companions said. I nodded.
The clouds above us tumbled through the sky: layers of drab grey, slate blue, and streaks of wind-blown black.
According to the hunters, rain and snow would be best.
“In bad weather, the ducks are moving all over.”
I had only before seen duck hunting through photos in magazines: glossy blue skies, full sun and saturated golds of autumn hills, the birds dazzling like jewels.
Reality, as they say, is a little different.
I was surprised by the glee evident in the men’s faces as the weather turned. “With duck hunting, that nastier the weather, the better it is.” I was told that during storms, fowl move off their sleeping ponds and seek more sheltered waters. That’s when hunters can have their play.
So as the breeze became a wind, and a teardrop rain began to fall, I was the only one thinking “cold.”
Yet amazingly, I wasn’t cold. The blind was well built, a shelter against the elements.
I’d been expecting a nylon pop-up tent, the kind a friend uses in big game hunting. This cattail-reed screen was entirely hand-made, so had all the advantages that only custom work can have: a place for gear. A place for feet. A place for friends who don’t happen to hunt — yet. It had to be sheltering, they said, because “for us, it’s not about killing ducks. It’s about sitting in your blind watching ducks come in.” And watch we did.
“It’s addicting, isn’t it,” I was asked by the man who’d been hunting most his life. He started at age 8. He’s been at it almost 50 years now. “It’s a sickness,” he says. We laugh.
“The best thing about duck hunting,” says the other, “is when big game season starts. ‘Cause then there’s nobody out here.”
I look baffled. Then the men tell me their sport is in decline.
It doesn’t have the hoopla of big game appeal. Not as many gadgets, perhaps. Not as macho an endeavor.
And, as one dedicated elk-hunting friend tells me, “after duck hunting, you have to eat the ducks.”
Elk-guy says that’s the worst of it.
“Ducks are greasy.”
I suggest barbecued kabobs as a way to utilize the birds. “I’ve never tried barbecuing one. Maybe I ought to try that,” he says, contemplating. But I know he prefers his elk.
Me, I’d rather eat birds. But where freezers are concerned, there is a possession limit on duck meat. While the daily take is up to seven ducks per person, there is a total maximum of 14 ducks allowed in your freezer. So if you don’t eat your birds, you can’t take any more. That could put a quick end to your waterfowl season.
The limit is designed to thin the population of male drakes, at least as far as mallards go.
In your daily allowance of seven birds, you can take only two mallard hens. As my duck-blind companions point out, that’s a great reason not to shoot at everything. If you drop two hens early, your day is pretty much over.
Other species, I’m told, are either less of a concern, population-wise, or have no color distinction between the genders. Widgeons and teal fall in this category.
There is no good way to tell, while the birds are in flight, the sex of the fowl. So there is no gender-based limit on these species, providing you stay under the total bag limit of seven.
Still, Elk-guy said, for him, duck hunting is about getting to shoot.
A lot.
“With big game you don’t get too many chances to shoot. With birds, you can shoot your gun all day.”
The gentlemen I was out with disagree.
“Shells are too damn expensive,” they say, “to miss too many.”
So they are careful in their aim. Careful in their shots. They will not fire if they might miss. Overhead, another flock goes by. I point my face to see, and am told “Duck!” — as in, take cover. The sport, they say, is where the term originated. And it has reason.
“You’re face is like a mirror,” they tell me. To the birds circling above, my uncamoflaged cheeks can reflect the morning light, acting as a beacon, warning them off. I tuck my head down, eager to see, but careful lest I ruin their shot.
A single blast calls out. A bird invariably crumples, folds its wings in upon itself and falls to the water’s surface. The dogs jump to do their work.
I am struck by a Labrador’s grace in securing fallen fowl. He gently lifts it from the water’s surface, from the golden grass at water’s edge, from the cold grey ground.
Soft of mouth as only a lab can be, he swims powerfully, playfully through the cold dark waters. Stands dripping in the blind, awaiting the command: “Drop.”
As birds are brought in, they are hung, necks wound through the wires. There is very little blood from the perfect shots. I marvel at that. I’ve slaughtered chickens and cleaned them out, having sliced their necks to kill them. This single-shot hunting, by far, seems more humane.
Before being shot, these birds were flying: slanting, soaring, a-wing — suddenly they are dropped in a quiet death. One shot, not even as loud as the quack of the duck calls. It’s almost peaceful.
It’s not what I’d imagined.
The hunters talk and chuckle as the day emerges. Hunger pangs us all. Why didn’t we think to bring thermoses, or snacks?
Still we do not freeze, though snow clouds roll down the Missions in a menacing way. Grey clouds swirl overhead.
The men use many different calls: a drake’s “buzzing” and hens’ loud quack. Imitation goose honks. Birds circle round to listen.
Ducks come in. They veer, lured by the calls emanating from this artificial clump of reeds.
I learn a drake calls with a trill, not at all the loud, flat quack that one thinks of as “duck.” I’m told that real mallard hens at feed will stop and cock their heads, call up to passing flocks, “GQWACK, GQWACK, GQWACK,” to summon the flyers down.
The artificial calls replicate those sounds, urging birds to come closer, within reach of a hunter’s aim. I try the calls, and find they take a lot of air, and skill, to produce anything remotely like a true quack or honk. My attempts sound more like a flattened bleat, and wouldn’t fool a duckling.
The men call out again; take aim, their faces alight. I join in the excitement, but forget to shoot. My tool is a camera, not a gun, and my aim is not as proficient.
I’ve tried shooting a shotgun before. I know, for me, it is not easy. Again I’m awed by the mastery of the hunters I am watching. They don’t waste shells. They shoot once, and hit a duck.
It’s a remarkable grace.
“Take a picture!” I am told. “Take a picture!”
And I have to stop absorbing the beauty of the scene to do my job.
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