Marsh Moments No.1 (Rules)
The wind was stiff. Sustained out of the northwest at 15 mph with gusts near 25. A good day for flags, free-range plastic, and duck hunters. As I snugged my jacket collar around my neck gaiter, the man from Michigan snapped shut his 12 gauge over and under.
“So what are your rules?” he asked.
We had hunted together only once before, so it was thoughtful for him to ask about expectations. Generally, we are a picky bunch. Feet down, close in is preferred, but sometimes you just take what they give you.
“No rules. Take the shot if you think you got it. I pass more than I shoot, I like it to feel right, and sometimes I just like to watch the birds,” I replied. “And you?”
“I don’t shoot them on the water. I mean if they land and get up, I figure, if they made it to the decoys, they win.”
“Very honorable. How does the dog feel about that?”
“Dunno, haven’t asked her,” he said, a slight smile showing behind his bushy whiskers.
Not long after, two mallard drakes wheeled in hard and fast. I dropped one as the other landed in the decoys momentarily to my left, lifting upward as quickly as it arrived. Amidst the commotion, I heard the Michigander shoot.
“Guess I broke my own rule,” he muttered quietly as a few feathers floated down and away.
“That didn’t take long. Fine line between rules and guidelines, eh?”
“Yeah, forgot to mention the five-second rule. He didn’t stay long enough to earn immunity.”
Marsh Moments No. 2 (Sorcery)
A slow day waterfowl hunting affects the mind. The sky is pointlessly empty, yet somehow you think a conjuring will make a difference. Pour some coffee. Look at your phone. Eat a snack. Step into the brush to answer nature’s call. Scientifically analyzed anecdotal evidence tells us waterfowl are more likely to arrive during these magical moments of diversion. And so you act giving fair warning to your hunting partners with the obligatory incantation, “All right gang, get ready. I’m going to ( fill in the blank ). That’ll bring in the ducks.”
But the most powerful charm for summoning birds from the clouds involves the decoys. You’ve stared at them for an hour or two, but nothing has happened. You’ve silently analyzed the location of the sun, movement of the wind and ripples, presence of shadows, and you wonder how a pair of gadwall arrived undetected, landing 20 feet out when you weren’t looking. Your conclusion? It’s time to adjust the decoys.
You step out and wade into the spread, separating a pair of dekes that have found a way to annoyingly, rhythmically clunk together in the chop. You pick up another and toss it, and drag a few more to another location, all along thinking, how do I make them look natural, enticing, not too tight, not too loose? Your hunting partners watch and wordlessly judge your choices. And as you work, a half dozen greenheads cup and lock, and quickly peel off. No one can shoot because, well, you’re standing in the decoys. More evidence of duck marsh witchcraft, right? You wade back to the blind shaking your head, as one decoy follows your right leg like you have popcorn in your pocket, line wrapped around your boot. You pitch it back into the flock and it lands atop another where, of course, it immediately begins clunking against its mate. Back to the decoys you go.
Adjustment accomplished you settle back into position within the camo, you eye the newly configured deployment with satisfaction and wait. A few teal buzz the set and soon a pair of big ducks approach low enough for a shot. Someone squeezes the trigger. The dog awakens from his nap, launching to recover the wounded, and after a few rounds of hide and seek, he swims back to the blind, a confused bird clutched in his mouth. It’s been awhile since the dog had anything to do, forgets his training, and drops the bird in front of the blind as he shakes the water off. Everyone watches in horrified silence as the bird flies off. The dog watches too, unconcerned, and I’m suspicious the duck and dog came to some agreement on the swim back to the blind.
“Well, things have improved since I moved the decoys,” says the hunter from Michigan.
“They’d be better if you would’ve moved the right ones,” sniped a voice from the far end of the blind, words flying faster than #2s from an Auto-5.
“I’d be doing better if your dog didn’t let my bird fly away,” came the retort and volley.
“You’d be doing better if you killed the duck,” said the man from Arkansas. “Next time don’t just scare it.”
I hit my call a few times at an empty sky to trim the conversation back to civility. “Cease fire boys.”
And the watching and waiting resumes.
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