Consumed with self-pity, I am seeking sympathy, solace, support and compassion. At home I will find none. Understandably, my wife and daughters consider my pain to be completely self-inflicted. Hopefully other hunters will relate and maybe share their condolences to sooth my wounded pride and pocketbook.
Up until December 29, 2000, it had been an outstanding duck season. I had hunted a reasonable number of days (11), and killed a lot of ducks (42, I keep records). An average of 3.8 ducks per hunt is pretty hot stuff for our part of the country. But in the last six days my excellent average has plummeted, as has my bank account.
It started when I paid a visit to the Duck Capitol of Tennessee... Reelfoot Lake. In November we booked a hunt in a lavish blind at Reelfoot. By lavish I mean permanent electricity, refrigerator, stove, nearly 1,000 goose and duck decoys surrounding a pond kept free from ice by water pumped from a well. There's even a digital satellite dish hidden among the goose decoys to beam in every football game in the world during those "slow times."
The sad part is, the entire two days we hunted was a "slow time." Reelfoot had been frozen solid for nearly two weeks and as they are prone to do, the ducks had flown South. I think I pulled the trigger on two flocks in two days. It was an enjoyable experience... good food and good company... but costly and less-than-productive. I've learned that for duck hunters, the grass isn't always greener on the other side of the state.
But now I'm back on home turf so things are bound to get better... right?
New Year's Day we float the Sequatchie River. Emerald green water wrapped in a blanket of falling snow. It looks like a Hallmark Card, only without the ducks.
But the next day we've saved a secret hotspot on Guntersville Lake, a spring-fed pothole that stays free of ice, even on the coldest days. I've jumped ducks on it all season but never hunted there... saving it for just the right time. This is the day.
A normally dependable hunting partner oversleeps. And then he flattens a trailer tire rushing to our appointed spot. Once repaired, it's nearly breaking day when we get to the water.
No matter. We sat and listened to a grinding boat motor refusing to start until his Die-Hard, died hard!
We salvaged some pride when we killed a few ducks at a walk-in area. But much of my pride washed away when I stepped in the water to learn I'd cut a gaping hole in the crotch of my $150 waders. The flooded timber wasn't the only thing iced over that day.
Always a glutton for punishment, I just had to head for "the secret spot" again Wednesday morning. It's a mind-numbing fifteen degrees. I know it was mind numbing or surely I wouldn't have done what I did.
Two boats launched ahead of me. Their emerging boat trailers dragged water up the ramp, instantly turning the concrete into a sheet of ice.
I figured this out after I backed down, stepped from truck and found myself skiing toward the water. You know the look. You're halfway bent over trying stay balanced, all the while waving your arms wildly in circles thinking maybe if you can fly, you won't fall. I was wrong.
As I picked myself up from the icy concrete, I suspected this was going to be bad. But ever the optimist, I pushed the boat off. But thinking I'd never pull the truck up the ramp. I was right.
On about the third try, I got halfway up the ramp when the truck spun out and slid sideways towards the edge. I jammed on the brakes and she started backsliding, gaining momentum with every inch. When the waterline flashed by my door, my heart was in my throat. I was reaching for the door handle thinking I was about to see how long a ' 98 Ford Ranger would float.
Fortunately when the front tires slid into the water, they grabbed hold... but not before I felt the sunken boat trailer roll off the end of the concrete ramp. When my heart quit thumping, all I could hear was the gurgle of the submerged muffler exhaust aerating Guntersville Lake with carbon monoxide. I was stuck... dead in the water, literally.
It took some wandering around the parking lot to find a spot where the cell phone would work. I punched in "9-1-1," the only number I knew. He was pure professional on the phone, but I'm sure Ken in the Jackson County, AL Emergency Center laughed a little when he hung up.
Waiting on the wrecker, I sipped coffee and threw rocks at the ducks passing by against a picture-perfect sunrise. In the distance, gunfire from wiser hunters rolled up and down the river like salt in the wound.
When the wrecker arrived, one might think my woes would end? Au contraire!
The powerful winch eased the truck & trailer up the ice until leaf springs on the trailer hung on the concrete drop off. Like a good soldier, the winch ground forward. The submerged trailer finally popped free with a sickening crack, and among other things, I thought, "I gotta find me a new hobby."
The casualties... one leaf spring mount on the trailer, and the chrome step bumper of my truck. I drove home like a crippled duck... bent and broken both in body and spirit.
Reelfoot hunt... $400
New waders... $150
Wrecker...... $50
New bumper... $250
Trailer welds... $100
Guns, shells, dogs, decoys, etc.... $$$$$$$$$Duck hunting.... priceless!
The poor duck hunter in his blind, cold in front and wet behind.
It's seven hours since he's fed, and twenty since he's been to bed.
It cost him several hundred bucks, to hide himself from silly ducks.
Which presently 'ere day dawns dim, will rise and hide themselves from him.