Ross Malone on an earlier hunt this year when "the plan came together." click photo to enlarge
photo by Richard Simms
I love it when a plan comes together, especially when the plan involves killing ducks.
During the first 30 minutes of legal shooting time however, the plan looked poor.
It was a one-mile walk through weeds and muck to the place where Ross Malone and I had seen ducks the day before.
The ducks had no doubt fed there, mostly undisturbed and we were certain the mix of mallards and gadwalls would fall into the decoys like the shooting stars that rocketed through the atmosphere.
We were wrong. The ducks that circled overhead at shooting time were wary birds, refusing to cup their wings and do that magical dance that waterfowlers live for. We watched and wondered what we were doing wrong.
I also wondered how I managed to cleanly miss the lone gadwall that did a slip-slide over the decoys.
A few moments later a pair of greenwing teal flitted across the water like butterflies, settling onto the water 20 yards away, on my side.
I was stricken by a bolt of morality and refused to shoot the birds on the water.
"Hey duck," I yelled twice before they bolted toward the heavens, promptly disappearing against the backdrop of the trees. Just as promptly I missed again.
Oh, the agony!
A short while later yet another lone gadwall slid beneath the treetops across the decoys. Malone, understanding the pain of two clean misses, wanted me to regain my confidence and once again deferred the shot. Or he was pouring a cup of coffee. I'm not sure which.
Once again, I pulled the trigger with gun pointed at nothing but empty air.
I am quite sore today -- first from the long, mucky walk to and fro, second, from banging my head against the nearest tree. And now perhaps, you'll understand why the day started poorly for me.
I gave up, returning the privilege to shoot first to Malone. With his first shot, a greenwing teal died. A short while later another pair of gads sailed across the decoys. On the second pass, wracked with indecision over three previous misses, I thought they were too far out. Malone killed them both.
On the outside, I was proud for him. On the inside, the knot in my stomach grew a little tighter.
The burst of early morning activity died. Malone is halfway to a limit. I'm duckless and worried if I brought enough ammo.
Malone is on his cell phone sharing the first of several duck reports of the day when the next pair of gads started to work.
They were shy and I much feared they would do what I call "the gadwall shuffle" -- work the decoys hard and then ultimately slide and land 100 yards away. On the telephone, Malone is providing a blow-by-blow account of the action to his friend.
On the second pass I figured I better try to break my curse. The gun settled on my shoulder and the duck started to peel off. I swung through, gained what I prayed was an appropriate lead and let the steel fly.
Malone let out a war whoop when the bird crumpled. He was afraid he might have hurt his friend's ear -- that is until he realized he'd hung up on him somewhere during the excitement.
My morning curse broken.
The day continued -- not massive numbers of ducks, but just enough to keep hope alive. Slowly but surely the duck carrier sagged lower with the weight of six gadwalls and two greenwing teal.
We were standing knee-deep in swamp water with absolutely no place to sit down and rest. Malone's dog was marginally comfortable on the treestand her master had kindly hauled into the swamp for her. I pondered on kicking the dog out, taking over the treestand. I decided it would be rude to do that to another man's dog.
Especially since Malone's waders had given up the ghost and cold swamp water poured into his left boot. In spite of it all, at noon we discussed it and decided that we really wanted to find out if there would be an "afternoon flight." We were there for the ride.
At 12:30 a pair did "the gadwall shuffle" we hate so much -- and then the blue skies went dead.
At 1:30 Malone made the dog share the treestand. I waded to a beaver lodge and built me a nest where I could lay down and "just rest my eyes." I don't have any idea what happened between 1:30 and 3:00, except perhaps, there was one nervous beaver in the world?
At 4:00 (for the time zone we were in), there were still duckless skies and we feared the "afternoon flight" was going to be non-existent. Malone's hunting guide said that sunset was at 4:58. My feet ached and I had not hauled enough food nor drink into the swamp for suitable daylong sustenance.
At 4:15 I gave the decoy jerk string a good tug or two to put ripples on the water. Seconds later I saw 7 ducks falling from the wispy clouds.
You've seen them like this before. All you can see is a little round dot with two horizontal lines on each side. The horizontal lines are not moving. That, and the round dots are a clear sign that these ducks are pointed directly at you with wings locked like dive bombers. They may be 1,000 yards away, maybe even 2,000. It is clear however, that your place in the swamp is their destination.
They closed the yards in seconds making one high pass over the decoys. They are chattering thier "gadwall-talk," we hope communicating to the decoys below that "ready or not, here we come." The flock circles behind us in a tight-knit bunch, rocking and rolling to test the breeze. I'm sure Malone and I both whispered silent prayers. They hooked from the left, fell across the trees and three of the seven birds settled out of the flock.
Although I occasionally question it, we usually hunt by the philosophy "a bird in the hand is worth ten still circling." Three birds in the hand however, and there are "no questions asked."
Three gunshots later three gadwalls are spiraling or tumbling to the water. I got the drop on Malone and managed to squeeze off the first two shots, closing my day with a double -- far, far better than I had started the day.
With one duck needed for a limit, Malone and I watched the sun drop toward the horizon.
In the remaining few minutes we were praying for some mallards returning to the swamp to roost. We felt our duck carrier desperately needed "some color."
Two times we thought our wishes would come true as small groups of mallards circled the swamp. It was clear however, that they weren't buying what we were selling.
Malone checked his watch and it was 4:55 - three minutes to go. Fifteen seconds later he said, "I hear gadwalls."
It took a while to pick them up. By then it was easy to see, they were talking to us. One circle, two circles, three circles and hearts pounded from the day's final dose of adrenalin.
I don't really understand why it seems so important to "kill a limit." In my 35 years of duck hunting I've seen daily limits go from two ducks to ten ducks, and all points in-between. It matters not which it is, but every hunter has an innate, almost primal urge, to "kill a limit."
This is my interpretation: When you can tell your buddies that "I killed a limit," it is actually a tactful way of saying, "I am such a hell of a hunter that I killed six (or whatever the limit is at the time), and I could have killed a whole lot more but the law wouldn't let me!"
I have always heard that as hunters grow older, like me, the desire to "kill a limit" subsides. That you grow to appreciate the wonders of nature and the importance of camaraderie much more than the "blood lust."
As I have just recently passed "the Big 5-0," I can tell you that is true, to an extent. But some "blood lust" lives in all of us, especially when you've spent ten full hours standing in a swamp, no place to sit down, and relatively little to eat or drink. Malone and I desperately wanted these gadwalls to make the necessary mistake.
On the third pass one of them did. They were all relatively close, but one in particular dropped well below the rest. Wings backpedaled a little bit, and then the drake "gray duck" sailed over the decoys, threatening a "gadwall shuffle."
Malone and his Browning insured that this gadwall would "shuffle no more." As the 12th duck of the day hit the water, Malone checked his watch. It was one minute before legal sunset. There were high 5's all around, even for Sam the retriever who was proud to have yet one more reason to leap from the treestand.
In the West the sky glowed orange and purple. The color had long been replaced with twinkling stars by the time we hauled decoys and 20-plus pounds of ducks back to the boat.
"It was "a man's duck hunt" proving that even in the Tennessee Valley's lean years, limits can be had. Forget the official counts that tell you how many thousands; tens of thousands, or millions of ducks might be in the area, in the state, or in the flyway.
All you need are six. And if you are willing stand in the swamp long enough, the plan might come together.