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Duck
Hunters
By T.R. Michels, Trinity Mountain Outdoors
 Each
fall as the cold descends upon the northern lands
many species of waterfowl begin their migration south
to warmer climates. Duck hunters also begin their
yearly migration. They leave their everyday lives
as farmers, laborers, clerks, doctors, lawyers, businessmen
and the thousands of other jobs that occupy their
lives for long hours. They leave behind their normal
existence to experience a renewal of their mind and
spirit. They gather together boats, canoes, waders,
camouflage clothing, decoys, calls, guns, shells,
thermos bottles and dogs, and load them into all manner
of vehicles. Then they take to the backroads that
lead to the sloughs, ponds, lakes, streams rivers
and backwaters where ducks and geese feed and rest.
They drive through the early morning darkness, the
headlights of the vehicles leading the way to their
destination. Once they arrive they unload the carefully
stowed gear and often reload it in the watercraft
and launch it onto the water. The excitement begins
to build. The entry to the water is like opening a
door to another world. All the pressures and worries
are forgotten as thoughts of where to setup and how
to place the decoys occupy the hunter's minds. The
decoys are eventually put out and the hunters retire
to a stand of brush, grass, cattails or a blind to
await the appearance of dawn and the coming of the
ducks. As the hunters check their guns and pour a
steaming cup of hot coffee a hen mallard quacks lazily
across the water; quack, quack, quack, quack. Somewhere
a coot splashes in the water, and a muskrat swims
slowly by.
As the first light of dawn approaches a flock
of Wood Ducks swings overhead, whistling as they fly;
wheet, wheet, wheet. If it is late in the year and
conditions are right the hunters may hear the rush
of wings as a flight of bluebills passes by, sounding
more like a jet than a flock of ducks. On special
late season days there is the lonely cry of the swans
as they move south; whoo, whoo, whoo. Or maybe the
guttural sounds of a flock of Sandhill Cranes. The
Marsh Wrens begin to flit in the grass or cattails,
and occasionally, an owl can be heard. Often there
are the sounds of blackbirds and grackles as they
stream by in their seemingly endless flocks, stretching
in waves across the sky. The noise blocks out all
other sounds as the birds call incessantly.
The hunters peer intently through the cloud of birds,
knowing that a flock of teal or mallards may slip
in unnoticed, and there, beneath the blackbirds, is
a trio of Bluewing Teal. The hunters crouch low, avoiding
the wary eyes of the ducks. They reach for their calls
and try to coax the birds in. For a while there is
the sound of calling. The teal buzz the decoys once,
twice, and then bank into the wind and out of sight,
hurtling past like miniature fighter planes. But,
as if the calling has attracted more ducks, a flock
of Mallards appears, and before the hunters can relax,
the birds begin to descend from the sky. Again the
hunters crouch low, cupping their calls and guns.
This time the ducks respond without hesitation and
head for the "hole" in the decoy spread.
The hunters wait in anticipation as the flock gets
closer, hoping they come into range. They can see
the bright green of the drake's heads as the sun glints
off their iridescent plumage. The ducks get closer
until the hunters see their red feet as the birds
cup their wings and extend themselves to land. Unable
to wait any longer the hunters rise up, shoulder their
guns and barely feel the recoil as the concussion
of the shells pounds the air. Two of the greenheads
fold and fall, splashing as they land on the water.
The remainder of the flock speeds away into the sun,
and once again there is a stillness in the air.
Then the black Labrador leaves the blind, front legs
reaching out as he leaps into the water with a splash.
The hunters talk about how the ducks came in, and
how they lead them before firing. They talk excitedly,
not thinking about their lives, the news, work or
the urgency of civilization. For the time being the
hustle and bustle, the stress of life is forgotten.
The only thing on the minds of the hunters is enjoying
these brief hours spent with friends who understand
and enjoy the time spent on the water.
These duck hunters are a strange breed, almost despising
the warm beautiful days of autumn. Instead they look
forward to the miserable days. They embrace stormy
weather with cold winds and biting sleet, rain or
snow. They revel in frozen oar locks, ropes and hands.
Ice covered decoys, clothing and equipment is expected
and spoken of proudly as they recount their hunts,
because others of their like know and understand that
this type of weather brings the ducks, keeps them
flying low, and willing to come to the decoys and
the call. It's almost as if the hunter who has not
gotten wet, cold, frozen and gone home empty handed
has not earned his stripes. He has not paid his dues
in the duck blind. He has not earned the right to
be called a duck hunter until he has spent long hours
in a blind waiting for the ducks to fly. Until he
has endured and withstood the weather, and gone home
countless times, after many hours, without even firing
a shell, he is not a duck hunter.
The duck blind is the proving ground; the long hours
and harsh weather the test; the water soaked clothing,
and the frozen cheeks and toes the badge of honor;
the experience and endurance the essence of memories.
The duck blind is where hunters of all ages and backgrounds
pit their stamina, courage and will against, not the
ducks, but nature. Even though it is not a place for
the weak of heart, the impatient, or those frail of
body, it is a place where the young, the old and even
the disabled venture in search of the experience.
The duck blind cannot be about shooting ducks, for
there are too many times when no ducks are shot, no
ducks are even seen, for shooting to be all that matters.
The duck blind is a place to get away, if only for
a few hours. The hunt is a short vacation, a respite
from everyday life. It is a place to spend time with
a wife, husband, son, daughter or hunting partner.
It is a place to relax, unwind and enjoy the beauty
of nature and the environment that God created. The
duck blind is something only a duck hunter can understand.
This article is from the book Musings
and Memories; A Hunters Thoughts by T.R. Michels.
T.R. Michels is a nationally recognized
game researcher/wildlife behaviorist, outdoor writer
and speaker. He is the author of the Whitetail, Elk,
Duck & Goose, and Turkey Addict's Manuals. His
latest products are Hunting the Whitetail Rut Phases,
the Complete Whitetail Addict's Manual, the 2005 Revised
Edition of the Elk Addict's Manual; and the 2005 Revised
Edition of the Duck & Goose Addict's Manual. For
a catalog of books and other hunting products contact:
T.R. Michels, Trinity Mountain Outdoors,
E-mail:TRMichels@yahoo.com ,
Web Site: www.TRMichels.com
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