Fowl Play

When the alarm goes off at 4:30a.m I have a hard time making it out of the house before 5. Honestly, putting on pants is difficult. The simple act of dressing yourself can become as mentally taxing as touching your nose during a sobriety test. As I‘m waiting for the coffee to brew, I proceed down the duck hunting checklist in my head: Decoys, check. Kayak, check. Kayak paddle, check. Flashlight, check. Gun, check. Bullets, check. Oh sh@#! where are my duck calls? In my car. Ok. Check. If I were smart, I’d drink the coffee first.

The morning commute can be stressful. After repeating the duck hunting checklist in my head several times, my intestinal tract feels the effect of it. Usually its nerves. I’m excited and ready to hit the water. But this morning, its not. And TP didn’t make the checklist. Thankfully, I keep a emergency stash of moist towelettes in my glove compartment. I’m meeting my uncle Wayne at a bridge off the highway where we can slip into a creek with our kayaks. After the congenial, “Good mornings”, I heed mother nature’s call underneath the bridge and continue my mental checklist: Unemployed, Check. Squatting underneath a bridge, Check. If I could trade my car in for a grocery cart full of empty cans, I could complete the tri-fecta. Almost Check.

With my anxiety left behind me, I paddle down the creek. The morning’s cold temperature leaves a heavy fog over the water that renders my headlamp useless. Every direction I look, a wall of white blinds my vision. I turn it off. My only hope is to follow the tunnel of cypress and oak trees against the starlight sky. My original game plan was to hunt the flooded timber next to a beaver dam a quarter mile down the creek, but after running into numerous stumps and wrong turns, I decide to set up at the closest convenient patch of open water. A sudden splash of a beaver slapping its tail against the water tells me I’m close enough.

I scatter my decoys out as if I could see what I was doing and tuck up against the bank. As the fog slowly recedes and first light trickles through the trees, I notice that most of my decoys have drifted towards the bank and a single lonely decoy sways in the current in the middle of the creek. Not my best spread. Suddenly, one of the clustered decoys disappears underwater, then bobs back up to the surface. The others float nervously and one tries swimming away. It reminds me of a scene from Jaws. Not fooled by this early morning puppet show, I worry about who’s pulling the strings.


A Beaver Trap: New slang for bad spread of decoys

Its been un-seasonably warm, and not unlikely for gators to still be lurking around. And if a gator gets himself wrapped up in my decoy lines, I’m cutting my losses. I enjoy my appendages. They are very helpful in an array of tasks, such as paddling out of the creek and driving home. The obviously tangled decoys stop moving. A slick furry head breaks the water’s surface and heads towards the middle of the creek. The beaver slaps his tail in anger at the sight of another decoy. I laugh. Sorry about that buddy.

Still laughing about my beaver trap, a half dozen wood ducks set down to the left on the opposite bank, out of range. Great. Four more follow suit and set down off to the right, out of range. The fog has lifted off the water to mid treeline, camouflaging the ducks approach, and putting them right on top of me before I can realize what was going on. Of course, if I would have tucked up against the opposite bank, I would have had shots at both groups. I hear Wayne shoot in the distance. One of the ducks flutters but returns to the water after the whole group remains calm and un-impressed. At least someone is getting shots. The allure of my lifeless decoys wears off as one group swims down the creek towards the flooded timber.
Apparently there is a morning buffet down the creek and everyone is waiting in to get in. Since my decoys stopped swimming minutes ago, three more woodies cut in line and flush towards the flooded timber. No shots. Really? I’m surrounded by ducks and have yet to pull the trigger. The last three flush and I swing on the group, zeroing in on the trailer. I pull the trigger. He crumples mid-air. And before I can grab my paddle to retrieve my duck, another drake hidden against the bank flushes. He drops on my second shot. The whole scene unfolds like a doorbuster on Black Friday with pepper spray. I usually don’t shoot this well, so I decide to quit while I’m ahead, plus I’m down to my last three duck loads.

The legal limit on wood ducks is three. But hunting resident ducks takes restraint. Three ducks, twice a week adds up pretty quick, and it doesn’t take too much pressure to shoot out your favorite honey hole. Two birds once a week is a better strategy. A big part of being a responsible sportsman is knowing your resource. What’s wrong with ending the morning with a double on woodies anyway?