Hunting milestones in a wet south wind

I am a competitive person. It's a drive that has propelled me to excellence in many endeavors. But in hunting, I've had to subdue that drive, because it's just not reasonable to think you can pick up a gun in middle age and shoot better than everyone around you, particularly people who've been hunting since they were kids.

So I beat back my competitiveness and set my expectations low.

But still ... whenever I go hunting, there's one dream I can't forget: For once, I want to get more ducks than Boyfriend. He started duck hunting just two years before I did so it seems like a modest enough wish. But for me, it's probably my equivalent of a little boy finally doing as well as his dad out in the field. It's proving myself.

Sunday was my chance.

We were supposed to go snipe hunting with Josh, but it looked like the weather would be lousy for snipe hunting and great for duck hunting - wet and windy. So we changed plans and drove up to the Delevan National Wildlife Refuge (a.k.a., The Happiest Place on Earth) and got in line to refill blinds vacated by folks who'd hunted in the morning.

It was the toughest wait I'd ever had there. The bulk of the storm was supposed to hit in the afternoon, and hunters - most of whom hadn't done well in the morning - were holding tight, waiting for the storm to shake up the ducks.

On the rare occasion when a hunter would drive up to check out for the day, all the hunters waiting in line would get out of their cars and trudge to the counter to find out what blind had been vacated. The answer was usually NONE. One hunter would leave, but three of his buddies would remain in the field.

Diane, my favorite Fish & Game employee at the check station, just shook her head when she'd see me walking up. "Everyone who wanted to go home and watch football has already left," she said. Even worse, we weren't hearing much shooting out there.

Finally, a blind opened up for real. Not what we wanted - a northern blind, and we knew the south blinds shoot best in south winds - but at least we could get in the field. And it was a blind I knew - it's where I went last January when I took my friend Hellen out for her very first duck hunt. We suited up and headed out.

Pushing a cart full of decoys out into the field, it took less than a minute for my hands to turn bright red from the wind, rain and cold, rendering my fingers almost useless. The front pocket of my waders began collecting water. I hacked, coughed and sneezed. Boy, were we in for some fun!

We set up decoys as quickly as possible - geese over there, teal right here, mallards and pintails over there, wind-driven motion decoys at the edges, looking like they were bombing in for a landing - then took up our positions in a circle of tule clumps.

It didn't take long for ducks to start giving us a look. A spoonie drake took a swing around our little island. I raised my gun, fired and hit him on the second shot.

And watched him sail straight away from me. Too far for a third "insurance" shot. Straight for a thick batch of tules and grass along a road. Shit.

I heaved out of my spot and walked as fast as I could through the water to get to him before he made it to cover. Spoonies - maligned as they are - are the best at escaping when you've only wounded them. At 80 yards, I fired a shot at him on the water, hoping something would hit and stop him.

But it didn't. He dove into the grass. I knew I was screwed, but I huffed and puffed to the place where I'd last seen him, trudged through the grass in futility and headed back to the blind empty handed.

I hate losing ducks. I know nature will make use of them - I'm sure this boy has already become a meal for a coyote. But I don't inflict pain on animals lightly - I want their deaths to be quick.

Back at the blind, the ducks began working again. Another spoonie drake whizzed overhead, flying the same line as the one I'd shot.

"Duck! Duck!" Boyfriend said urgently. He couldn't shoot because he would've come too close to me.

"No way," I said. "That's the exact same flight path that cost me the last one."

A group of teal came though and my gun strap snagged on my duck call laniard, keeping me from mounting the gun properly, so I never got off a shot. Another spoonie drake came overhead and I went to fire, only to be foiled by the safety. Ridiculous! And daylight - such as it was - was burning quickly.

Finally a single teal hen whizzed around our island on a flight path that wouldn't automatically send her sailing into the tules.

Boom!

Missed.

Boom!

Hit, but not well - she was faltering, but her wings were out and she was sailing.

Click!

What the ... ?

Gun jammed - the third shell hadn't made it to the chamber. Crap.

Boyfriend tried to back me up, but missed. The teal sailed straight to the tules, about 100 yards away. I leapt out of my position and charged toward her, knowing there was no way in hell. She quickly hid in tules and was long gone by the time I got there.

That's a milestone, I thought to myself on the walk back. I've never lost two ducks in one hunt.

When I got back to our island, Boyfriend had taken my spot, which was good, because all the ducks were flying that way, and it was his turn to get a little shooting in. Sure enough, another spoonie drake came through, and he hit it.

This one, too, sailed a good distance, but didn't land close to any tules. Boyfriend got him and brought him back - a really lovely looking bird. We love spoonies, because the drakes have beautiful plumage, and where we hunt, they taste fine, rice-fattened little buggers that they are.

I was enjoying my new position on the island as well, because I'd found a nice spot where my face was well-concealed by tules, but I could still see pretty well. The birds were moving quite a bit because the hunters around us had left, so the ducks were a little less cautious. I was hitting my gadwall call, which I love, because hardly anyone on the refuge ever uses one, and the ducks were really responding to it. Most of the birds were going Boyfriend's way, but at one point, I did see three ruddy ducks zooming my way, low over the water.

Coming, coming, coming ... would they turn?

Not until last minute. I stood, raised my gun, fired, fired again - lead the bird more, Holly, lead the bird! - and then clicked. The gun had jammed again.

It was 10 minutes until sunset would signal the end of shoot time, and I knew that would probably be my last great shot opportunity. As the minutes ticked away, I blew that gadwall call with gusto, but nothing came in again. The alarm on my watch beeped, indicating that the sun had officially set behind the dense cloud cover. The hunt was over. We gathered up our decoys and headed back to our car.

At least we had one bird in hand, we told ourselves as we scraped the mud off our decoy cart, peeled off our wet clothing and cranked the heat in the car as high as it would go.

Back at home, I poured a glass of Scotch and cleaned my weather-beaten gun, peering into the receiver to discern what might be preventing that vital third shot from loading. Couldn't see anything, but I cleaned it more thoroughly than usual.

Later in the evening, when Boyfriend and I were reflecting on the hunt, he spoke up suddenly and brightly. "Hey, that was the first time you got more ducks than I did!"

Well, I'll be damned - he was right. It just wasn't quite the glorious event that I'd hoped for.

© Holly A. Heyser 2008