The story of my first duck ever

Today is the anniversary of getting my first duck ever, and much to the chagrin of my boyfriend, I'm going to share the story with you.

For those who are not hunters, or who are not stout of heart, or who lack a sense of dark humor, you might want to hit the "back" button on your browser and skip this post.

Still reading? OK, it went like this...

My first duck ever

I got my first hunting license several weeks into the 2006-07 waterfowl season, which means I started duck hunting in our early November slump. The resident young-of-the-year ducks were either educated about hunters or in someone's freezer already, and there were days when we didn't see anything but hawks and Southwest Airlines flying over the flooded rice fields we hunted north of downtown Sacramento.

But one Wednesday, a stiff north wind came in. I mean a stiff one - 25-30 mph gusts, and cold (by Northern California standards, anyway). Duck hunters know what that means - it pushes new ducks down the state, and new ducks don't know where we lie in wait for them.

So off we went to the rice fields that morning, and when the first good flock of birds came in for a landing, we stood up in our pit blind and fired.

I'd always wondered how you figure out who dropped which duck when both of you were taking shots at the same time. This morning, I learned how: You pull trigger. You hear bang. You see duck drop.

That's what happened. I heard the crack of my 20 gauge, watched a duck tumble and felt that jubilation of actually hitting what I was aiming at. I watched him sail into the water.

I got one!

We don't have a dog, so my boyfriend hollered back:

Go get him!

I jumped out of the blind.

Take your gun!

I grabbed it. I knew I might need to fire a finishing shot. Then I started walking.

Now, up until this point, my waders had not touched water. Because we hunted in rice fields, we always had a strip of land - the check - on which to walk out to our blind. All I'd done is walk in mud. Now it was time to actually get wet.

Holy crap.

The farmer who owned these fields had plowed the earth just before flooding the fields, so it wasn't just walking through a foot of water; it was sinking into eight inches of mud beyond that. I took approximately two steps before losing my balance.

Oh no oh no oh no...

Doof! I fell on my butt.

Not realizing that it doesn't hurt to fall in a flooded rice field, I'd broken my fall with one hand, and my jacket sleeve was now soaked, my fingers icy. Lesson learned! At least my gun was dry.

I lurched up and out of the water and started stepping more carefully. But the more carefully I stepped, the longer I spent on each step, and the longer I spent on each step, the more I sunk into the mud, so when I went to lift my foot and the mud sucked me back down...

Doof!

I fell again. This time I had the presence of mind to fall to my knees, giving me a little more control. Gun dry! Jacket dry! I was getting good at this.

But my duck was getting away.

Injured but not dead, he was swimming to the next check, probably 75 yards from our blind. I got up and started power sloshing as the he disappeared into the tall grass on the check. I was almost there when

Doof!

I picked myself up again and practically hurled myself at the check. On dry land at last, I looked around.

I saw nothing.

I walked up and down the check, looking for him. I still saw nothing.

He's an injured duck. He should stand out...

But he didn't.

Despair was beginning to sink in when I looked down and just inches in front of my right foot, there was my duck, hunkered down, looking small and brown and camouflaged.

He didn't even try to get away and he was utterly beautiful and cute and dear God I knew what I had to do. I apologized to him, and snapped his neck. Then, with the duck in my left hand and my shotgun in my right, I made my way back across the water to the blind.

I fell twice on the way back too, but by this time it was old hat.

As I neared the blind, I held up my duck for the boyfriend to see, beaming.

That's a young drake wigeon!

I felt a throb in the palm of my left hand. It wasn't me.

Honey, I think he's not dead...

I snapped his neck again. It didn't work. My boyfriend snapped his neck and set him down next to the blind. That seemed to do the trick.

Until the duck moved again.

This was getting disgusting. I had no idea it would drag out like this. Life force is strong. Why do we forget that? It was making me sick knowing I had not finished off this bird, that he was just suffering. It was impossible to feel proud of this. I turned my head away for a moment - just for a moment - when I suddenly saw something out of the corner of my eye go flying past me and into the water.

It was my duck.

I looked back at my boyfriend.

My duck's head was in his hand.

Later in the season, I learned that "helicoptering" is in fact the quickest and most merciful way to finish off a duck that is not dead. Grab by the head, swing around two full circles, and you know the neck will snap.

More than two or three twists and you're likely to decapitate it.

Which is precisely what my boyfriend had just done.

DAMMIT! THAT WAS MY FIRST DUCK EVER! I WANTED A PICTURE OF IT AND YOU TORE ITS HEAD OFF! DAMMIT!!!!

I will never forget the expression on my boyfriend's face. He looked like a sick dog that had just vomited on an expensive Persian rug. He knew he'd done something very, very wrong, but he didn't mean to do it, and it was too late to do anything about it.

I could see this. I knew he felt bad. He was trying to help! But I continued to swear at him every few minutes anyway.

Please understand that my boyfriend and I are not trophy hunters. We hunt for meat. But your first duck is special. It's a rite of passage. After years of not understanding the utterly disgusting pictures of hunters fawning over bloody carcasses, I'd finally understood, and I wanted my picture too. But how could I show this photo to anyone?

DAMMIT!!!!!

We got back into the blind and waited for more birds. Periodically, I'd look at my beheaded duck and swear at my boyfriend again. Then, it occurred to me... maybe there was a way.

I stopped swearing at him and handed him my camera phone.

Let's try this!

It worked.

Epilogue

Later that day, I posted that photo on the Duck Hunting Chat, and the congratulations came pouring in from fellow duck hunters across the country.

One, who clearly didn't notice I was a chick, advised:

You should mount your first duck, bro. Something I wish I had done.

That's when I had to confess that there had been a problem. A flood of laughter followed. But they all understood. It made me feel a little better. It wasn't that I didn't still feel like a monster for failing to dispatch this duck quickly - I did. But I knew this was something many fellow hunters had gone through. We laugh for the same reason all people joke at times like these: It provides relief.

Like most duck hunters, I wanted my first duck to be a Norman Rockwell moment. But as with most events we want to be picture perfect - job interviews, weddings and losing your virginity (especially losing your virginity!) - something went awry. And that's OK. Now I can laugh about it.

And, for better or for worse, it's still the story of my first duck ever.

© Holly A. Heyser 2007

Hey sister, I'm with you!

I was thrilled this morning to see this column by college student Colleen Lindsay of The Daily Egyptian at Southern Illinois University Carbondale:

It was the last day of class before Thanksgiving break. During the last few minutes of class, the professor quizzed us about our vacations; were we going home and the like. As a parting comment, he noted that shotgun deer season started on the Friday before break.

For laughs, he asked if any of us were going to hunt. There was only one hand that went up in class. Everyone turned to look at the lone hunter, who happened to be a petite, feminine girl.

The professor stared at me for a few seconds before asking me if I was seriously going to hunt.

I know how you feel, being the only professor I know at my university who went hunting over Thanksgiving break. It seems there just aren't many hunters on college campuses - or at least not many who make it public.

The stats from the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service suggest otherwise, though: 21 percent of hunters have college degrees (four-year or advanced). But it is true we're the least likely to hunt among people of all education levels.

A college campus can be an intimidating place to talk about hunting, because those who are most vocal about it are often against it.

Thanks, Ms. Lindsay, for speaking out and letting people know who you are - and what you're not.

Oh no, I'm one of THEM

There's a big debate going on in the Duck Hunting Chat right now about "skybusters" - the folks who shoot at birds way too far away to have a reasonable chance at hitting them. The experienced hunters grouse about it - rightfully - because it 1) educates ducks, making them less likely to fly in closer to our blinds, and 2) results in more cripples because of the low likelihood of getting a clean shot.

I'm pretty sure I'm one of the people they're complaining about. I try not to be, but I know I take stupid shots from time to time, because I'm just inexperienced. And I feel like crap about it.

I am at war with myself over this.

All the veterans and all the teachers say Practice! You have no business hunting until you know what you're doing. The words of my hunter safety instructor still ring in my ears: Clean, sportsmanlike kill! Clean, sportsmanlike kill!

And during the off season, I do practice at the local shooting range, where I shoot pretty darn well. I mean, I've had a cluster of guys gawking as I've made some badass shots, over and over again. (Wow, that felt really good, too - I admit it!)

But the range is not the marsh. The range is secure and predictable. In the marsh, you've got bad footing, the adrenaline rush and birds that have the ability to change directions on a dime, unlike those bright orange clays. As much as I'd like to think I can perfect my skills at the range, I've come to believe the only way I can learn to shoot at ducks in the marsh is to shoot at ducks in the marsh. And for me and probably any other new hunter, that means taking a lot of bad shots. I don't see any way around it.

I used to think that I should just be perfect at anything I try, right out of the gate, but I know better now. It's not just because of the wisdom that comes with age (lord, you couldn't pay me to be 20 again!), but because I teach journalism for a living these days. I've learned the only way my students can learn to write good stories is by first writing bad ones, then learning how to correct their particular mistakes, and compensate for their particular flaws.

But their weapons are notepads and computers, not guns. Their mistakes don't result in a wounded animal suffering in the tules until the scavengers come to finish the job they started. So even as I console myself with the wisdom that all learning flows from making mistakes, I'm wracked with guilt about it.

This is all part of a normal cycle, I'm sure: The veterans criticize the newbies for making mistakes until the newbies are good enough to be considered veterans, so they can start complaining about all the mistakes the newbies are making. All I can say is I can't wait until I'm not a newby anymore. It's one of the reasons I hunt as much as I can right now - I want to get through this phase as quickly as possible.

I just hope when I'm a veteran, I remember to have a little patience with those who come after me.

© Holly A. Heyser 2007

OMG!

I absolutely LOVE this photo I found today in the Chillicothe (Ohio) Gazette in a story by Ashley Phillips about women deer hunters. This is huntress Amy Mendenhall, posing for her senior picture!

All I can say is there was nothing like that in my high school yearbook.

Regs that keep women OUT of hunting

With all the efforts out there to get women into hunting, I was surprised to learn this morning that some states have regulations that can keep women out. Check out this excerpt from a story today by Shannon Tompkins in The Houston Chronicle:

Texas is one of only 14 states where bowhunters are limited to using bows that have a minimum peak draw weight of 40 pounds; all other states with archery-only hunting seasons have lower or no minimum draw weights.

That 40-pound draw weight — basically, like lifting a 40-pound sack of sand with two fingers — was designed to limit archers to using only bows that wildlife managers figured produced enough arrow velocity and energy to be effective on white-tailed deer.

And the minimum, which has been in place for decades, applied to equipment used for bowhunting any game animal except squirrel.

But the draw-weight requirement meant a lot of young people and many women were shut out of bowhunting because they didn't have the upper-body strength to draw a 40-pound bow.

The story, which is about Texas considering a change in this regulation, goes on to say that bow technology has improved to the point that you don't necessarily need a 40-pound draw weight for an effective shot.

I'm not a bowhunter yet (give my huntress sister-in-law a few years to work on me). But if I had to meet a requirement like this, I'm not sure I could.

I'm reasonably strong and fit - hell, I have a black belt in tae kwon do - but my hands just aren't that strong.

When I went to lift this 32-pound salmon I caught on the Sacramento River earlier this year, it was a real struggle, which should be evident by the take-the-dang-picture-already look on my face.

So cheers to Texas for considering a change to the regs!