The water was prime and the birds were flying. We made a quick scout to a log pile near the water’s edge. It was shooting light, so I gave Luke the go ahead to if he had the opportunity while I grabbed a few decoys and a minimal setup.
It was the youth waterfowl weekend, a two-day jumpstart for the under-18 crowd, and it was warm enough for T-shirts and rubber boots. Over the last few years hunting with my twin boys – sometimes with their younger sister in tow – I have learned to be nimble and flexible. I have learned that it’s not always important to be on time or even kill birds. Instead, it’s important have fun, to pack sunflower seeds and to never underestimate the volume of ammo you might need. We eat ramen noodles and granola bars by the case – even an occasional gas-station corn dog – and we try not to take our pursuits or ourselves too seriously.
Today only one kid was up for hunting, so it was just the two of us. As I headed for the truck, I turned back for a last look and said, “If you get a good shot, take it. But whatever you do, don’t shoot a bird way out in front where it will land in the deep water.” He nodded and smiled and I knew he was happy and proud to be left hunting on his own for a bit.
We were dogless on this trip, a symptom of being an upland hunter and diehard setter man. When I was younger, I had springers that could do double duty. Now, I have a pair of setters. Only one retrieves reliably, both are reluctant swimmers, and neither can sit still for more than a moment. Personally, I’m not much of a duck hunter. When we sit in a blind and try to decoy ducks, the boys pepper me with questions that are mostly answered with, “I’m not sure, we are learning to hunt ducks together.” But 12-year-old boys are blood-thirsty creatures, eager to hunt and not always content to follow a pointing dog patiently waiting for everything to line up in a perfect sequence. So sometimes we craft a makeshift blind and retrieve our own ducks.
A couple of years ago, I met two friends on a cold winter morning for a quick duck hunt and not one of us brought a dog. Between the three of us, we owned 7 different pointing dogs and we still arrived planning to retrieve our own birds. On that frosty morning, shortly after the first shot, a chocolate lab from a nearby farm simply showed up and waited patiently until he got a chance to retrieve. He was an outstanding dog, retrieving to hand and patient as a saint. The irony of a random lab that wanders into a duck-hunting trio with a stable of “not labs” at home was not lost on us.
I hunted that spot again the next year and no lab showed up. I wondered if he had moved on or maybe had his hall pass revoked. Luckily, I knew what to do and I focused on shooting birds that would land in the shallows.
At the truck, I shoved half-a-dozen decoys, mostly feeders, into a bag along with a roll of netting and a water bottle. I was almost back when I heard the first shot. Luke was grinning when I arrived, and he didn’t bat an eye when I asked where the bird was. “Right there,” he said, pointing to a dead mallard floating in the very center of the dank pond we were hunting.
This was a moment of reflection where I stopped to ponder the important questions, like, why didn’t I bring waders? Why did I walk away from a red-blooded 12-year-old boy with only vague instructions about what not to shoot? How deep exactly would the waterfowl poop be in this particular pond?
In a turnabout, I hoped for a wind that didn’t show. As my son expertly dropped other birds on dry land and in shallow water, I tried to will that lone bird to shore, but it stayed anchored in the center. Eventually, the day wore out and I called it. He offered to swim for it, and for a moment I considered sending him before I emptied my pockets and waded out.
I made it waist deep before I was in danger of losing my boots, not even halfway there. I turned back, pulled off the boots and threw them on the shore. It was 200 miles and five years since that lab had come to my rescue on a cold day. Still, I couldn’t help but scan the horizon for any sort of miracle, like a stashed canoe, a 30-foot-long pole or a random, enthusiastic Labrador.
There were no miracles to be had, so I waded back out, this time with my sock-clad feet clearly communicating the depth of the muck. About two feet deep. Two feet of duck muck, pulling at my socks. The water was surprisingly cold, but when it reached my chest I was glad to swim because at least my legs were free of the slime. At least I didn’t have to turn back and take off my waders before I kicked into a mediocre dog paddle.
Mallard in hand, I swam, then slogged back to shore. Luke stood on the bank, chagrined, but not enough to keep from smiling. At the truck, he helped me pull off the muck filled boots and found a piece of cardboard for me to sit on during the drive home. He said he was sorry, but I wasn’t mad and he knew it.
On the drive home, we ate sunflower seeds and I told him about the time a rogue Labrador retriever came to my rescue years before.
And then I gently steered the conversation toward taking the setters after grouse the next weekend.
Mouthful of Feathers 