January Duck Hunt

Chickahook Bay has an old world feel to it. Within the banks of the rivers that converge to form this estuary is a world unto itself. Picture-perfect panoramas collide with weather systems that darken the skies to a grey deluge in a matter of minutes, only to be freed to the sun once again. During the greyest of skies life abounds with a flutter, splash, holler, or flap. Small coastal towns litter the hills above the shoreline separated from the sea by narrow strips of land, dilapidated log and wire fences, and unimproved highways gasping for relief from the harsh weather pounding these areas most days.

These old towns survive from the sea and share a kinship with it most inland folk do not understand. The inhabitants of the estuary are integral pieces of this landscape, and are cherished for their value both physically and spiritually. The bay and it's human occupants that line the shores live in harmony and carry a humble grace amongst themselves. For such a cold, wet physical environment it carries a warm, welcoming embrace.

Our recent trip to Chickahook Bay was in search of waterfowl. For an inexperienced hunter like myself, I was clearly unable to predict what this venture would mean. The day started with the usual early morning rise at 4:30am. I prepared for the day with layers upon layers of 'super wool', 'poly wool', 'warm wool', and every other heat retaining 'wool' garment advertised. I am always cold and I feared today would be a test of my endurance. If there was one thing I was not inexperienced with, it's cold. I love to climb alpine style at high elevation, on snow and ice, but the difference there is that you are constantly moving, driving a warmth through your body. I was cautious that I might underestimate the weather on this excursion so I seemingly thought I over dressed. Not so.

The drive was slow from Salem. Icy roads and an imposing fog kept our travel speed lethargic. We met Greg White, Derek's childhood best-friend, at Fort Hill to consolidate our loads and move forward in Greg's truck, jon boat in tow. A quick stop for a caloric injection of powdered donuts and energy drinks and we were on our way.

We arrived at the dock at 6:30 am. Only one other truck occupied the parking lot. Seems the high water of the last few days had others huddled in their beds, most likely out of respect for the flooding and dangers that could be elevated. The rivers were stable, however, with the Hakeema within its banks and holding true to a hue of milk chocolate. Speeding off into the water with a brisk chill in the air and just a slight wind, we positioned ourselves for the first stop of the day.

Traveling through a bay is ambiguous in many ways. Tidal influences drive water in and out, with subtle landmarks becoming monuments to disappearing altogether. The sliding current plays illusionist to your senses, reminding you that there are bigger forces here. Navigation is a tricky bit, and should not be underestimated. Derek, as experienced as he is, still looks with a questioning eye when piloting his way through this water. Rightfully so, respect should be paid to this entity, as it has taken the lives of the finest of seafarers and fool alike.

Setting decoys is cold work. My hands were numb placing the weights on the thin plastic tubing they call 'tangle free.' True, they did not tangle, unless a weight is on them. Then they're a mess. Best to take the weight off, and, untangle, offer unintelligible profanity, and proceed to start over. By this time your hand is a bit more numb, making it more intolerable. More profanity output and we're done. Derek and Greg waded around positioning the decoys to look like a 'raft' of real feathered fowl and positioned a couple of spinning devices that looked like the above mentioned profanity. Once those were in place, we moved on to our blind.

Now the boat. After placing 60 decoys (which I came to understand wasn't that many) we positioned the boat in such a way that we had a clear view west across the plastic jakes and hens. The boat is camo with a canvas fold-away cover that allows you to 'pop out' when the approaching victims come in to your decoys. This contraption (another profane expletive please) bonked me in the head every time we were set to shoot. I'm a novice, so just getting the motion right of swinging my shotgun to my shoulder, quickly aiming, firing, missing, then pumping and re-aiming, firing, missing again, is enough. I can't say I needed the extra obstacle of wrapping my head in canvas before the shot. Some redesign will be done. I will make sure of that...

The day was slow I was told. By 10 am we had only had about 2 opportunities. Neither successful. Theories ranged from the abundance of water in town to the inadequacy of steel shot. Stories, and lots of laughter, ensued during the oft idle time under the canvas. With fowl avoiding us like, well, fowl avoiding hunters, the views captivated me throughout the day. I had left my camera back home because I had misplaced my dry bag, so all the stunning displays this day were to be filed in the hard drive in my head, hopefully not getting lost among the marbles and spinning contraptions contained within two ears. I can clearly picture the scene when the sunlight found a chance to illuminate a decoy, stretching itself across the water and tactically placing shadows to increase the drama of the photo. Stunning.

Frustration was evident among my more seasoned companions. According to legend, this slow day was getting slower. Even the lab, Kaman, was bored. He resorted to licking himself at a decibel level that made us uncomfortable at times, and we assigned him the lonely corner of the boat where he might consider his acts more prudently. A few opportunities arrived when Buffleheads swung through and I was instructed to take them down with my keen shot. I realized quickly that these were the least desirable of the lot, thus they were offered to me. I obliged and went for 'em, bringing a few down with a blast. Kaman finally had work, albeit little to speak of, but some none the less.

4:20pm. Things picked up. A squadron of geese approached and settled just beyond our reach. Some widgeon descended upon the decoys and shots were fired but none taken. Seems we were positioned just beyond range for steel shot making Derek and Greg a bit grumpy. The last 25 minutes of the hunt were the most active overall. What was so impressive here was watching Derek call into a settling group of ducks and rooting them up and over to us. This was finally what it should be, more action, more intrigue, and definitely a sense of excitement. As quickly as it came, it soon vacated and left us collecting decoys in the rapidly approaching nightfall. Scurrying in the deepening tide, Greg pulled one raft and Derek the other, while I packed the decoys in their mesh sacks for the trip to the dock. We secured, or thought we did, the load and motored for the take-out. About a quarter mile into our journey back I was uprooted from my seat and watched our anchor launch itself out of the boat towards the prop. We quickly yelled to Derek to cut throttle and avoided what could have been a serious disaster.

Upon returning home, I realized why duck hunting is such a desirable sport, even though it offers such undesirable accommodations. I came to respect this type of hunt very quickly, both for the sport and strategy employed. The scenery, the camaraderie, and the experience of it all combined has made me wanting more, soon. And with only two weeks left in the season, I'll be scrambling to make time to experience this once again.