| The morning of the next day I was still fuming. Our rising had preceded the crowing of the cock. We had braved freezing temperatures and the cold north wind. Our high expectations were dashed by the presence of trucks and empty boat trailers at the launch. That little cattail ringed, duck infested nook that I had spied from the prairie hilltop was surely already claimed. Past memories of my wildfowl quarry locked onto my decoy spread against a backdrop of autumn leafed cottonwoods and the cedar dotted hillside was drawing me back to this special little pool, yet on this day it was not to be. Nonetheless, we pointed the old Go-Devil powered flat bottom toward our coveted spot and hoped, only to be greeted by a duet of million candle power spot lights searching the sky as for incoming enemy aircraft. We circled back, disappointed yet hopeful of finding the narrow opening into an old favorite island of water, where I had experienced one of my best hunts. Our light care
ssed the cattail border as we slid forward, searching for the tiny opening. The glimmer of moonlight off the water raised our spirits. I cut a hard right but missed the opening. Minutes later we were sailing happily along a little sweaty from pushing the boat through the tiny opening. Suddenly a spotlight caught us right in its crosshairs. "Why hadn't those idiots lit up before we were halfway across the pool." We had just spent 10 minutes searching for and negotiating the opening to the pool and they had to wait 'til we were on top of them. My hopes of a productive, private little hunt in some secluded pool were quashed and my temper began to rise. I spun the boat around and finally settled on a little alcove near the entrance to the pool. In my heart I new I should just get the heck out, but I was plumb out of patience. Angry words had erupted as my hunting buddy son counseled against staying in the pool. As shooting time arrived we were greeted by the splatter of steel pellets across our bow. To the credit of that fowl duck huntin' quartet we didn't get sprayed anymore that morning. To their debit, they proceeded to foil our best efforts at attracting any feathered fowl into our decoys. Several flights of big ducks circled the pool only to be met by hot steel emanating from that quartet. Some were good shots. The most infuriating of all was a little group of Gadwalls who circled high above, lost altitude and banked in response two our quacking, chuckling duet. Still high overhead, yet pointed obviously in our direction the quartet cut loose with a flame throwing, sky bustin' barrage that convinced those ducks to seek refuge elsewhere. For us, it was the last straw. Sony boy uttered several loud groans. We were both on the verge of yelling insulting epithets, but instead we packed up and got out. We had bagged two little blue wings that cut through the opening banked sharply and charted a path right into our decoys. Sonny neatly dropped the second bird with his second shot and I followed suit on the first. Our dogs got a little exercise retrieving their duck, but all that was small consultation. We were mad and disappointed. Sonny had traveled 4 hours for this weekend. We had frozen the morning before and bagged 1 duck in a dirty little mud hole after a killing hike and today had hoped for better, but it was not to be, spoiled by our bad choices and the bad manners of other hunters. So the next morning I was still fuming. I sat working glumly at my desk, but as the day passed other memories of the hunt began to flood in. The memory of the rush of wings of a half dozen Widgeon as they streaked from behind low over our blind and then bent their path around the corner of our little alcove offering no time for us to even slide our guns off safety. The memory of the mixed flock of Pintails and Gadwalls that shot through the pool opening bent into our decoys and then resumed their flight. The memory of those two little blue wings that made a tight 180 right back into us to be splashed down by our only gunfire of the day. Maybe it wasn't such a bad day after all. As I pondered my thoughts my cell phone rang. It was sonny boy. "Dad, I was just thinking how beautiful it was to see those 2 little Blue Wings swing a tight circle right into our decoys." By The Wildfowler 10/02 |