So hog hunting got to take a backseat for a day as I finally made my first foray back into the duck marsh for the year.  There was a time, not so long ago, that I was a pretty hard-core waterfowler, but over the last few years I’ve really let the ducks take a backseat to hogs and big game.  In the past three years, I’ve trekked into the marsh a total of five times. 

Today’s trip started out as an opportunity to head out to the Grizzly Island Wildlife Area and meet up with a couple of the guys from Jesse’s Hunting and Outdoors.  As we all know, though, sometimes things don’t work out the way we had them planned.  This hunt was definitely one of those days.

Things started off well enough.  I rolled out of the warm bed at about 0300, made a pot of coffee, and by about 0345, I took off on a largely empty freeway.  I made great time, and actually rolled into the “sweat line” before the gates opened.  I had time to organize my shells, dig my calls out from under the seat, and make sure the rest of my gear was in order.  This is usually a high-speed, rushed fiasco at the last minute, and almost always ends in my finding myself in the marsh at shooting time without some important piece of equipment. 

This hunt was also a little different in that I would be working with a new dog, Cyrus, the black lab I bought for Kat last Christmas.  This would be his first duck hunt, and only his third time in the field at all.  Since Sundays are generally pretty slow hunts, I figured it would be a good opportunity to introduce him to the marsh, without the excitement of fast and furious action.  He’s a natural hunter, and I was feeling pretty good about the coming day.

So there’s the setup.  It was looking good, right? 

I pulled into the parking lot, slipped into my chest waders, and started down the trail.  I had my decoys strapped to my pack frame, and tied my heavy coat to the top of the frame.  I usually don’t put my heavy coat on for the hike so I don’t get overheated walking.  I wanted to move fast.  I’d lingered a while getting my gear on, and I was a little worried that my favorite spot might be taken.  Heck, it’s been two years since I even hunted there, so I wasn’t even sure if my spot would still be there.  

Fortunately, as I walked down the dike to the pond I only saw one set of lights in the tules, which meant that my spot at the far end of the pond would be open.  I decided to skirt the other hunters, making sure not to let the dog get wrapped up in their decoys.  I also wanted to hurry and get into cover, because sunrise was coming fast and birds were already in the air.  Point is, I was getting into a rush… and I know better.  The footing can be a little treacherous in the ponds, with submerged ditches and potholes. 

Sure enough, fifty yards out into the pond, my booted foot reached out for bottom that wasn’t there.  The water was already thigh-deep, and the ditch I’d stepped into would have put me in chest deep… except because I was off balance, the step turned into a slow-motion fall.  The next thing I knew, I was submerged up to my neck, my shotgun fallen to the bottom of the pond, and my waders rapidly filling with icy water. 

I managed to recover my gun and scramble out of the ditch before the shock of the cold water sank in.  “Well,” I said aloud, “that was a short hunt!”

 To their credit, the two hunters I was walking past were keeping their laughter silent, although I can only imagine what it must have looked like.  I trudged back out of the pond, fully planning to blow off the hunt and head back to the truck.  I had the camper set up and the heater running, and I thought about the warmth and a cup of hot chocolate, but after checking myself and my gear, I decided to try and stick it out.  The inside of my coat, tied to the top of the pack frame, had somehow stayed dry in the dunking, so I figured between the neoprene of my waders and the dry coat, I’d be OK. 

I took it a little slower getting out to my spot, but managed to get there and set the decoys without further mishap.

Legal shoot time, one-half hour before sunrise, was slated to be 06:56, but apparently the sun rises earlier on the far side of the refuge because I heard a volley of shots at about 06:40.  Those hunters must have been pretty experienced to identify waterfowl on wing in that darkness.  As usual on the refuge, once someone breaks the rules apparently everyone else thinks it’s OK to do the same thing.  Shots rang across the marsh, and birds filled the air.

For my part, I didn’t even drop shells into the gun until almost 0700, when it was finally light enough to identify the widgeon and teal that were whistling overhead.  By this point, the warmth I’d generated on the walk in had pretty well dissipated, and the cold water in my waders and my shirt was sucking the body heat as fast as I could produce it.  I decided this would be a good time to put on my coat.  I lifted it and found that the water on the fleece shell had frozen.  Putting the coat on was like donning armor…  COLD armor! 

A flock of teal (or a squadron of stealth fighters) dipped over my decoys, but they were gone before my shivering arms could shoulder the shotgun.  Another flock whizzed by, and I mounted the gun but couldn’t feel the safety under my thumb.  The action loosened me up, though, and when the next group of teal zoomed by, I gave them a pretty stern, double-barreled warning. 

As the sun came up, the action dropped out.  High flyers kept trading back and forth in the stratosphere, but only occasional singles and small groups were moving over the marsh.  Between the shivering and the glare of the rising sun, I barely managed to wave the barrels at the handful of birds that passed in and out of range.  Nothing wanted to land in my decoys, although several birds did take a second look. 

Finally, a cluster of teal flitted overhead and then bombed into the decoy spread of my neighbors down the way, taking them by surprise.  They managed a couple of shots, as the birds swung 180 degrees and came right back to me.  I picked the lowest bird, mounted the gun, and let off the first barrel.  The bird flared a bit but kept coming.  As it got closer, I realized it wasn’t a teal, but went ahead and gave it the second barrel.  There was a puff of feathers and the bird, a hen scaup, went into a long glide into the far end of the pond.  It was mortally wounded, but still lively enough to concern me.  This was not the way I wanted to start Cyrus on ducks… chasing a diver in the tules. 

I struggled up, taking note of the fact that my feet felt like blocks of ice from the knees down.  I hoped I wouldn’t run into any more potholes, because I’d never be able to feel the danger before I stepped into it.  Calling Cyrus to heel, I sent him for the bird which had, by that point, swam into a small flock of coots.  Cyrus gave it a go, but with all the birds swimming around on the pond he got a little confused.  I did my best to catch up to him, and by the time I got there the coots had all scattered, leaving the scaup alone.  The dog locked in on the bird and surged after it. 

Just as he arrived and lunged at it, the duck dove.  I wished I’d had the video camera to capture the look on that dog’s face.  He looked at me as if to say, “WTF,” but then the bird surfaced a few feet away and he went after it again.  To his credit, Cyrus followed that bird through several dives until he finally coralled it in shallow water.  It was a proud labrador that came prancing across the pond to me. 

Over the next hour, I managed to miss two more shots on a group of teal, and made a marginal hit on a gadwall.   The gadwall was particularly galling, because after I fired the second barrel he turned and practically floated over me offering an ideal shot… but my frozen fingers couldn’t manage to pull a shell out of my belt to reload.  The bird angled off and landed about 100 yards away across the pond.  I held Cyrus back, because the bird’s head was fully upright, and I didn’t want to have it fly off. 

We watched that bird for about a half an hour, and it never appeared to weaken.  Finally, I had to get up and move or freeze, so I decided to see if we could get the duck.  I gathered my wooden legs under me and lurched upright.  Cyrus bounced up as well, ready to go.  Unfortunately, the bird bounced up too, taking wing across the levy, gaining altitude, and suddenly crumpling and dropping to the gun of a hunter on the next pond. 

Oh well.

At this point, I fully recognized the potential early stages of hypothermia.  I couldn’t stop shivering, and my coordination was starting to suffer.  I gathered the decoys, struggling to wrap the cords, and somehow got the packframe back on my shoulders.  Fortunately, the long hike out generated enough body heat to keep the symptoms from getting any worse.

Ah, duck hunting…

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