I’ve been steaming over this incident for a day or so now, debating if was worth writing about.  Obviously, the “go ahead and write about it” side won out.

On Sunday, I made a sort of last-minute run out to the Grizzly Island wildlife area for an afternoon duck hunt.  I mentioned it to Holly earlier in the week, and she asked if I’d be willing to let one of her friends, a fairly new hunter, come along.  Alison (the friend) lives here in the SF Bay area, and was hoping to get to know a little about Grizzly Island, since it’s relatively close to home.  I figured the least I could do was show a new hunter around. 

The afternoon was pretty slow, from a duck hunting perspective.  A couple of little flocks of spoonies were moving around from pond to pond, but there wasn’t much else to get excited about.  Alison and I were set up on a little dry spit of land with a reasonable cover around us.  We told hunting stories, and joked about distant birds, and generally relaxed and enjoyed the marsh… with the never-ending hope that birds would come to land with the decoys. 

A shot rang out suddenly, WAY too close.  I could hear the crack of the shot load ripping through the dead fennel not five yards from Alison’s head, and a very tight shot string smacked the water about 20 yards in front of us.  We both sort of sat there in shock for a moment, and then Alison scared the crap out of me again.  “At least it didn’t hit me,” she said kind of weakly.  And then, “I’m not hit, am I?” 

Oh, man!

She wasn’t acting like she’d been hit, but then I wondered if she was so calm because she was in shock.  Of course, in a couple of seconds we both realized she was fine… but it was a long couple of seconds. 

Then the anger hit me.  I know there was no one within 200 yards or more when we came in and set up, in the broad daylight.  What idiot was out here shooting blindly through the grass?  I popped up to see.

Some guy was wading along the opposite side of the levy with his dog, oblivious to our presence.  The moronic thing wasn’t that he was there, it is public land after all, but that he fired a shot dead-level through the grass without knowing if anyone was around.  I’m still not sure what the hell he was shooting at, as there were no birds in the air.  Was he killing coots?  Tweety birds?  Just bored?  He could have been pheasant hunting, but there were no pheasants there.  If there had been, they would have been sitting in our laps. 

The point is, it’s a duck marsh.  Duck hunters are camouflaged and hidden from view.  With that in mind, it doesn’t require great leaps of intelligence to realize it’s probably a bad idea to be shooting into the grass when you can’t see through it.  Not a bad idea… a frickin’ stupid idea.  That moron could have killed one of us, especially at that range.

So I yelled at him, of course.  He looked at me with an idiotic Alfred E. Newman sort of expression, and sort of shrugged his shoulders. 

I’m generally a very non-violent guy. I don’t like fighting and I try to avoid putting myself in a situation where it’s inevitable.   Nevertheless, I wanted to curse this guy a blue streak, but I couldn’t find words.  All I had was my gun in my clenched fist.  There’s just not much future in physical confrontations, especially when both parties are armed.  I let the possibilities play through my head and none came up well for either of us in the long run.  So I just glared at him. 

At first, the goddamned moron thought he would just continue hunting whatever he was hunting, poking around behind his dog less than 40 yards from where we were sitting, but I guess he thought better of it and sort of eased off across the marsh.  I watched him as he crossed the pond and then started to set up on the next levy over, still within 100 yards and plenty close enough to be dangerous.  I stepped out into plain view and stood glaring until he picked up and moved on out of sight. 

At that point, I wanted to follow him back to his vehicle and turn him in at the check station, but the truth is, what could they have done?  Technically, no law was broken.  No one was hurt (by sheer luck) and no property was damaged.  Idiots like that need to have their guns taken away, but the problem is that there is no mechanism in place to do so. 

Anyway, we managed to move past the experience and hunt the rest of the afternoon.  There was a brief flurry of activity just before sunset, but the evening flight I’d counted on never happened.  Even though we managed to get a couple of shots off, it just wasn’t meant to be and we walked out of the marsh empty-handed. 

But at least neither of us made the evening news…

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…

I spelled it right.  Fowl… as in water… as in ducks! 

I had pretty much written off any duck hunting this year, what with the guided hunts, out of state trips, and everything else.  But as the season wound down, I caught myself longing for a chilly morning in the marsh.  When my friend, Scott, called me up last week with an invite to meet up at Mendota, I couldn’t turn it down.  The storm front that was blowing through CA on the weekend made it even more irresistable, as I knew the birds would be flying.  Sure, that weather made problems for lots of other people in this state, but for duckhunters, it was a definite blessing!

Well, I no more hit the road Friday night than the storm abated.  By the time I arrived at Mendota, about two and a half hours later, the stars were peeking through big gaps in the scudding clouds.  Would Saturday morning turn out to be a bluebird day?

I woke at 0330 Saturday morning to the sound of a car alarm.  A car alarm?  Totally disoriented, it took me a while to realize I wasn’t still at home in the city.  By the time the alarm was turned off, I was wide awake.  I rolled out of my bunk and brewed a cup of coffee and had breakfast.  The sound of raindrops pattered on the roof of the camper.  It was gonna be a good day!

I’ll save you all from the detailed story of the hunt.  Since Scott and I spent about nine hours in the marsh, that would make for a LOT of detail.  So here’s the short version.

Just at first shooting light, we were swarmed by birds.  A few shots later, we both had limits on canvasbacks(2 birds each), and started working on the other ducks.  Spoonies (Northern Shovelers) were being their normal, suicidal selves, and Scott and I each hammered a few, then started holding out for some “quality” ducks like pintails or mallards.  Unfortunately, constant shooting from the ponds around us kept the pintails and mallards high in the sky or headed for parts unknown.  Time after time, a group of sprig would start that slow, spiraling approach to our decoys… and invariably, just as they set wings for one more pass, someone nearby would shoot at something and flare the birds back into the stratosphere.

In the meantime, the cans and spoonies continued to dive bomb us throughout the day.  By about 2:30pm, we were ready to go, so we decided to fill out our bags with the little kamikaze spoonies.  Final tally, five spoonies and two canvasbacks each. 

Unfortunately, I failed to do any photos or video of the hunt.  I didn’t want to take the video camera out in that weather, and I forgot to grab the still camera from the truck before we went out.  Oh well… I promise to have pictures or video of my next outing.