Sometimes I just need to give the hogs a break, you know?  Well, OK… I actually haven’t been hunting much of anything in the last few weeks, hogs or otherwise. 

Since this weekend marks the end of the CA waterfowl season I thought I’d better clean the spiders out of my twice-barrel, hose the dust off of the decoys, and see if I could remember the difference between a duck and a seagull (or a sandhill crane… see image to the left).  I haven’t even fired my shotgun since dove season, and poor Cyrus has been languishing in the backyard. 

I was almost ready to let duck season slide by without notice, but my friend mentioned he’d been out to Mendota recently and had a pretty good hunt.  What really set me off was his report that he’d seen a bunch of specklebelly geese (whitefronts).  Specks are my favorite goose, but they’ve always been something of a jinx for me.  As a result, I can’t resist an opportunity to get some retribution. 

I hit Mendota Wildlife Area at around 2:00 on Saturday afternoon, and rolled right on out to my favorite spot.  While I expected it to be crowded on the last Saturday of the season, I was pleasantly surprised to find that only one other group was set up on the pond.  I set the decoys and found a spot to hunker down in the tules. 

The action started fast, and a pair of teal hurtled over my hiding place.  Barrel one… the drake.  Barrel two… the hen.  Not a bad start!

A few minutes later I heard the whistle of pintail.  Out of the corner of my eye, I could see three birds coasting toward my decoys.  At the last moment, they pulled up.  The leading drake was too slow, though, and down he came.  I followed the other drake with my second barrel, but I suddenly couldn’t remember if the limit was one or two this year.  I was pretty sure the limit was two, but my confidence was shaky.  The State Wildlife Areas are not a good place to make a mistake. 

Fortunately, I had my phone in my coat (which is rare, because I never take my phone when I’m hunting).  Technology to the rescue!  I texted Holly, and sure enough, she had all the answers I needed (and then some!). 

Of course, once I had the info I needed, the sprig seemed to sense it and stayed clear of my spread.  A spoonie (northern shoveler) however, made the mistake of sailing overhead and I added him to my bag.  Another teal came whizzing by, but a load of #4 Bismuth whizzed faster to make bird number 5. 

Unfortunately, the only specks that came in did so when I was out of position.  I could only watch in frustration as they practically floated over the decoys at about 20 yards.  I held my breath, hoping they’d turn and pass over me, but it didn’t happen.  They gained altitude and winged away. 

Shoot time ended with five birds in my bag… not too bad for less than three hours hunting.  It could have been a full limit, but I guess you just can’t hit every single bird you shoot at.  After that last teal, the birds found my Achilles heel, a right to left cross at an incoming angle.  I just couldn’t seem to hit that shot.

I rolled back out to the check station fully expecting to see trucks lined up all the way to the highway.  If that were the case, I was prepared to put away the waterfowl loads and drive over to a quail spot I know of a couple hours away.  For some reason, though, the crowds just weren’t that bad.  I pulled into the line, set up camp, and kicked back.

This morning came with another surprise.  When I reached “my” pond, there was no one else there!  This is a mixed blessing, because while it allowed me to get my pick of the best spots, it also meant there was no one around to keep the birds moving.  Once a few birds landed on the far side of the pond, they became live decoys.  Everything that flew over ignored my hunks of painted plastic in favor of the gabbling, whistling party at the other end of the marsh.

Well, not everything… by 11:00am, I had five birds beside me in the tules, another sprig, a pair of gadwall, a teal, and a spoonie.  The flight had slowed considerably, so I decided to go walk the levies.  This is usually a good way to jump a mallard or two, and sure enough, not five minutes later, a mallard drake sprang out of a pothole.  I gave him two rounds of #2 steel, but he seemed to be unaffected.  I watched him until he was out of sight.  Not to make excuses, but I really like the Bismuth better!  It seemed to bring down birds even with marginal hits. 

About a half mile away, I jumped another pair of mallards.  This time I was absolutely sure I hit the drake at least once, but he kept on winging.  I watched as the pair sailed across the field, then suddenly set their wings and dropped into another pothole about a quarter mile away.  The chase was on… and after a quarter mile slog, it was over.  The drake had almost bled out by the time I got there.  He tried to dive into the tules, but Cyrus was on him. 

One bird shy of a limit! 

I walked the rest of the available area, and by the time I had made the full circuit I was whupped.  I decided to call it a day, wrapped up the gear, and dragged my exhausted butt back to the truck.  It was a short season for me (actually it was something like 100 days long), but I’m glad I got out there for at least a part of it.

I was reading an article in Tom Remington’s Black Bear Blog  about a bear hunter who was attacked by a black bear after his shot knocked it from the tree, but didn’t kill it.  Apparently the hunters were out of ammunition, and things got ugly fast.  How could they be out there without ammo? 

Well, as I said in my reply to Tom’s post, it can happen.

“The best laid plans of mice and men, g’ang aft agley.”
Robert Burns, To a Field Mouse

In 1989, at a loss for what to get my father-in-law for Christmas, it occurred to me that he might like to go duck hunting.  Many of his stories from his youth revolved around hunting…particularly duck hunting along the Ohio River.  He hadn’t really done any hunting since moving his family to North Carolina in the early ’70s, but he was always very animated when the topic of hunting came up (which was pretty danged often, with me for a son-in-law). 

I bounced the idea off my wife.  “I think he’d love that!” she exclaimed.  “He hasn’t been hunting since we moved here.”

My own folks have a home right on the banks of the Cape Fear River, and my dad, brother, and I often hunted ducks right down the river from their house.  It’s a short, 10 minute boat ride to a couple of islands situated in a bend of the river, and we usually did pretty well on wood ducks, teal, and the occasional mallard.  I figured that would be a good place to take him, since it was close by and reasonably good shooting.

I called my dad and asked if George (my father-in-law) and I could borrow his jon-boat to go duck hunting on Christmas Eve morning, or even better, if he’d like to join us on a hunt.  He said he wasn’t sure if he’d go along, but we were welcome to borrow the boat. 

The week before Christmas, George and I made a quick run over to the sporting goods store where I paid for his license and stamps.  He still had his old Remington 870 magnum, so he didn’t need a new gun or anything.  He offered to buy a box of shells, but I assured him that we had plenty.  My dad always keeps a big ammo box in the deck of the boat, loaded with cases of shells. 

As if by magic, the night before our hunt we got a rare dose of winter in southeastern North Carolina, with heavy snow and icy temps. It would be the first white Christmas in Wilmington, NC in over 100 years.  The television newscasters were all over themselves, and the excitement swept over everyone.

I was doubly excited, because I knew that the near-zero temperatures would freeze the skinny water and push the ducks out onto the deep, fast-moving water of the Cape Fear.  This storm was also joined by another that rolled down from the north, freezing Maryland and Virginia and sending clouds of ducks into North Carolina.  I could barely contain myself that evening as I stepped out to gather some firewood and the first big flakes of snow hit my face.  (more…)