I don’t know how it really happened. One rainy, dreary Friday afternoon in late November, I waved goodbye to my normal, all-American male (who loved photography, sad movies, bubble baths and hot chocolate in the mornings) and sent him on his way to his first duck hunt.
Fully armed with two Nikon cameras and weighted down with a camera bag full of lenses, filters, a tripod and film in every speed and size, he was off to capture the full essence and beauty of a duck hunt on the Texas coast.
“It was beautiful,” he said enthusiastically. “The early morning sunrises, the birds in flight, the hunters silhouetted against the predawn sky.”
He left with the burning ambition to capture a collection of awe-inspiring nature photos. He returned with a cellophane bag full of goose-pimply, headless little lumps and a fanatical look in his eye, which --- had I but known it at the time --- heralded the birth of the next Great White Hunter.
Quicker than you could say “L.L. Bean,” the Nikon lenses, tripod, etc. were cast aside for an even more impressive collection of accoutrements.
Where does one start when one has made the decision to go Duck Hunter? Why, with apparel, of course. One must dress to fit the role.
First on the shopping list is the down-filled, camouflaged jacket, since duck hunting is often a cold proposition at 4:30 in the morning, in the marsh, in the rain, in November and December. It seems that ducks are sharp-eyed little devils, and they can spot a worsted tweed or paisley pattern miles away. Thus, the entire wardrobe becomes olive drab and/or camouflage. The wool shirt and underlying T-shirt must also be camouflaged pattern, lest some bionic duck that can spot Jockey-brand white through the teeth of the jacket zipper should pass overhead.
Next come chest-high waders for walking through saltwater marsh, lying in the mud and sitting in holes filled with rancid salt water and heaven-knows-what-else that may have fallen in and drowned or chose to make its home there.
An olive-drab hat, preferably with a mosquito netting-type veil to cover the face (giving the whole group of hunters the look of a commando beekeeping party) and olive gloves with the fingers cut out (just think of the thousands of ducks hunters scare off each year because of knuckle glare) round out the ensemble.
After the apparel, we get to the real equipment. Once the ducks have been lulled into mistaking the hunter for a 186-pound lump of salt marsh, they must be drawn to within firing range.
Several Ploys are needed to achieve this. First is the decoy, a hard-plastic, full-scale version of a duck. A flock of 60 or so decoys (patterned in various species and sizes and both genders) are anchored in an inviting little group about 20 yards from the hunters, the premise being that ducks are basically party creatures at heart.
But to make every party more inviting, one must use the duck call. This is a large wooden instrument which, when properly orchestrated, resembles the calls of a real, live duck.
Every Cajun who ever shot a duck, and owned a pen knife, has devised his own foolproof duck call, which comes with a demonstration cassette tape.
And we’re not talking a single-blast “quack” here. We’re talking the “feeding” call, the “please come here” call, the “no-kidding, there’s really food here” call and, in desperation, the “I said get back here!” call.
The sight of a man in a three-piece suit driving to work with a wooden appendage protruding from his mouth has brightened the lives of many of freeway commuters for the past year. The real joy comes in summer when the unsuspecting motorists are treated to a succession of ear-splitting quacks emitting from his sun roof.
Now that he has the paraphernalia for hiding from the ducks and slyly attracting them to his lair, he must have the means by which to put them out of commission; that is, the gun.
Not just any old shotgun, mind you. The rival merits of the different-gauge shotguns have to be weighted (my hunter, being a large, well-built man, selects a 10-gauge; this only because a bazooka is not readily available). And then he has to weigh the merits of slide-action, automatic and over and under, and of modified bore or improved cylinder.
“But once the bird is downed,” the question quickly arises, “Who is going to go out in that sub-zero water and muck to get that thing?” Enter the retriever. Not just man’s best friend, the faithful animal will swim for miles chasing a wounded duck that’s doing an imitation of a U-boat off the coast of Sweden.
This 75-pound mass of muscle and instinct replaces all thoughts of the wife, friends and other loved ones in the hunter’s mind. The care and feeding of, training of and breeding of the ultimate hunting dog makes up the vast majority of hunter’s conversation. A constipated hunting dog warrants a call for Life Flight; a mere spouse sporting a dangling compound fracture is expected to tough it out until the end of the hunt.
With enough equipment in tow to have kept Teddy Roosevelt in Africa for a year, one would think the hunt could begin. But no.
Now he must find the perfect place to hunt, otherwise known as the lease. A good lease has lots of ponds, mud, snakes, mosquitoes and tall grass on it, and enough cows trampling throughout to make travel by anything other than an amphibious tank an impossibility. An inordinate amount of money changes hands between hunter and landowner at this point, with absolutely no guarantee that duck one will fly within 10 miles of the place.
Next comes the duck camp. He can’t be expected to drive madly out to the lease and change into hunting raiment in a phone booth, now can he? A snug little shack is just what is needed. The ideal duck camp comes with furnishings that are impervious to water, dogs, mud, blood and feathers. A stove heating Beanee Weenees, a freezer for storing birds and ice and a level place to set up the Acme Duck Plucker are the only mandatory requirements.
Such banal considerations as heating, indoor plumbing that works, and tap water that doesn’t taste like raw sewage do not enter into the picture.
Realtors love duck hunters. In the summer, this little love nest serves as a weekend retreat where, by the romantic glow of the Bug Zapper, with a heady scent of Deep Woods Off permeating the air, one can sit and repaint decoy beaks and talk of next hunting season.
But I have learned to adapt. And come November, I’ll pack my hunter and his dog, his guns and other equipment into the truck and wave goodbye as they drive off in pursuit of the great outdoors. And I’m going to sit back and drink a silent toast: “Better thee than me.”
Fully armed with two Nikon cameras and weighted down with a camera bag full of lenses, filters, a tripod and film in every speed and size, he was off to capture the full essence and beauty of a duck hunt on the Texas coast.
“It was beautiful,” he said enthusiastically. “The early morning sunrises, the birds in flight, the hunters silhouetted against the predawn sky.”
He left with the burning ambition to capture a collection of awe-inspiring nature photos. He returned with a cellophane bag full of goose-pimply, headless little lumps and a fanatical look in his eye, which --- had I but known it at the time --- heralded the birth of the next Great White Hunter.
Quicker than you could say “L.L. Bean,” the Nikon lenses, tripod, etc. were cast aside for an even more impressive collection of accoutrements.
Where does one start when one has made the decision to go Duck Hunter? Why, with apparel, of course. One must dress to fit the role.
First on the shopping list is the down-filled, camouflaged jacket, since duck hunting is often a cold proposition at 4:30 in the morning, in the marsh, in the rain, in November and December. It seems that ducks are sharp-eyed little devils, and they can spot a worsted tweed or paisley pattern miles away. Thus, the entire wardrobe becomes olive drab and/or camouflage. The wool shirt and underlying T-shirt must also be camouflaged pattern, lest some bionic duck that can spot Jockey-brand white through the teeth of the jacket zipper should pass overhead.
Next come chest-high waders for walking through saltwater marsh, lying in the mud and sitting in holes filled with rancid salt water and heaven-knows-what-else that may have fallen in and drowned or chose to make its home there.
An olive-drab hat, preferably with a mosquito netting-type veil to cover the face (giving the whole group of hunters the look of a commando beekeeping party) and olive gloves with the fingers cut out (just think of the thousands of ducks hunters scare off each year because of knuckle glare) round out the ensemble.
After the apparel, we get to the real equipment. Once the ducks have been lulled into mistaking the hunter for a 186-pound lump of salt marsh, they must be drawn to within firing range.
Several Ploys are needed to achieve this. First is the decoy, a hard-plastic, full-scale version of a duck. A flock of 60 or so decoys (patterned in various species and sizes and both genders) are anchored in an inviting little group about 20 yards from the hunters, the premise being that ducks are basically party creatures at heart.
But to make every party more inviting, one must use the duck call. This is a large wooden instrument which, when properly orchestrated, resembles the calls of a real, live duck.
Every Cajun who ever shot a duck, and owned a pen knife, has devised his own foolproof duck call, which comes with a demonstration cassette tape.
And we’re not talking a single-blast “quack” here. We’re talking the “feeding” call, the “please come here” call, the “no-kidding, there’s really food here” call and, in desperation, the “I said get back here!” call.
The sight of a man in a three-piece suit driving to work with a wooden appendage protruding from his mouth has brightened the lives of many of freeway commuters for the past year. The real joy comes in summer when the unsuspecting motorists are treated to a succession of ear-splitting quacks emitting from his sun roof.
Now that he has the paraphernalia for hiding from the ducks and slyly attracting them to his lair, he must have the means by which to put them out of commission; that is, the gun.
Not just any old shotgun, mind you. The rival merits of the different-gauge shotguns have to be weighted (my hunter, being a large, well-built man, selects a 10-gauge; this only because a bazooka is not readily available). And then he has to weigh the merits of slide-action, automatic and over and under, and of modified bore or improved cylinder.
“But once the bird is downed,” the question quickly arises, “Who is going to go out in that sub-zero water and muck to get that thing?” Enter the retriever. Not just man’s best friend, the faithful animal will swim for miles chasing a wounded duck that’s doing an imitation of a U-boat off the coast of Sweden.
This 75-pound mass of muscle and instinct replaces all thoughts of the wife, friends and other loved ones in the hunter’s mind. The care and feeding of, training of and breeding of the ultimate hunting dog makes up the vast majority of hunter’s conversation. A constipated hunting dog warrants a call for Life Flight; a mere spouse sporting a dangling compound fracture is expected to tough it out until the end of the hunt.
With enough equipment in tow to have kept Teddy Roosevelt in Africa for a year, one would think the hunt could begin. But no.
Now he must find the perfect place to hunt, otherwise known as the lease. A good lease has lots of ponds, mud, snakes, mosquitoes and tall grass on it, and enough cows trampling throughout to make travel by anything other than an amphibious tank an impossibility. An inordinate amount of money changes hands between hunter and landowner at this point, with absolutely no guarantee that duck one will fly within 10 miles of the place.
Next comes the duck camp. He can’t be expected to drive madly out to the lease and change into hunting raiment in a phone booth, now can he? A snug little shack is just what is needed. The ideal duck camp comes with furnishings that are impervious to water, dogs, mud, blood and feathers. A stove heating Beanee Weenees, a freezer for storing birds and ice and a level place to set up the Acme Duck Plucker are the only mandatory requirements.
Such banal considerations as heating, indoor plumbing that works, and tap water that doesn’t taste like raw sewage do not enter into the picture.
Realtors love duck hunters. In the summer, this little love nest serves as a weekend retreat where, by the romantic glow of the Bug Zapper, with a heady scent of Deep Woods Off permeating the air, one can sit and repaint decoy beaks and talk of next hunting season.
But I have learned to adapt. And come November, I’ll pack my hunter and his dog, his guns and other equipment into the truck and wave goodbye as they drive off in pursuit of the great outdoors. And I’m going to sit back and drink a silent toast: “Better thee than me.”
Lots of great ones! I have a Christmas picture of my oldest when she was young that reminds me of that Easter bunny!
