A pic from 44 years ago last Saturday....

[John Robinson]

That picture was taken by my best friend's Dad the day I got hooked on duck hunting.

Dave and Danny Fink were my neighbors and best friends. Christmas came on a Friday that year as it did this year, and as we bragged about and compared gifts that afternoon, I saw that both boys had received lots of hunting related stuff like chest waders, gun cleaning kits and such. It turned out both boys and their Dad were taking off after dinner to go duck hunting down at Wister Waterfowl Refuge on the edge of the Salton Sea down in the Imperial Valley at the extreme south end of California.

After pleading with their Dad and getting an ok from my Dad, I was invited along as a buddy and spectator. Mr Fink made sure I had some sort of drab, almost camo clothing I could cover my new red Pendelton shirt, only warm thing I had to wear. So we drove down to Wister to get in line and sleep in the back of the Fink's 63 Ford wagon. We stopped off in the desert somewhere to cut down a bundle of Arrow weed to be used to build our blind the next morning.I remember standing out in the dirt parking area under a crystal clear starry night sky, hearing the honking of geese, whistling of duck wings and actually seeing stars get blocked out by birds as they flew over in what seemed like thousands. A couple hours before first light they open the check station and let us in car by car. Mr. Fink picked a good pond and off we were.

We drove to the spot unloaded about 100 decoys including a couple dozen old wood GW Teal decoys MR. Fink had from childhood. We hated those heavy old decoys, much preferring the lighter, modern plastic decoys. Now I know why MR Fink relented on recruiting another kid. Those were the days when kids did all the heavy work while the grownups did the supervising, I don't know how that got changed around when I grew up? Anyway we luged the arrow weed, decoys, guns and all out there, lucky for me that day I didn't have waders so the Fink boys got to set out all of the decoys while MR. Fink taught me how to build a blind.

We were finished and all set up with about twenty minutes to shoot time. That was my first experience with what is to me my favorite part of the hunt, those last minutes of anticipation, with lots of birds flying all around and even landing in the decoys. I don't know if my memory is embellished by time, but I swear that first half hour of shoot time before sunrise was like the old American Sportsman, there were hundreds of ducks working the decoys and Mr. Fink could not miss. It was nothing but Teal but I swear that morning shoot was unbelievable. We didn't have a dog, all birds were shot stone cold dead and Mr. Fink didn't want to pause to retrieve a bird until the "morning shoot" was over. After the sun rose things slowed down and the boys went about the work of retrieving the ducks with their new waders, I think they picked up over half the 21 duck limit right there.

Even after the sun came up on a blue bird day the ducks continued to come in a couple at a time. Danny who was 14 and I sat in the blind together. I didn't have a gun or a license yet so I just soaked it all in. Danny shot a 20 ga. Remington 11-48 and 12 year old David had the Savage .410-.22 over under you see me holding in the picture. David's method was to sneak around the pond and drainage canals to jump shoot with that little .410, believe me that took hunting skill and he was good at it.

Anyway by noon we were all limited out, and we picked up all the gear to haul back to the station wagon where Mr. Fink took that picture of me holding their limit of Teal. I took hunter safety the next summer and received the surprise of my life when my Dad gave me a brand new Winchester Model 1200 pump for my birthday. I was ready to join the Finks for the 1966 opener and I haven't missed a season since.

How about some stories of your first hunt. Thanks for reading...

John

 

[Derek and Xena]

Heckuva first experience!!! Thanks for that story. That picture would make a cool painting for the wall!

My first day ever was nothing compared to that. I was 13 or 14 I think. My dad and I hiked through a dense hardwood forest right across from our house in northern MN to a small spring fed lake called, imagine that, "spring lake". It was small, shallow, weedy, and floating bog everywhere. The lake took on a different shape every year as the bog moved around. There was a crick flowing in and out of the lake. We sat for a while and watched a 100 or so mallards land on the outflow of the lake, opposite of where we were at. We had no decoys, just sitting there waiting for a passing shot. My dad told me to stay put and he walked through the trees over to the other end and jumped the ducks and they magically circled right on top of me. I was so mesmerized that I pulled up and "flock shot" 3 times, and missed 3 times. I think I shot one wood duck that day.

 

[Al Hansen]

Nostalgia-----you have to love it. What a great shot and more wonderful was the story. Thanks for taking the time to share it. Sure can see how you got hooked so easily! What a great place for your first hunt.
Al

 

[Dave Church]

View attachment firstduck.jpgIt wasn't my first hunt, but my most memorable. I had bought a three wheeler from working the the soybean fields all summer and used it to haul my dog, gun, and gear down to Salt Creek (a small central Illinois river) I had 3 decoys that my dad had won at a DU banquet and I hauled all of them down the bank and set up on a sand bar. I was 15 and went by myself because my dad preferred pheasants over ducks. The water was only about 50-60 yards wide where I was sitting and I played with my duck call as I waited for legal shooting time. I practiced my feed chuckles and to my surprise I heard a couple quacks from the other side of the river. I assumed a duck or two was along the darkened north bank and I shivered with excitement that I might have a chance at them. I slowly loaded my dad's old Remington Model 11 semi-auto and waited. It was only about 5 minutes until legal shooting time when I heard a shotgun go off, water spray up around my decoys and a stinging in my left arm. I had just been shot from someone on the other side of the river! I yelled STOP and hid down behind a deadfall with my heart racing. I heard someone mumble something in a panicked voice and scramble up the far bank. Moments later I heard a truck door shut, an engine roar to life, and someone speed down an old farming road. I took my canvas coat off and pulled up my sleeve to see a few welts, but no breaks in the skin or blood. He must have heard the feed chuckle and could make out the silhouette of my decoys and thought they were real. I was so dumb back then that I actually thought I must be a better caller than I actually was if I was fooling hunters. The sun came up a little later and revealed 4 mallard decoys floating against the far bank where the hunter had been sitting. One of my decoys was gone from being hit, another listed, half sunk, to it's left side so I decided that the ones the hunter had left behind now belonged to me. I waded across the stream (chest deep and wearing hip boots) and plucked up four old plastic decoys and added them to my "spread". I figured if I got shot once or twice more I could have a solid dozen..haha! I shot a wood duck drake that morning and claimed it as my first duck. If I can dig up the photo, I will post it soon. dc

 

[John Klingenstein]

I really enjoy looking at "vintage" outdoor shots whether they are hunting/fishing/camping. Your accompanying story is icing on the cake.

Thanks for sharing

 

[Al Hansen]

John, I hope you don't mind if I tell about one of my most memorable hunts. I don't think I can remember back to 1954 anymore!!! This hunt took place in the fall of 2003 when the area that I hunted had an exceptional crop of smart weed. I no longer hunt there because the BOR has dredged the Rio Grande and taken away this beautiful spot. If you are wondering why---By dredging the Rio they make the water flow faster. If it flows faster less water will evaporate and more will make it Texas and Mexico so that their treaties will be adhered to. Sound confusing? It is but it is very real.

Nov. 2003
How would anyone even dream of this possibility? When I was driving to my hunting area, sipping on coffee, and contemplating on what I should do, I finally made a decision that I would take the ducks as they came into the decoys. I definitely didn’t want to “just shoot greenheads”. Some times that gets old.
At first light a gorgeous drake widgeon flew past me in the blind and I was lucky enough to shoot him as he was going away. Not too much later, a small flock of widgeons came by and I was able to call them in. I took out two beautiful drakes from that bunch. Chili really shined on the second widgeon. I’ll bet that she hadn’t been in the blind for thirty seconds when a single drake widgeon put on the brakes in mid-air, over my spread, and I took him. I was now looking at four gorgeous drake widgeons and at that time I thought that perhaps I would take a nice limit of six of them today.
Once again I happened to be watching my pup, who by the way is now just nine months old, and I saw that she had a fixed gaze on something. I followed it and sure enough she had spotted a small flock of ducks coming closer to our area. After their first pass, I saw that the flock was made up of gadwalls and mallards. It was right then and there that I thought that if they would make one more pass, I would try for the drake mallards. As luck would have it, they did make a second pass and when they did, the flock flew directly overhead. On my first shot, I took the drake mallard on the left and then I quickly focused on another greenhead which was on the right side of the flock. I shot and he crumpled, landing not twenty feet from us. My puppy was coming back with the first bird in her mouth when I spotted the band on its leg. “My Gosh,” was what came out of my mouth! That bird represented #5 for this year. How could that be? As I stood there gaping at the banded greenhead in my hand, Chili was off retrieving the second drake. She came back to the blind with it and I nonchalantly took it from her when all of a sudden, I happened to see that this one was banded, also. It is impossible for me to even try and explain my feelings. Just think, taking a double out of a small flock of ducks and then having both of them wearing bands. This time my mouth was open but no words came out-----------
When I looked at the number sequences on the bands, I noticed that one was probably banded in Colorado and the other one was most likely banded in New Mexico. After I received the banding information from the government, I found out that I was right.
I think that I am the luckiest duck hunter in North America. Well, anyway, I sure feel that way. I have the greatest wife, a wonderful life, and a phenomenal place to hunt ducks. Holy cats, I have taken six banded ducks this year! WHAT A DAY!
Al

 

[Ray]

My first hunt or when I first went hunting with my Dad…hmmm…that was a long time ago and I was really little. The first time I tagged along was for chucker out on the old US Highway 50 route near one of the pony express rock corrals. There was a parking area there just off the macadam road surface where some trails started. I remember tagging along and bird dogging for Dad. I climbed up the basalt rock cliffs and flushed birds off the ridge line. Some birds rocketed down towards Dad and his Model 24 16 gauge, but most did not. There was an actual bird dog along. The old setter Sam was getting too old to climb the rocks and ridges and staid near Dad to make the retrieves.

I recall looking down from a rock perch to where the old Travel-All was parked with Mom and Sis wandering around the sage brush near the pony express area looking for old stuff. Stop, scuff with your toe, move a few steps, scuff with toe, pick up what ever showed up and decide if you wanted to keep it. It appeared I was miles away from them way down there in the valley. When you are six years old any view like that takes on a scale out of proportion with reality.

Thinking about that day now I wonder how many modern American parents would let their six year old child climb 600 to 800 feet up a rocky ridge to flush birds. Some of the basalt ledges were about 8 feet tall, but easy to climb up. I am wondering now how I climbed down? I must have gone to a cut in the rocks and scooted down on the scree.

The next year the folks took my sister and me with them deer hunting near Elko. The previous two falls we spent a long 4 day weekend with the other “opening day” orphan children. We spent three days in deer camp and then one day in fish camp on the way back home. On opening day we head out and head to toe in hunter orange was I. At this time in Nevada it was “The Guns of Autumn” style hunting with the city folk and OOSers shooting all day while “hunting”. There were probably a few country folk in there too, but most of the camps along the main BLM road into the area had California plates as well as Washoe county plates. There were even a few Clark county plates. Dad said it was not like this the previous years and he was wondering what had changed.

We came up to a ridge and looked across one small valley. There was shooting going on, but Dad and I could not see deer or the guys shooting. We sat on some rocks and watched. A young man came out of the aspen on the far ridge and yelled down the valley, “Dad I’m out of shells!” Way down the valley comes the reply, “Come down and get another box.” I was puzzled to say the least. I knew a box of shells was a lot of shots, so where were all the dead deer? Dad answered that he had yet to hit anything and was just shooting stuff. “Won’t that scare off the deer?” Dad replied in the affirmative and said we better move out of here and go further up the mountain away from the main road.

That is when a small forked horn appeared and was bounding in its mule deer way up the bottom of the valley. It was caught in a cross fire from both ridges. Dad did not realize how many other hunters were around us and he pushed me down into the rocks in case someone shot up rather than down at the deer. The deer was gut shot and spurting blood from several holes. Dad muttered one of those Navy words I was not supposed to hear, shouldered his old iron sighted Springfield, aimed and hit the running deer in the head. It was the coolest thing ever. I had watched dad hit birds many times but this was a deer! The deer was swarmed by the other shooters and it did not take more than a minute before the fist fight started over who was going to tag the deer. I asked Dad a lot of questions that morning while we watched the ruckus and learned a lot about ethics in the process. We left the deer to the swarm and moved up the valley to some quieter spots. Over the next two days Mom and dad filled each of their doe and buck tags and we headed back to Wild Horse reservoir for some trout fishing before the long drive home.

The first time actually hunting was in the same valley off old Highway 50 when I was 9. I carried my Winchester Model 1904 .22 single shot rifle (unloaded) as Dad and I rabbit hunted with friends. The plan was to spot a cotton tail and then let me take a poke at it with my rifle. At that age I could shoot a soda can sized target at 20 yards and not miss so the plan would have worked well if there was a rabbit to be seen. Oh what freedom! I was walking in the wilderness of central Nevada with my own rifle on the same soil that the pony express had traveled over just 100 years prior. No rabbits were found that day, but the adults did take a few chuckers later in the day.

A few moves around the west and I was finally a teen and hunting with a loaded gun in hand. I learned I could not hit the side of a barn with a shotgun. Rifles were so much easier so I stuck with deer and rabbits, but gave the grouse and chucker and some ducks all I could.

Since this is a duck hunting site I suppose I should tell of my first day duck hunting when I was 14. Even though I was a horrible shot gunner I still pestered Dad to take me out. We had spent several nights one summer frog gigging in a small impoundment. As we walked around the area I noticed all these little islands with willow blinds on them and rusting empties. We were wading in jeans and sneakers with a gunny sack on a rope while shining the frogs and gigging them. The water was up to my waist which is about mid thigh on Dad. Looking at these blinds and knowing how many ducks are in this marsh all year long got me to thinking seriously about duck hunting. This marsh is close to Stillwater and we spent time out there messing about and bird watching in the summers, but we never hunted there.

Come winter the water is about a foot lower, but not ideal for jeans and sneakers wading, so Dad lets me wear mom’s hip boots. Dad is a jump shooter by nature so after an hour of sitting next to a channel and missing the teal rocketing pass with the wind; he decides it would be easier on me if we walk around the marsh in the Tule reeds and jump up some birds. As Dad takes off he does not consider that my hip boots are not as tall as his hip boots. About 40 minutes into the walk I was wet in places I didn’t want wet in the winter, but I had managed to not step into a cat fish hole and fill up my boots. As we come around a point of reeds a half dozen mallards jump up and I move my feet to get some balance as I shoulder the gun. I missed the birds, but had finally found a catfish hole and filled up both boots.

As Dad worked his way into the reeds to find his bird a flock of teal came around and tried to set down in the open spot I was standing in. I had not reloaded and in trying to do so the birds took off with the wind and were gone. Dad was pretty upset that I had not reloaded and taken a shot at those birds. I had been surrounded by over a dozen landing teal for about 10 seconds. It was one of the coolest moments out of doors up to that time. The Sasquatch moment a few years earlier in Oregon was not nearly as cool as this.

We duck hunted a few more times that winter and I still could not hit anything flying. It was not soon after then that we moved to Alaska. Out on Adak to break up the boredom we started shooting some clays and it was only a few months before I figured out the whole wing shooting thing. The ptarmigan were no longer safe, but we never went duck hunting since the water was too deep to wade in even with chest waders. Had I known then what I know now I would not have missed those opportunities.

Years later, and not too long ago now, a co worker new in state from Montana talked me into going duck hunting with him. We went to a spot he had learned about through someone in DU. It turned into a comedy of errors when we parked and he discovered that he had brought his .270 and not his shotgun. They are stored in identical cases so in the dark one looked like the other. Well since we are here we might as well keep going and off into the muck we went. We walked out with my one old 11-48 “trash” gun to be used between us. My buddy was leery of an auto loader older than him. However, I assured him that once it tore off a small piece of your thumb stuffing the second shell into the magazine it will be fine.

As we sat on a log in knee high grass one lone greenhead comes in to the three decoys on the sheet water out in front of us. It hangs there feet down and fluttering its wings as I watch it. My mind is lost to time and a moment long ago. My gunless friend emphatically whispers “take’m!” and I come to, mount the gun and cleanly miss the bird as it rises and leaves. On the second shot I loose my balance and fall backward off the log into the grass and get to watch the bird gain altitude.

As marsh muck made its way down my back into my chest waders soaking my jeans I started laughing. That greenhead was not landing on top of me like the teal were decades ago, but the ash was blown off and an old fire was rekindled that morning. My buddy pulled me up out of the muck, and a few minutes later another bird came in and I cleanly hit it taking my first duck about 20 years after my first duck hunt.

The illness has metastised now and has extended into my wood working hobby as well as my fishing hobby. Every fishing trip is also a duck scouting trip. Every tool is considered for its usefulness for building a boat as well as furniture, or heaven help me decoy carving. I am told that Benelli makes a cure, but I am sure it is just another snake oil gimmick. Maybe, just maybe an old M1 will slow things down enough that I can keep a lid on it.