A few years back I recall reading a magazine article that both listed and gave a brief account of the five most historical duck hunting locations in the United States. To my surprise, one of these locations happened to be right here in the Pacific Northwest. The Lower Columbia River has a rich history and magnificent duck hunting culture that dates back well over 100 years, to a era when some of the first floating hunting shacks were constructed in the area. The article mentioned that this waterfowling mecca is primarily recognized for the large flocks of bluebill that over winter in the protected sloughs and backwaters surrounding the great river.
I have hunted the area a few times in the past, but can’t say that it is my “go to” location for Oregon duck hunting. Furthermore, I am not what one would refer to as “a diver hunter” even though I have taken bluebill on quite a few occasions. This year, with liberal limits and a crew of four hunters wanting not only to bag a few scaup, but also to throw ourselves head first into the diver hunting traditions of a vast and historical river, we set out for a weekend on the water.
The weather was cold and clear and the bird movement reflected the less than ideal conditions. Still though, four patient hunters sat over the blocks for two days, picking off a bird or two here and there, telling stories, and laughing together, content with the thought that nothing else existed in the world but ducks, decoys, guns, and camaraderie. We often sat in silence, maybe thinking of what hunting might have been like a century ago, or possibly just soaking in the crisp air, brilliant colors, and quiet sounds of the river and its peaceful offerings. In the evenings, we sat around by the wood stove not more than a quarter mile from where we spent the day, protected from the elements by four walls and a roof that were lashed to a couple pilings and floating on the waters of the river itself. I can’t believe it can get much better than that.
A true Marshbum...
At the end of the weekend, a thought crossed my mind. If I never were to shoot another bluebill again (and trust me I will), I would be more than satisfied. I was granted the opportunity to experience something greater than the act of shooting ducks. This was a chance to share in an experience with many men who came before me, the same men who passed their hunting traditions on to their children, who then passed them on to their children, with the hope of keeping the record alive. This weekend, I experienced a connection to generations past and also felt like I was a part of history.
The weekends take... 28 drake bills...
Geoff, Brian, and Pop…. what a pair of days afield it was. A memory I will cherish till the day I die.
Thanks!!!
I have hunted the area a few times in the past, but can’t say that it is my “go to” location for Oregon duck hunting. Furthermore, I am not what one would refer to as “a diver hunter” even though I have taken bluebill on quite a few occasions. This year, with liberal limits and a crew of four hunters wanting not only to bag a few scaup, but also to throw ourselves head first into the diver hunting traditions of a vast and historical river, we set out for a weekend on the water.
The weather was cold and clear and the bird movement reflected the less than ideal conditions. Still though, four patient hunters sat over the blocks for two days, picking off a bird or two here and there, telling stories, and laughing together, content with the thought that nothing else existed in the world but ducks, decoys, guns, and camaraderie. We often sat in silence, maybe thinking of what hunting might have been like a century ago, or possibly just soaking in the crisp air, brilliant colors, and quiet sounds of the river and its peaceful offerings. In the evenings, we sat around by the wood stove not more than a quarter mile from where we spent the day, protected from the elements by four walls and a roof that were lashed to a couple pilings and floating on the waters of the river itself. I can’t believe it can get much better than that.
A true Marshbum...
At the end of the weekend, a thought crossed my mind. If I never were to shoot another bluebill again (and trust me I will), I would be more than satisfied. I was granted the opportunity to experience something greater than the act of shooting ducks. This was a chance to share in an experience with many men who came before me, the same men who passed their hunting traditions on to their children, who then passed them on to their children, with the hope of keeping the record alive. This weekend, I experienced a connection to generations past and also felt like I was a part of history.
The weekends take... 28 drake bills...
Geoff, Brian, and Pop…. what a pair of days afield it was. A memory I will cherish till the day I die.
Thanks!!!
