Rick Pierce
Well-known member
Got a phone call from the intrepid Dr. Hathcock last week, and he issued an invitation to hunt at a private club south of Stuttgart. As further enticement, he mentioned that Hank Garvey and his son would be flying in to Arkansas to hunt with us. Not that I needed anything to sweeten the pot, but I hadn't had the chance to talk to Hank in way too long.
Plans were made, the rest of the week was too long, but I finally found myself on the road to Stuttgart and points beyond on Friday evening. I got to the lodge just in time to sit and eat home-cooked fried chicken and all the trimmings...timing is everything. Hank, Little Hank, and Steve (Hathcock) had already been out that morning, testing the waters, and between an early rising and good food, we didn't stay up too very late on Friday night. I know for a fact I had just dropped off to sleep when Steve rapped on my door to wake me up.
Little Hank was already up and ready to go, and after some coffee, putting on waders, fumbling with jackets, and all of the other "stuff", we piled in to a Suburban and took off. It was a short ride, and another short ride in an Argo 8-wheeler to the pit. Little Hank had never had the pleasure of gunning a ricefield pit blind, and when we pulled up, the look on his face when he figured it out was priceless.
We were greeted with a howling south wind and a pretty ominous sunrise.
But, there were bunches of ducks milling around. Most of them wanted to light in the open water about 200 yards south of us, but a few mistook our spread for live birds.
Thankfully, Doc Hathcock had his Lab, Ruarigh ("Rory" to the non-Celts), to handle some of the rough work for us. But, on one occasion, a passing group of snows gave us an opportunity, and a Ross' goose sailed to the edge of the field. Hank volunteered to go chase it with Ruarigh and took off, not realizing that he would go to the far eastern edge of our ricefield, and then spot the goose making its way across the next rice field over. He and Ruarigh did get the bird - testament to both of them. In the meantime, another group of snow geese passed over, and we rolled another bird out. Without a retriever, Doc Hathcock volunteered to slog through the mud.
The warm weather kept us from limits, or any big "muddy, bloody pile" of ducks, but it was a great morning. Any time fathers and sons spend together...
And, Little Hank learned about the Argo, and what fun it is to drive one...
I had to venture back to the house for a prior commitment Saturday evening, so I missed out on all the deer hunting escapades, but arrived back at the camp 11:30 Saturday night to find everyone already down for the count. I crawled into my own bed, and no time passed before I woke up and saw 5 a.m. on the clock. I laid there, thinking about the difficulty I'd had when wanting to signal Hank, or....Hank. "Hank" and "Little Hank" just didn't do it, and nothing else seemed to fit. Since everyone down here in the South eventually gets a nickname, and "Little Hank" just would not do, I thought about it, and two minutes later, "Skeeter" popped into my head. Once again, "Skeeter" was up and dressed before I was, and I saw Steve moving around, so I announced my thoughts on the matter. Dr. Hathcock agreed that indeed, "Skeeter" it was, and when Hank walked out from the bathroom, he just lowered his head and shook it.
After that dilemma was solved, it was off to another field. The pit, set into a good, tall levee, came fully equipped with two water snakes and a baby cottonmouth. One water snake was thrown out into the field, and the cottonmouth was introduced to a gun butt after coiling up in the corner of the pit. The other water snake...disappeared somewhere in the pit. We never found it.
Even though we ran off several hundred birds (ducks and geese) from around the pit, they didn't come back the way most of the stories tell you they will. Another even warmer day, with the same howling south wind kept most of the birds rafted up elsewhere. But, again, we did have a few chances.
This is "Skeeter" taking toll on a single teal that came screaming in. He made a great shot right after we settled in; a lone shoveler came in from the right (his side). We gave him the signal, and I readied my gun to back him up. His gun came up, he swung through, and his 20-gauge put the drake spoonbill bill-first into the mud with one shot. From the reaction of the four adults in the pit, you'd have sworn that we'd never seen anyone kill a duck before.
Skeeter keeping watch, trying to will birds into the air...
Towards the end of the hunt, someone noticed something odd about the mallard hen decoy in front of the pit...care to figure out what is wrong with this decoy?
That's the one from earlier, by the way. "Welcome to duck hunting in Arkansas"...
Last couple of photos
I would just like to take a minute to say that Hank and his son are two very fine people. "Skeeter" is one of the best young hunters I've been around in a long time - always enthusiastic and ready to go. More importantly, he's obviously learned some very solid lessons on safety, courtesy, and respect, and he (and his Dad) would definitely be welcome to hunt with me any time. Hank, you should be proud of the hunter that your son is becoming. Thanks for sharing a blind with me for a couple of days. I hope we get to do it again soon.
Thanks also to Steve Hathcock for the invite to tag along on the adventure. Definitely one for the books.
Plans were made, the rest of the week was too long, but I finally found myself on the road to Stuttgart and points beyond on Friday evening. I got to the lodge just in time to sit and eat home-cooked fried chicken and all the trimmings...timing is everything. Hank, Little Hank, and Steve (Hathcock) had already been out that morning, testing the waters, and between an early rising and good food, we didn't stay up too very late on Friday night. I know for a fact I had just dropped off to sleep when Steve rapped on my door to wake me up.
Little Hank was already up and ready to go, and after some coffee, putting on waders, fumbling with jackets, and all of the other "stuff", we piled in to a Suburban and took off. It was a short ride, and another short ride in an Argo 8-wheeler to the pit. Little Hank had never had the pleasure of gunning a ricefield pit blind, and when we pulled up, the look on his face when he figured it out was priceless.
We were greeted with a howling south wind and a pretty ominous sunrise.
But, there were bunches of ducks milling around. Most of them wanted to light in the open water about 200 yards south of us, but a few mistook our spread for live birds.
Thankfully, Doc Hathcock had his Lab, Ruarigh ("Rory" to the non-Celts), to handle some of the rough work for us. But, on one occasion, a passing group of snows gave us an opportunity, and a Ross' goose sailed to the edge of the field. Hank volunteered to go chase it with Ruarigh and took off, not realizing that he would go to the far eastern edge of our ricefield, and then spot the goose making its way across the next rice field over. He and Ruarigh did get the bird - testament to both of them. In the meantime, another group of snow geese passed over, and we rolled another bird out. Without a retriever, Doc Hathcock volunteered to slog through the mud.
The warm weather kept us from limits, or any big "muddy, bloody pile" of ducks, but it was a great morning. Any time fathers and sons spend together...
And, Little Hank learned about the Argo, and what fun it is to drive one...
I had to venture back to the house for a prior commitment Saturday evening, so I missed out on all the deer hunting escapades, but arrived back at the camp 11:30 Saturday night to find everyone already down for the count. I crawled into my own bed, and no time passed before I woke up and saw 5 a.m. on the clock. I laid there, thinking about the difficulty I'd had when wanting to signal Hank, or....Hank. "Hank" and "Little Hank" just didn't do it, and nothing else seemed to fit. Since everyone down here in the South eventually gets a nickname, and "Little Hank" just would not do, I thought about it, and two minutes later, "Skeeter" popped into my head. Once again, "Skeeter" was up and dressed before I was, and I saw Steve moving around, so I announced my thoughts on the matter. Dr. Hathcock agreed that indeed, "Skeeter" it was, and when Hank walked out from the bathroom, he just lowered his head and shook it.
After that dilemma was solved, it was off to another field. The pit, set into a good, tall levee, came fully equipped with two water snakes and a baby cottonmouth. One water snake was thrown out into the field, and the cottonmouth was introduced to a gun butt after coiling up in the corner of the pit. The other water snake...disappeared somewhere in the pit. We never found it.
Even though we ran off several hundred birds (ducks and geese) from around the pit, they didn't come back the way most of the stories tell you they will. Another even warmer day, with the same howling south wind kept most of the birds rafted up elsewhere. But, again, we did have a few chances.
This is "Skeeter" taking toll on a single teal that came screaming in. He made a great shot right after we settled in; a lone shoveler came in from the right (his side). We gave him the signal, and I readied my gun to back him up. His gun came up, he swung through, and his 20-gauge put the drake spoonbill bill-first into the mud with one shot. From the reaction of the four adults in the pit, you'd have sworn that we'd never seen anyone kill a duck before.
Skeeter keeping watch, trying to will birds into the air...
Towards the end of the hunt, someone noticed something odd about the mallard hen decoy in front of the pit...care to figure out what is wrong with this decoy?
That's the one from earlier, by the way. "Welcome to duck hunting in Arkansas"...
Last couple of photos
I would just like to take a minute to say that Hank and his son are two very fine people. "Skeeter" is one of the best young hunters I've been around in a long time - always enthusiastic and ready to go. More importantly, he's obviously learned some very solid lessons on safety, courtesy, and respect, and he (and his Dad) would definitely be welcome to hunt with me any time. Hank, you should be proud of the hunter that your son is becoming. Thanks for sharing a blind with me for a couple of days. I hope we get to do it again soon.
Thanks also to Steve Hathcock for the invite to tag along on the adventure. Definitely one for the books.
Those darn southern songs, some thing about "skeeter on my peter". I can't believe grown men trying to teach our son songs like that. I told him that song is not to be repeated ever again. So far we are doing ok. Hope it stays that way and skeeter sticks for his good shooting. Your right abotu the plastic decoys it is hard to shoot over them but when you are the guest of a guest you don't make a fuss about that. 
