mike Warichak
Member
The Blur
A marathon of pain was about to overtake my life. Presented on paper it appeared as a three prong attack. I was getting hit from three sides in simultaneous fashion. At attacks end lay my shaky sensibilities and good judgment. The left hook was duck seasons first big storm. A waterfowlers true dream of strong northwest winds and bitter cold. Coupled with a little rain, sleet and snow for good measure. That right punch was coinciding with the first. A four day doe only season that I always looked forward to taking part in. A short tease of a season that is usually spent in the oak studded ravines of Mt. Horeb. Her countryside ripe with falls colors and Terry Redlin type setting. The last blow, plowing through the center of me, was that nagging obligation called work. My daily donation of time toward a piece of the American Dream. Financial years ending no less. Can't use leftover vacation time. My pleading, for a personal day or two, falls on deaf ears as well. Duck storm/deer season doesn't measure up to the mitigating circumstances laid out in my employee handbook, or so I'm told. It will be as first described, a marathon of pain.
“I can do anything for a day,” I mumble. It's the motivation used to pry myself from a warm bed. Just four hours ago I punched out from work. “Hey, you took 2nd shift for this specific reason,” reminding myself. A very shrewd rationalization that ends the internal discussion. I then begin the very well practiced process of, don't wake the wife, don't forget enough cloths and don't wake the wife.
Knowing I don't have a moment to waste, I take great pride in how efficient I've made the process. A tidy hour of driving from doorstep to boat landing. Half an hour alloted to launch and motor into my big bay spot. Twisted frustration for the weekend warrior but sweet solitude for my Wednesday excursion. Its then finished off with a neat half an hour of setting the blocks and hiding the boat. A perfectly orchestrated two hours.
As the first two hours pass on this gloomy morning, many flaws in my game plan become apparent. Nothing is stirred up. No birds are moving prior to the big storm. One lone drake mallard came by and died in the decoys. The humidity has steadily increased and is somewhat ominous. By the third hour of my hunt the heavens open up. Open up with a thunderstorm so strong I fear my boat may swamp before reaching the landing.
All those illusions of grandeur are now washed away. Hastily isn't a word just enough for my movements. I rampage through my gear not caring where it all goes. Just so it goes somewhere. A gnawing fear in the back of my mind becomes reality with the first bolt of lightening.
Repeating itself with lessoning intervals, yet another icy white finger reaches down from the sky. My life here now likened to a carnival game with Mother Nature throwing her darts at me. With luck and little else I'm spared being her prize today. That trusty 4.5 engine came through again.
Now drained of both coffee and adrenaline I stand in my kitchen dressed only in a wet T-shirt boxer combination. The trucks heater had worked overtime to keep me reasonably warm. Duffel bags of drenched gear accompany each of my sides. I pray to make it to the basement dryer without further incident. However, further incident sensed my homecoming and walked into the room with a cold unforgiving stare.
“Hypothermia mean anything to you?” That cutting tone in her voice. Before she can get another word in edge wise, I articulate. “Honey, (pause for effect), I rolled the dice. I gambled precious sleep against a limit of birds. My wager on birds lost but in the same breath I gained another morning outdoors.” I could see her relaxing the obvious tension in her face. With me appearing unharmed, she seemed content on loving me despite my flawed ways. Only days later when learning of lightening did she mutter the word moron.
Thursday comes as quickly as Wednesday goes. My menial tasks were done, eight hours of work was gone and three quick hours of sleep is just now behind me. I laid there an extra minute or two, trying desperately to get my wits about me. Knees feel a little achy, back a tad sore but the only motivation needed this a.m. is the sound of a roaring wind against the window. My mind reading like the Wall street ribbon. A continuous stream of thoughts focused solely on today's perfection.
Perfection is an illusion lost upon arrival. Getting launched and underway was proving to be quite a chore. The storms debris was littering the entire boat launch. Even the poor port-a-potty couldn't escape it's wrath. Laying on it's side in a final resting spot somewhere near the middle of the parking lot. My gear is either wet, damp or dirty from yesterday's debacle. Strewn, crumpled and or crammed into some far corner of the truck. “Who cares, just get the hell launched” I grumble into the unrelenting wind. The final wind blown car door on my shin puts an exclamation point on the experience.
The long winding river that leads to the bay was no easier. Sleet now pelting my face raw. Squalls of snow race through the Q-beam light as I try to navigate the many snags. A concrete wall of wind and waves greets me as I round an unprotected bend. I've never seen it this bad in the river before. Do I turn back? Do I press forward? Am I shaking from the piercing cold wind or shaking from being scared to death? I can no long distinguish. A youthful sense of purpose and dedication seem woefully inadequate when matched up against Ma Nature. It takes a painful amount of time, effort and focus before I reach the top of the bay.
Within moments of being setup, Mother Nature is reveling her riches to me. The front edge of this storm has landed the first wave of the migration squarely in my lap. I find myself lamenting the fact that I can't stay longer to saver the spectacle she's provided. Make no mistake, I'm doing a great injustice to this day by committing no better than a smash and grab on the famed Horicon marsh. All those thoughts aside, within the first three hours I have a perfectly mixed limit of big beautiful drakes. Four perfectly plumaged greenheads, one over sized black duck and a very mountable widgeon.
Rudely I'm snapped from the dream like state and faced with more hard reality. I have to get home, work beckons. My hands, grotesque looking, are numb, swollen and not functioning well. Fifteen dollars worth of hand warmers fight a losing battle on various parts of my body. Waves lick dangerously close to my wader tops as I fight to pick up the decoys. Losing my grip for a second sends the boat slamming across my body. That is gonna leave a mark, I think to myself. The warm sensation of adrenalin washes over me and keeps the inevitable exhaustion at bay for a while longer. She eases up her terrible winds and provides a small window for me to slip out of, unscathed yet again.
“Those are some awesome looking birds Mike,” she comments as I sit down. “Thanks,” is all that I can muster as I plop down into the chair.. “Well, thats all you have to say for yourself,” she says laughingly? “You really look like hell ya know. How are you holding up?” The sympathy starting to show. “I could use a hot shower and a half hour nap before work,” I speak as the warm house drains what energy I have left. Hand warmers fall on the bathroom floor as I peel the many layers from my dieing body. “Where did that nasty bruise come from?” I should of known she'd notice. It's the punishment I pay for having married a cop. “Wind caught my shin in the truck door.” “How about that big one across your bicep?” “Boat hit me picking up the decoys.” “My God, look at your hands!” “Yea, they hurt too.” So far she knows better than to ask if it was worth it or not.
I know it's not over though. “Your not planning on going tomorrow, ARE YOU?” Conversations tone has clearly turned. “Thinken about it. Storm is suppose to last until noon.” I can see she isn't having it and won't go down without a fight. Moments of looking over my ragged body gives her the courage to inniate the finishing blow. “When will it be enough? At what point will you have gotten out enough? Well I'll tell you something else, your not going deer hunting this weekend. Your gonna sleep.” My retort seems futile but I have to say it anyways, “I was planning on leaving around 3a.m. As to be in my stand by shooting time Saturday morning.” She looks puzzled and confused. Obviously she is just trying to save me from myself and I do appreciate it. “Fine,” she relents, “but no alarm clock on Saturday, you can leave when you wake up by natures clock.” “Deal,” I respond while dragging my tired butt into the shower. “You still have to get through tomorrow before you can even think about Saturday though,” she states in defiance. I know in her heart she believes I'll come to my senses. Only true duck hunters know though, I've lost my senses a long long time ago.
I punch the snooze button for a third time, eyes closing immediately afterward. “Turn the damn thing off then if your not getting up.” Funny how that voice sets me straight up in the dark. I sit on the edge of the bed, rocking slowly. You can do anything for a day, you can do anything for a day. Last I remember I was reading my efficiency reports for the last couple of days of work, marveling at the fact that they are over 100%, while I'm clearly not. This a.m. Finds my knees swollen and sore. Back more than a tad tight, reminding me of football days gone by. But that wind is moving strong again and a little voice inside me calls out “you'll regret it if you don't.” And again, “you'll regret it if you don't.” So I answer the bell once more, limping, dragging and painfully putting myself into all the somewhat dry cloths I can find. As I quietly shut the door behind me I hear the sigh of an utterly perplexed wife.
I'm sitting at the top of the bay putting the last touches on my makeshift blind. Laughing at how I unwittingly am staring in my own groundhog day movie. Her fresh air and wind sharpen my dulled senses. Now fully awake, unlike the miserable drive up, windows down, stereo blasting, just to keep my eyes open for a bit longer. A once efficient process now likened to someones college thesis on the chaos theory. Nothing is where it should be. Nothing is completely dry or muck free from the day before. And the smell is something altogether unmentionable. It's immediately forgiven and forgotten as the cold October sun pushes into the horizon.
Unlike the process, the plan is again flawless. Birds and the sheer number of birds is impressive. Birds foreign to this marsh, just looking for some calm water to rest in before continuing south. I sit and enjoy all the feelings my five senses have trigged. I'm blessed to have had such an opportunity to enjoy this. The experience only poorer for not having shared it with someone else. It takes a mere two and a half hours, bad shooting aside, to again fill up on a limit of six beautiful drakes. I linger for a time, gun cased, to steal a few more memories of what all us waterfowlers dream about.
“I guess I don't have to ask how it was,” she says as I plunk down todays take. “I wish I could describe to you how amazing the last two days have been,” it's my inadequate response. Knowing in my heart any words or descriptions I use are going to fall hopelessly short. “I know, I know,” she says, “but you also know I worry about you and think your more than a bit crazy too. This is not normal.” “Well,” I start, as I kiss her on the cheek, “Thank you for not holding it against me.” “Go take a shower and I'll get a hot lunch ready for you. Remember, tomorrow you sleep.” I don't even have it in me to argue. Tomorrow I sleep. Deer be damned, they'll get hunted at some point in the next two days.. But for now she's right, tomorrow I shall sleep.
