Steve Sanford
Well-known member
This morning found me afield once again without Cap'n Nemo - nor his 3-year-old Lab Boo. I could have used both....
I made sure to hunt this morning because the falling mercury will be sealing up our small waters soon. And, since our Deer Season (rifle) opens Saturday morning, we will be effectively done at one of our local favorites - perhaps for the entire season, perhaps just for a week or so. And so I was once again on a solo hunt.
A Black Duck stooled in early - and then left before Shooting Time. I could hear and just "sense" other big puddle ducks entering the beaver flow but nothing came to the rig.
Nothing happened until about 20 minutes in. With plenty of light, 4 Mallards circled the rig from behind me. One dropped right in - but long. With no wind and adult intelligence, most birds opt for the safety of mid-pond - away from cover of any kind. Such behavior offers a 35 or 40 yard opportunity - but only as they are about to land - not my favorite shot. The other 3 passed right over me during their inspection tour - nice 15-yard belly shots and twice! - but a lifetime of ingrained behavior - "Wait 'til they stool!" - kept me stock still. A foolish decision when there is none of Great South Bay's brisk wind about to encourage them to get right up into a lee. (This being my 50th year gunning, I am hoping that foolish mistakes will disappear from my "menu" during Season 51.....)
So, I let them land and watched as 3 Drakes and one Hen swam out of sight - over toward a little bay that Black Ducks seem to love. But, after a few minutes, they began to paddle my way, even serenading themselves with a bit of chuckling. I fixed the "go/no go"spot in my mind and waited. When they stopped steaming in and quartered alongshore - at about 25 yards - I rose and hollered (the latter another behavior learned from my Dad in my earliest youth). I dropped the Drake - with the able assistance of my Model 12 and Kent Fasteel 3s - and then swung on the Hen - the other 2 Drakes having headed south post haste. I dropped the Hen, too, but could not be sure she was dead. In fact, I thought I could see her steaming into the cover from the open water where she had fallen. Oh, for another set of eyes! And, could Boo handle this one?
Of course, I next violated another ingrained behavior: "Never take your eyes off a downed bird!" I had no choice. The water was too deep for the "walk straight to it" approach and the canoe was hidden behind me in the woods. (Hunting from my Sneakbox on salt water, I could do both - keep the bird in sight and get the boat under way.) By the time I was afloat, the Hen was out of sight. I paddled to the Drake, helped him onto the forward seat, and then continued on to where I had last seen the Hen. My Exultation of the Double was replaced by Fear of Losing a Bird - the stronger emotion by far. I had lost no birds (that I know of) yet this season, so the scoreboard I carry around in my head read either 18-0 or 17-1. I would do what I could to keep my record clean.
The bird had fallen in open water but at the edge of sparse cover. Beyond that, though, was a haven for Unlucky Ducks: a dense carpet of Reed Canarygrass standing in about a foot of water. Two things were in my favor, though. One, there was a fringe of windowpane ice around the edges. It's not as good as snow but it could certainly tell the tale of a skulking bird.
And, the bottom is fairly firm. I could walk through the grass and search. I went in where I last saw her, walking the ever-widening circles without luck. No feathers, no blood, no broken window panes. After about 15 minutes, I began to despair. Time to widen the search and get back in the canoe. I paddled into Black Duck Bay - all the fringing ice remained intact.
I then paddled along the beaver dam itself. No ice there. If a bird hopped over the dam, though, it would be gone forever. Same story in the adjoining White Pine woods. No clues, no evidence, so no sense in searching. I got back aboard and re-visited the Site Last Seen.
Thinking like a duck - another life-long habit - I espied a dark little spot, an opening in the Canarygrass just big enough for a duck (or Muskrat, more likely). "If I were a duck and fell right about here, I would head right for that little tunnel" I "reasoned".
So, I made landfall and inspected. It was a dead end, but certainly could have been the Ellis Island for my Hen. I forged ahead, tighter circles this time. I had not gone another 4 yards when I heard a welcome sound. Not a flutter or quack but a big splash. So big, in fact, that I could not help but think Muskrat or even Beaver. I worked my way over - just 6 or 7 yards, and was rewarded with that most welcome flapping sound - and splashing and quacking! In fact, my Hen swam right out into the weeds - she would not venture onto open water - and began to quack - loudly and indignantly. I let her get about 18 yards away - she would not go further - and then administered the coup de tete.
The hunt sort of ended there. My Winchester - that paragon of reliability since 1925 - was stuck open. I could see a shell in the magazine - not in the chamber, thankfully - but there was no budging anything. A pair of Mallards should be good enough for anyone - and I had work to do - so I headed back. With the gun cased, I picked up the rig and headed homeward.
(The Model 12 is now all apart and enjoying a thorough bath. I have no doubt it'll be campaigning again in tomorrow morning's snow.)
All the best,
SJS
I made sure to hunt this morning because the falling mercury will be sealing up our small waters soon. And, since our Deer Season (rifle) opens Saturday morning, we will be effectively done at one of our local favorites - perhaps for the entire season, perhaps just for a week or so. And so I was once again on a solo hunt.
A Black Duck stooled in early - and then left before Shooting Time. I could hear and just "sense" other big puddle ducks entering the beaver flow but nothing came to the rig.
Nothing happened until about 20 minutes in. With plenty of light, 4 Mallards circled the rig from behind me. One dropped right in - but long. With no wind and adult intelligence, most birds opt for the safety of mid-pond - away from cover of any kind. Such behavior offers a 35 or 40 yard opportunity - but only as they are about to land - not my favorite shot. The other 3 passed right over me during their inspection tour - nice 15-yard belly shots and twice! - but a lifetime of ingrained behavior - "Wait 'til they stool!" - kept me stock still. A foolish decision when there is none of Great South Bay's brisk wind about to encourage them to get right up into a lee. (This being my 50th year gunning, I am hoping that foolish mistakes will disappear from my "menu" during Season 51.....)
So, I let them land and watched as 3 Drakes and one Hen swam out of sight - over toward a little bay that Black Ducks seem to love. But, after a few minutes, they began to paddle my way, even serenading themselves with a bit of chuckling. I fixed the "go/no go"spot in my mind and waited. When they stopped steaming in and quartered alongshore - at about 25 yards - I rose and hollered (the latter another behavior learned from my Dad in my earliest youth). I dropped the Drake - with the able assistance of my Model 12 and Kent Fasteel 3s - and then swung on the Hen - the other 2 Drakes having headed south post haste. I dropped the Hen, too, but could not be sure she was dead. In fact, I thought I could see her steaming into the cover from the open water where she had fallen. Oh, for another set of eyes! And, could Boo handle this one?
Of course, I next violated another ingrained behavior: "Never take your eyes off a downed bird!" I had no choice. The water was too deep for the "walk straight to it" approach and the canoe was hidden behind me in the woods. (Hunting from my Sneakbox on salt water, I could do both - keep the bird in sight and get the boat under way.) By the time I was afloat, the Hen was out of sight. I paddled to the Drake, helped him onto the forward seat, and then continued on to where I had last seen the Hen. My Exultation of the Double was replaced by Fear of Losing a Bird - the stronger emotion by far. I had lost no birds (that I know of) yet this season, so the scoreboard I carry around in my head read either 18-0 or 17-1. I would do what I could to keep my record clean.
The bird had fallen in open water but at the edge of sparse cover. Beyond that, though, was a haven for Unlucky Ducks: a dense carpet of Reed Canarygrass standing in about a foot of water. Two things were in my favor, though. One, there was a fringe of windowpane ice around the edges. It's not as good as snow but it could certainly tell the tale of a skulking bird.
And, the bottom is fairly firm. I could walk through the grass and search. I went in where I last saw her, walking the ever-widening circles without luck. No feathers, no blood, no broken window panes. After about 15 minutes, I began to despair. Time to widen the search and get back in the canoe. I paddled into Black Duck Bay - all the fringing ice remained intact.
I then paddled along the beaver dam itself. No ice there. If a bird hopped over the dam, though, it would be gone forever. Same story in the adjoining White Pine woods. No clues, no evidence, so no sense in searching. I got back aboard and re-visited the Site Last Seen.
Thinking like a duck - another life-long habit - I espied a dark little spot, an opening in the Canarygrass just big enough for a duck (or Muskrat, more likely). "If I were a duck and fell right about here, I would head right for that little tunnel" I "reasoned".
So, I made landfall and inspected. It was a dead end, but certainly could have been the Ellis Island for my Hen. I forged ahead, tighter circles this time. I had not gone another 4 yards when I heard a welcome sound. Not a flutter or quack but a big splash. So big, in fact, that I could not help but think Muskrat or even Beaver. I worked my way over - just 6 or 7 yards, and was rewarded with that most welcome flapping sound - and splashing and quacking! In fact, my Hen swam right out into the weeds - she would not venture onto open water - and began to quack - loudly and indignantly. I let her get about 18 yards away - she would not go further - and then administered the coup de tete.
The hunt sort of ended there. My Winchester - that paragon of reliability since 1925 - was stuck open. I could see a shell in the magazine - not in the chamber, thankfully - but there was no budging anything. A pair of Mallards should be good enough for anyone - and I had work to do - so I headed back. With the gun cased, I picked up the rig and headed homeward.
(The Model 12 is now all apart and enjoying a thorough bath. I have no doubt it'll be campaigning again in tomorrow morning's snow.)
All the best,
SJS
