The great Stuttgart Splashdown -PART VIII (final installment) NEW 3/3

We found that “perfect breakfast” on the outskirts of Stuttgart, grits and all. By an unwritten law around these parts, hunting is over at 9 A.M., and it is a rare day that guides will stay out longer, so there is plenty of time to socialize in this Kansas-flat section of Arkansas. The economy is based on rice and duck hunting, so either is a safe subject to one of the natives who are friendly to a fault. Living in a farm area myself, I know that there are better things to do this time of year than hosting out-of-town hunters; but we were welcomed with open arms at every stop, even by professional guides who tend to think of the mallards as a “crop” not to be wasted on non=paying freeloaders. The people of Stuttgart honestly could not have been more hospitable even to us Yankees.

Back at the hotel, Bobby Frizzel filled my empty hand with a drink before I could stow my gear, and invitations to game dinners, parties, and private hunt clubs took care of our eating requirements. One such “Critter Dinner” offered wild turkey, duck, deer, fish, squirrel, rabbit, and a variety of rich dishes and country gravy fit for a king or any other V.I.P.

Thanksgiving Day came with four inches of wet snow and a wade through green timber at 5 A.M. Dr. Bisbee, Mike, Joanie, and Ricky Pierce plus one unattached Buckeye followed a nice little fellow by the name of Jerry Garter into the flooded woods as if we were all following Moses into the Red Sea. The reason we were so trusting of our new-found friend, Jerry, is because he claimed he owned this swamp and was kind enough to warn us of underwater roots, limbs, and holes. Nevertheless, I managed to find some new ones that Jerry didn’t know about. We were led to a “hole” cut in the trees and found an opening hardly thirty yards long and half that distance wide. The idea appeared to be that the mallards were to drop down through the opening like smoke jumpers without the need of an approach. Now Woodducks I can believe in because I’ve seen them do the impossible, but I wanted to see a big fat mallard drop his flaps and hit this hole without breaking his neck in the process. Once again, the decoys were nothing to write home about, with shot holes and broken stool being the major fault; but as one old guide told me, “Hell, we got so many ducks we don’t even need decoys!” Sad words for a decoy carver to hear, but true.

Standing beside a substantial- looking tree with water halfway up my waders, I watched a big pileated woodpecker flit from tree to tree somewhat upset by the trespassers in his woods. Ducks were moving over the trees on their way to a rest pond, but none seemed to want to try cork-screwing into our little mud puddle until a pair of woodies buzzed us with their throttles wide open. I figured their elapsed time for doing the thirty yards was down in the milliseconds, and that we would need an early warning system to catch a duck at the middle of our opening. Other than another woodduck or two, we never saw anything within range. The ducks were taking Thanksgiving Day off, so we pulled up stakes and made our way back to Stuttgart where a nice, slow turkey waited in the oven.

Thanksgiving dinner with Dr. Bisbee’s and Mike Pierce’s families felt strange for a country boy whose only such dinners away from home had come as a guest of the Army. The doctor’s wife, Mary, introduced me to some new Southern dishes unknown to us backward Buckeyes. Purple hulled peas, cornbread dressing, broccoli and rice casserole, and too many more dishes to remember, along with the turkey and fixings. As I have done for almost fifty years, I ate too much, and suffered for my gluttony; but when sitting in at such a feast, it would be a dis-service to host and hostess not to make a damn fool of yourself.

I hated to eat and run, but we received word that there would be a judges meeting in one hour at Pat Stephens’ home on the other side of town. Meeting Mrs. Pat Stephens is an honor few duck hunters can say is commonplace if you know anything about duck calling. This petite and charming lady is the greatest woman duck caller the world has yet produced. Daughter of the legendary D.M. (“Chick”) Major (World Champion- 1945), and Mrs. Sophie Major (Women’s world Champion 1950 & 1964), Pat is the only woman to win the World Championship in 1955 and 1956, and the title of “Champion of Champions” (1960), competing against the best male callers in the world. Her beautiful home seemed the perfect place to inform us of the scoring procedures. Pat’s mother, Mrs. Sophie Major, was one of the first people I met, and of course she had one of her famous “Dixie” calls around her neck. She continues to manufacture these calls on a very limited basis; carrying on the enterprise started by her late husband, so many years ago. I confess I cannot help feeling a thrill to find myself among people who, to me, have something of a legendary quality about them. It is like you shared a bottle with Shang Wheeler and Elmer Crowell.

....to be continued
 
I had myself following this group as if into the Red Sea. Got a kick out of the "non-paying" freeloaders who were looking for the guide's cash crop of mallards.

Rick, thanks for what you had to say. It gave me another avenue to what takes place where you live and hunt. As a youngster back in the 50s who lived and dreamed of duck hunting, I could only envy those of you who lived in Arkansas.
It made me think of the time my parents took us on a trip heading towards New Orleans in 1952. We were in Arkansas at a small roadside park that had a pond. Dad pulled out our folding picnic table from the trunk of the 49 Nash and I helped him set it up. Of course I made a mad dash for the pond to see what it had to offer. "Hey dad, look at this," I yelled. I was about to pick up this black snake when I saw him make a mad dash towards me. He promptly told me to get to the picnic table and before we knew what was going on we were all in the car, driving south on the highway once again. It was then that he began telling me about cottonmouth snakes. I do remember how good that melon was because it wasn't much longer before we stopped again to eat it. I'll bet not many folks remember the time when you went to buy a melon, they would "plug" it for you. What they did was cut into the melon so that you could taste it. If you didn't like it, they would "plug" another one.

I see that Pat Stevens won her first championship in 1955, which was my 2nd year of duck hunting at the ripe old age of 14. My folks allowed me to go hunting by myself and I couldn't wait to get home from school to pedal my Schwinn out into the countryside where the landscape was dotted with potholes.

Thanks, Bob, for chapter 3.
Al
 
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Bob, you have really piqued my interest in these stories, I find myself wanting so much more...but, like any good writer, you leave us wanting MORE...and having to wait.

thanks for sharing.
 
Thanks for sharing this Bob. As a person who loves stories about those that paved the way for us and the history of things the story and this thread are a great read.

The part about salmon tasting like Lake Erie brought back a few memories. My grandma lived a short walk from Lake Erie in Michigan and the fish came out already flavored!
 
....Speaking of a more balanced tradition in waterfowl journalism and taking the opportunity to weave a lesson into a story on the "wrongness" of rationalizing a lack of ethics.... Well, let's just say that I think Joe is at his best in this segment of his story and lends support to Uncle Mike's point about what's changed.


My failure to bag any ducks was becoming a real concern to Bobby Frizzel and the whole contest committee. And I was getting a bit self-conscious about the matter myself; for when other folks start sympathizing with you, the pressure is on. Over the years, I have found I can do a credible job of hitting ducks on the creeks and ponds of Ohio, but as any hunter knows, it is an entirely different matter when you must play the other fellow’s game on his field. I have been dazzled by sea ducks with their lightning speed and ability to fly through clouds of chilled shot, while the baymen dropped these tricky targets all around me. The same goes for geese, divers, or puddle ducks. You perform best at what you are accustomed to. I am not accustomed to mallards trying to light on my head. Where do you aim at a duck that is dropping right out of the sky at your brisket? Everyone knows that you hold under him, but have you ever tried to crank down your barrel faster than a duck can drop? Such awkward moments give you something to think about as you bed down. Tomorrow, the pressure would be on again….

At 4 A.M. I received that same obscene phone call from the desk.
“4 A.M.? You’re kidding! Maybe I can slip a note under the door and tell them I’ve come down with tennis-elbow and football-knee. Naw, that wouldn’t work. They have pass keys for late sleepers and malingerers!”
A peek outside reveals Bobby Frizzel standing in the light from the office. “When does he sleep!?”, I wonder.
Dragging waders, shotgun, and shells down the steps and out to where Bobby stands has used up most of my recharge.
“Joe, you’re going to Bear Bayou with this fellow!”
Sure enough, Bear Bayou came equipped with two professional guides to lead us to the Promised Land. The ad read: “Bear Bayou Duck Hunting Club – 29th year in business; Flooded pin-oak flats; clubhouse sleeps 25; experienced guides; morning hunts only; guaranteed water- no guaranteed ducks; $120 per day/ per person (guided hunt – room and board). Require ½ down—non-refundable. Owners, Bill and Beth Marks, Reydell, Ark. 72144.” They add one friendly word for dog lovers: – “Dogs allowed, but cost the same as an individual hunter!” It seems that Bill and Beth would just as soon you leave ‘Buster’ at home.

The snow was gone, and it gave every indication of being a bluebird day when we pulled into the Bear Bayou parking lot. I saw nothing that even hinted at a duck club, other than parked cars and vans lined up in a row and a couple of john-boats which had seen better days. We loaded our gear into one of the boats and made ready to venture into the darkness, when something that sounded like an airboat approached, flashing its blinding light in our eyes. Instead of an airboat, we made out a 20 ft., flat-bottomed john with a big 75 hp. motor mounted on the transom and a madman at the controls. He had to have been doing at least 45 mph in the narrow tunnel cut through the trees
“Load your gear in here,“ said the little bull of a man steering this speedboat. And, like so many sheep, we did as ordered. Now, I’ve had some boat rides in my years of chasing ducks. “Cigar” Daisey and Bob Franta have damn near killed me a time or two, but never have I been so terrified that I was afraid to look ahead for the fate awaiting me – that is, until madman Bill Marks opened up that big 75 hp. and ran us down the mile-long tunnel through the trees in the dead of night. I just knew that one sunken log, or “sleeper,” would rocket us through the leafy roof of our tunnel and into orbit. I held my hat on with both hands and wished I had thought to zip my coat, because the frigid blast ripped through my woolies and into my vitals like a knife. Lee LeBlanc, wildlife artist and fellow-judge for the World Championship, sat next to me managing a weak grin, but I felt sure he was thinking - as was I - of the newspaper report of our sudden demise: “Duck Hunters Found Impaled in Trees!”

Whatever he former record between parking lot and clubhouse may have been, we broke it with room to spare. Never have I seen a group of men so happy to take shore leave! A quarter-mile walk down a dark trail led us to what looked like a huge houseboat floating in the water, complete with a gangplank leading to its back door. The Bear Bayou clubhouse is built on stilts and “floats” majestically above the surrounding water. Bear Bayou could cure a sleep-walker in one night. Inside, we found a dozen hunters finishing their breakfast, and heard the welcome words, “Help your-self to the coffee.” Introductions all around revealed that Lee and I were the only judges present - and also the only Yankees. The rest were guides and Texans. I had hardly made friends with my coffee when Bill Marks said,” Lee, you come with me; Joe, you go with Archie.”
Archie stuck out a big paw and claimed me for his group of hunters. “Finish your coffee, Joe. We’ve got plenty of time. We’re only going 150 yards out into the woods.”
The Texans all looked me over quizzically, and finally one asked, “How long yew been growin’ that beard?” Which was soon followed by, “Yew know Sam Schmuck (I didn’t really catch the name, and it didn’t matter) down by Marshall, Texas? Naow that boy is a real decoy carver!” Ah, Texans…


When we were ready, Archie led us Indian file for the 150 yards through the flooded timber to a large opening littered with the kind of decoy rig I had come to expect. While I gazed on this sad state of the art, Archie set about assigning each hunter to his station – a tree, against which he must snuggle in the dark. My tree was half the size of the others, but I had a nice, clean shot at the open area, so I was happy with Archie’s assignment; and was happier, still, when he chose to stand about five yards behind me. I have yet to meet a guide or punter who didn’t save the best spot for himself. I tried to assess the range to the top of a large tree on the other side of the hole, and decided I couldn’t kill a duck clean at such a distance, even though I stood closest to the decoys. While it was still too dark to clearly make out our surroundings, we listened to the night music nature provided. Archie’s last words of caution sounded like an echo of every Lake Erie punter and professional guide that I have ever known: “Keep your faces hid as best you can, and remember, I call the shots!” With that, he warmed up his duck call, a clear plastic model that sounded as much like a hen “Susie” as any I’ve ever heard. Archie might not have been a World Champion, but here, in this green timber, he sure as hell sounded like he ought to be.


He had hardly gotten his reed wet before the ducks started working the opening in the trees high above our heads. Pairs pitched in without so much as a go-around and sat looking at me eye-to-eye before deciding to beat a hasty retreat. Shooting from one of the other groups announced the legal hour, and immediately cleared the area of the flights that had been spinning above us. Archie began to get serious now, and called a pleading refrain that turned a flock of thirty mallards our way. In spite of gunfire all around us, Archie managed to keep them on the hook, and soon had them down to tree top height, ready to drop their flaps. Down they came, wings cupped, feet reaching for the water – truly as beautiful a sight as a duck hunter could ask for. That is, until the first members of the group touched the water.
“Take ‘em!” yelled Archie, and all hell broke loose as six shotguns cut down on the thirty mallards, catching them without enough momentum to escape. It literally rained mallards for the next ten seconds, but I had waited for more of a target.


I had seen a big drake hanging above the decoys, trying to catch some air under his wings, and leveled him with my first shot, which immediately sprang another big drake into the air. The second drake was on his way to a clean getaway until my front bead caught up with him about three-fourths of the way to that big tree across from me. He dropped, stone dead, and then everything was quiet. Two cripples had to be dispatched, but the rest had an instant death. Archie even dropped his top-sergeant pose long enough to say, “I’m proud of ya, boys!” We gathered the ducks up on a half-sunken log pile, and found that some Green Wing Teal had gotten caught in our crossfire. One of the Texans had tried to pull off a head-shot on a drake at point-blank range, and had waited a split second too long before squeezing off the shot. The result was that he damn near blew it in half and ruined the duck for the dinner table. More importantly, he had been shooting head-high in our direction when he perpetrated this bullshit. Archie and I exchanged glances; wordlessly passing the message, “We’d better keep an eye on these knotheads!”


With order restored, we each returned to our trees, and Archie resumed working his call. Within a few minutes he had about fifty mallards working overhead, but these ducks were not going to be fooled as easily as the others had been, and I suspected a few might be carrying shot in their rumps. Finally, Archie sold them the story; however, one of our Texas friends noticed a low flier and decided one duck is much better than a whole flock. His early shot miraculously freed us of all those big old mallards. We were able to spend the next half-hour waiting while this one lone duck, which had only been wing tipped, was run down. After sufficient gunfire and chasing had finally brought the swimmer to bag, our guide expressed his displeasure with such antics.
“Are we going to shoot some ducks fellows, or are we just going to mess around?” he grumbled. Archie would have made a great “First Sergeant.”
It was light now, and we had lost the advantage of the shadows that hid our silhouettes. Mallards are neither very bright, nor are they suicidal, either. So Archie was having a tougher time convincing them that he was just a lonesome hen down here among all these hunters looking up and moving about.


The straw that finally broke Archie’s back was when a magnificent ten-point buck came splashing through the water within 30 steps of our positions. One of the Texans raised his shotgun and held it on the deer. “Don’t shoot it,” warned Archie.... “I said, don’t you shoot it!”
“Did you say, ‘Shoot it’?” asked the Texan, without lowering his gun.
Fuming now, Archie replied in a voice loud enough to send the big buck splashing on his way, “You know damned well what I said! Don’t try and kill that deer!”
“That’s the first one I ever let get away, “ laughed the Texan, and his pals all joined in agreeing that he was indeed a great deer slayer.
Bothered by all this, in addition to the prior display of unsafe shooting, I asked “Besides not having a tag, just what did you plan on dropping that buck with? You aren’t shooting slugs or buckshot at these ducks. Are you?”
The Texan just looked at me like I was crazy and laughed, “Hell no, but I could’ve dropped him with a load of 3-inch sixes.”
Archie turned the air blue as he reeled off a half-dozen reasons why the Texan could have been arrested, but it all seemed to fall on deaf ears. Our hunt was over. Archie loaded the ducks in his wire carriers and we started walking back to the clubhouse

Before I left Bear Bayou, Bill Marks gave me two limits of mallards for Lee LeBlanc and myself, in spite of my objections, and Archie looked me up to shake my hand and tell me, “You’re the best tree-hugger I’ve ever hunted with. Make sure you come back next year.” Flattered no-end, I thanked him; and, looking around to see if the coast was clear, I asked him, “Archie, will you tell me something?” Why does Bill Marks give all the hunters that wild boat ride in the dark just to take them to the clubhouse?”
Archie looked at me and started to answer, but he burst into laughter and was still laughing when he waved goodbye. As Bill opened up that big 75 horsepower, I just closed my eyes tight and grabbed hold of my hat with both hands.

….to be continued
 
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I get home from the hospital each night anxiously awaiting another edition of this. Thanks for posting this up. I am certainly in withdrawal from duck season.
 
-Now its time for Joe to judge. Enjoy!

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The time had come for all the judges to earn their keep. All this grand treatment had been too good to last. It would only be a matter of minutes before the entire world would find out that I knew even less about duck calling than I do about making decoys. Thankfully it didn’t depend on my sole judgment , for there were to be five other judges to share the blame with me. There were: the noted wildlife artists, Lee LeBlanc and ralph McDonald; Dr. Art Mazzier of Wheaton, IL; Mr. Oliver Ragland of Stuttgart; and the 1976 World Champion, Trey Crawford of Mayflower, Ark. I would have plenty of assistants who could be expected to know what this contest calling was all about. Lee and Ralph had judged this event last year, and the others were veterans of many contests, so I was the only “greenhorn” liable to screw it up.

The scoring is based on the Olympic method, where the highest and lowest scores are discarded, leaving the four middle scores as the contestant’s final accumulated score. Add this to the fact that the judges never see the callers, nor hear their voices, and you have a very honest set-up which would be near impossible to influence, even if one were pulling for a favorite. I wish decoy contests could say the same, or at least try to clean up their act – because I have seen too many occasions where the best man didn’t win. As my friend “Cigar” Daisey once said, “I’d rather have a good buddy bending over the tank, than have a good decoy floating in it.”

A sizeable crowd gathered in Stuttgart’s main street, watching “Duke, The Wonder Dog,“ of Remington – Peters fame, go through his act. Duke could pick out a box of Peters shotgun shells from among Winchesters and Federals; shoot a shotgun; and fetch the “duck” he had supposedly slain - plus blow on a duck call. I wondered why he hadn’t been asked to judge the calling contest as well. By now, the butterflies in my stomach felt more like Canada Geese; but, so far, my cover was safe, and nobody had suggested that I try blowing on a duck call, or had quizzed me about duck calling. You cannot, however, hope to hide a buckeye among chestnuts for very long.

As the main event approached, the judges for the 1980 World Championship of Duck Calling were brought forth and introduced to the crowd. When it came my turn, I was surprised to find that I was NOT introduced to the crowd as, “Jose F. Rooster – from Ashland, Ohio, or even “Joe Booster.” They had even spelled my name correctly on my “Arkansas Traveler” certificate from the Governor of the State – and that’s better than a bunch of other states I could name, including my own! The “Grand Ole Opry” had unleashed two of their “stars” to officiate at this gala – Jim Ed Brown, and Jimmy C, Newman, both of whom appeared to be favorites of the crowd. I hate to confess this, but Jim Ed Brown had been greeting me back at the motel for the past few days with a big, musical “HELLO THERE, Joe!” and I would grunt back a “howdy,” without the slightest damned idea who this big, long, lean drugstore cowboy was. Jim Ed must’ve thought I was about as friendly as a copperhead, but when I see a guy wearing a silver lame’ shirt and tie with patent leather cowboy boots, I lay back a little on getting too chummy. It’s just an old habit I retain from my days in art school.

With the judges behind a solid screen and unable to see the callers or the crowd, we heard the M.C. say, “CALLER NUMBER ONE – are you ready?” When caller number one hits his first note, a timer starts running, and he has one minute and twenty seconds to finish his (or her) routine before a red light comes on, signaling disqualification. The judges don’t worry with this, so we go about scoring each contestant on the four calls used to make up a performance, which must consist of the “hail call,” the feed call,” the “mating call,” and the “come back call.” The contestant may earn a maximum of 25 points for each category. A perfect score would be 100 points. The scoring sheets are collected after each caller has finished his routine, and scores are tallied. Damn near foolproof.

To enter the World Championship, one must first have won one of the many local contests held around the country. The five of us were, theoretically, judging the Cream of the Crop of the nation – yet I found my scoring ran from a low of 50 points (for some poor guy who “locked – up” his call early in his routine), to a high of 98 points for a performance I considered as close to an old hen mallard as any human could have come under these conditions. The bulk of the contestants were not just good callers, they were great callers – but a judge can never tell how he has ranked the winner and new champion, for all contestants remain just numbers to him throughout each round and the final call-back. I am ashamed to say that in all the excitement of crowning a new World Champion, I still do not know the name of the winner, and can only state that I was told he came from Iowa. The only contestant I had met before the contest was my hunting buddy Vernon Solomon; and, yep, that’s right – poor Vern was the fellow that locked up his call in the very first round…

… to be continued
 
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Duke sounded like he had to be part magician! Made me think of the early 50s when buying Peters shells. The only reason I liked them was because they were blue and I could see them easily.
Al
 
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DR. BISBEE & JOE

We thinned the 22 callers down to 7 for the first call-back, and then down to 4 for the final call-back. Those last four had hardly a hair’s difference between them, but I was pleased when Trey Crawford told me later, “I think we picked the best caller for the Champion, Joe!” I only wish I knew for sure that I had a hand in selecting him. (My note: The Champion that year was Dan Sprague of Buffalo, Iowa)

The “Champion of Champions” contest followed. It's held every five years, is open to all past World Champions and is judged by past champions as well. The number of entries may be smaller, but the calling is something to hear, for many of these contestants are professionals who make and sell duck calls. The 1980 Champion of Champions was Mike McLemore, who seemed to be the odds-on-favorite with the crowd, and it was a thrill to hear him present a flawless performance. Mike is a three- time World Champion; and now that he is a Champion of Champions, there seems nothing left for him to win.

After the contests, the dinner at the country club featured (what else?) roast duck. I sure was getting my share of our web-footed friends these past few days. It was a great gala, but I still had another 4 A.M. hunt in the morning, and so I called it quits early. I had a plane to catch in Little Rock at 12:55 P.M., so I did my best to pack before I went to bed. Of course, it never works out the way I plan, for I always forget a to set aside a clean shirt or shorts to change into for the flight home, and have to unpack three bags and a gun case to locate a clean shirt. For some reason, my wife and daughters claim that I am helpless in such matters, but I always get back home with everything that I left with – even if the motel or some poor friend has to mail a few items – it all counts!

Dr. Jim Bisbee had arranged a hunt with Mr. William T. Murphy III, President of the Murco Drilling Corporation of Shreveport and owner of one of the finest hunting leases in the Stuttgart area. Mike Pierce (introduced earlier in this epic monograph as “Ol’ Coppershot,” you’ll remember) had told me of a hunt he’d had with Bill Murphy last year, and I recalled his words, “I’m telling you, Joe, you’ve never seen anything like this place!” That’s a strong recommendation coming from Coppershot, so I was looking forward to seeing the sunken concrete blinds and prime waterfowl habitat that Mike had described in his “greatest duck hunt, ever” story.

I was ready for my morning tormentor with his phone call – “4 A.M.? O.K., girls! This guy says it’s time for you to leave!” The night manager probably was not impressed with my little charade. Crazy duck hunters and their fantasies are all in a night’s work for him.
Either Dr. Bisbee, Mike and Ricky were early, or I was slowing down after four days of this non-stop activity, for they all caught me still flopping around in my hunting socks, wondering why I’d put my pacs in the bottom of my duffle bag. Of course, they were itching to get started, and had many unkind things to say to an old decoy carver doing his best to locate his hat. I should have known what all the rush was about, because within ten minutes these chow-hounds had me in a restaurant ordering hotcakes with sausage, with enough coffee to perk up a guy averaging three hours of sleep per night.

Dr. Bisbee was armed with two OM-2 cameras as well as his trusty 20 ga. Superposed; hoping to get some good pictures of Ol’ Coppershot dragging one down from the stratosphere. David Bisbee was to meet us at the rendezvous point; and after his close third-place finish in the State contest, both Mike and I were eager to hear him blow that old “Ditto” call of his. In view of the larger number of entrants crowding the lists, there are those who claim that the State contest is tougher to place in than the World Championship. Both Mike and Dr. Bisbee are good callers, so I felt sure I could leave my Scotch Call in my duffle. Dave beat Bill Murphy to the rendezvous by five minutes, so we had time for a quick handshake all around and an exchange of names, before Bill announced we’d better get going. We followed his Carry-All through the gates and over the levees until we reached a parking area and everyone grabbed up their gear. Our vehicle lights had put about twenty-thousand geese into the air, and it was difficult not to hit the leg of your waders while trying to watch such a magnificent sight. They were mostly Blues and Snows, and the racket was awesome - had we had time to listen - but Bill was urging us to get into the boat.

…to be continued
 
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Just a very selfish note: I knew Danny Sprague personally, and I have several calls made by him. The call I blew in 1980 around Joe and still blow today is a call Danny made specially for me and my blowing style. It has gotten me jobs working at duck clubs as a caller, and it has lured hundreds of mallards to their last landing zone.

You'd have a better chance at buying my favorite dance partner, or best antique decoy than having me even let you touch that Sprague call, let alone blow it............Heck, I think I've only let my own son blow it once.........and when he told me, "it ain't nothin' special" I damn near disowned him..................

Mike
 
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