Bill Burkett
Active member
Thirty five years ago
(I have taken so much pleasure in this non hunting year in reading all the reports from the duck fronts across the nation. All I can offer in return is another excerpt from my diaries when cold weather and strong winds didn't daunt Harry and me...)
New Year’s Eve, 1978—winter has settled in with a vengeance. It was cold. Seattle reported 16 degrees, Crystal Village minus-2; Buckley was somewhere in between. Pilot weather gave the Olympia route forecast as gusty winds to 30 knots. Northwest winds render the Luhr Beach launch awful, with surf breaking on the shingle. It was touch and go launching into the teeth of the wind. The stern needs a couple of feet drop before it floats; and little chopping rollers dropped from under and then crowded over the transoms the next instant. I got the boat floating with a few gallons in the bilges and anchored bow-out to the surf while I parked the truck. The bow cleaved the waves and heavy spray came aboard and formed ice instantly on those plywood slabs with hay that I use for rough decking with hay nailed on for concealment. Ice formed on my hip boots in the time it took me to park and struggle into layers of clothing.
Two more hunters arrived with a twelve-foot car-topper and struggled to get it in the water, and emulated me by anchoring out to load. Two or three thousand widgeon and pintails poured over us about thirty yards up, pumping hard in the wind. One of the guys said he used to shoot from where the research station is now. “One thing,” his partner grinned. “They won’t raft on the flats. They’ll have to fly to keep warm.”
My big boat staggered and wallowed in the swells. When I turned toward McAllister Creek a following wave came aboard, foaming around my waist and depositing a few more gallons in the bilges. That scared me and I goosed the Merc, got on top of the sea and slalomed into the creek. There were hunters along the creek with the usual bright uncamouflaged boats and poorly placed cheap plastic decoys. I flushed ducks resting on the creek that decoyed to one good spread while the hunters warmed their hands over a fire. The ducks escaped.
I finally decided to set up on the shoreline side, where Nisqually bluffs come down to pinch off the marsh, parked the boat under overhanging alders, and saw Harry watching something: a big flight of widgeon pouring up the creek. I grabbed the H&R ten and swept one out of the air like a giant broom. Then spent time hand-signaling Harry far across the creek and grass on the marsh shore where it fell; wind in the trees so noisy he couldn’t hear the whistle. Ducks landed downstream. I stalked to see how close I could get. Not very; as the tide receded it left a thin shell of ice a couple inches above the mud that I crunched through every step. Two puddlers settled into the decoys, flew before I got in range, then a broadbill flushed. I knocked it down and finished it with the ten and Harry got it immediately. Ice froze all over his coat as he came out of the water.
We moved up to a sun-dappled log and Harry curled up in the weak sun but the ice remained; his winter coat is so thick it took a while for body heat to melt it so he could shake it out. I was having hot soup from a Thermos when a large flight of pintails circled and circled. They looked big as geese they were so close—and I missed three straight times. Some hunters in a canoe pushed out teal; I dropped one clean. I saw a big single coming behind them and called out; the bow man missed, it came right to the decoys, and I centered it. There is no way to describe that emotion when you reach up, the impossible happens, that zooming flight is interrupted and the duck spins down in the decoys.
Harry crossed the whole creek again; the duck was a cripple; he corralled it and brought it back. He is so soft-mouthed he refuses to clamp down, and it kept wriggling free. When it got far enough away on one of its escapes I slipped pellets in its head. Harry swam it down and brought it back like a low black tugboat against the current. I dropped two more and another cripple made the far bank as I wasted shells trying to finish it while Harry trudged back across. He was halfway back with that one when a big widgeon locked up over the decoys, I shot it, it began to drift downstream, and I ran the bank with it; soon Harry was with me, having dropped the other one soon as he hit shore. Harry got it quickly and came back with ice clinking in his coat. The shoveler drake from across the creek was larger than the widgeon.
Harry ate two candy bars, two sandwiches and all the sliced cheese to build an internal furnace and avoid shock after that cold and exertion. I rubbed him down with burlap sacking and he curled up to rest, steaming quietly in the sunlight. That left me one sandwich, coffee and a couple of Cokes. My last duck of the limit was one of two decoying mallards I missed twice before dumping him with the last shot. The Browning Auto-5 is the best shotgun I’ve ever owned. I wish they would make it in ten gauge. I picked up well before shooting time and was already on 512 going toward Puyallup when I needed to switch on my headlights.
(I have taken so much pleasure in this non hunting year in reading all the reports from the duck fronts across the nation. All I can offer in return is another excerpt from my diaries when cold weather and strong winds didn't daunt Harry and me...)
New Year’s Eve, 1978—winter has settled in with a vengeance. It was cold. Seattle reported 16 degrees, Crystal Village minus-2; Buckley was somewhere in between. Pilot weather gave the Olympia route forecast as gusty winds to 30 knots. Northwest winds render the Luhr Beach launch awful, with surf breaking on the shingle. It was touch and go launching into the teeth of the wind. The stern needs a couple of feet drop before it floats; and little chopping rollers dropped from under and then crowded over the transoms the next instant. I got the boat floating with a few gallons in the bilges and anchored bow-out to the surf while I parked the truck. The bow cleaved the waves and heavy spray came aboard and formed ice instantly on those plywood slabs with hay that I use for rough decking with hay nailed on for concealment. Ice formed on my hip boots in the time it took me to park and struggle into layers of clothing.
Two more hunters arrived with a twelve-foot car-topper and struggled to get it in the water, and emulated me by anchoring out to load. Two or three thousand widgeon and pintails poured over us about thirty yards up, pumping hard in the wind. One of the guys said he used to shoot from where the research station is now. “One thing,” his partner grinned. “They won’t raft on the flats. They’ll have to fly to keep warm.”
My big boat staggered and wallowed in the swells. When I turned toward McAllister Creek a following wave came aboard, foaming around my waist and depositing a few more gallons in the bilges. That scared me and I goosed the Merc, got on top of the sea and slalomed into the creek. There were hunters along the creek with the usual bright uncamouflaged boats and poorly placed cheap plastic decoys. I flushed ducks resting on the creek that decoyed to one good spread while the hunters warmed their hands over a fire. The ducks escaped.
I finally decided to set up on the shoreline side, where Nisqually bluffs come down to pinch off the marsh, parked the boat under overhanging alders, and saw Harry watching something: a big flight of widgeon pouring up the creek. I grabbed the H&R ten and swept one out of the air like a giant broom. Then spent time hand-signaling Harry far across the creek and grass on the marsh shore where it fell; wind in the trees so noisy he couldn’t hear the whistle. Ducks landed downstream. I stalked to see how close I could get. Not very; as the tide receded it left a thin shell of ice a couple inches above the mud that I crunched through every step. Two puddlers settled into the decoys, flew before I got in range, then a broadbill flushed. I knocked it down and finished it with the ten and Harry got it immediately. Ice froze all over his coat as he came out of the water.
We moved up to a sun-dappled log and Harry curled up in the weak sun but the ice remained; his winter coat is so thick it took a while for body heat to melt it so he could shake it out. I was having hot soup from a Thermos when a large flight of pintails circled and circled. They looked big as geese they were so close—and I missed three straight times. Some hunters in a canoe pushed out teal; I dropped one clean. I saw a big single coming behind them and called out; the bow man missed, it came right to the decoys, and I centered it. There is no way to describe that emotion when you reach up, the impossible happens, that zooming flight is interrupted and the duck spins down in the decoys.
Harry crossed the whole creek again; the duck was a cripple; he corralled it and brought it back. He is so soft-mouthed he refuses to clamp down, and it kept wriggling free. When it got far enough away on one of its escapes I slipped pellets in its head. Harry swam it down and brought it back like a low black tugboat against the current. I dropped two more and another cripple made the far bank as I wasted shells trying to finish it while Harry trudged back across. He was halfway back with that one when a big widgeon locked up over the decoys, I shot it, it began to drift downstream, and I ran the bank with it; soon Harry was with me, having dropped the other one soon as he hit shore. Harry got it quickly and came back with ice clinking in his coat. The shoveler drake from across the creek was larger than the widgeon.
Harry ate two candy bars, two sandwiches and all the sliced cheese to build an internal furnace and avoid shock after that cold and exertion. I rubbed him down with burlap sacking and he curled up to rest, steaming quietly in the sunlight. That left me one sandwich, coffee and a couple of Cokes. My last duck of the limit was one of two decoying mallards I missed twice before dumping him with the last shot. The Browning Auto-5 is the best shotgun I’ve ever owned. I wish they would make it in ten gauge. I picked up well before shooting time and was already on 512 going toward Puyallup when I needed to switch on my headlights.
