USA: Little Brown Ducks

[Firebird]

I would like to share the end of our waterfowl season by sharing a couple hunts with you all -accompanied by a couple trips down rabbit holes and some nice surprises along the way.

I found a mule deer path into the infernal willows and started quietly following toward the river. I knew the willows would be about twenty yards but was unsure where the birds were ahead of me. We had seen them from a mile away, duly spotted the stalk part had begun. I left my brother and his son upriver and I made a big loop to come from below. The plan was to stalk into the birds and then for them to pass in front of the other guns.
Rossi, my little black lab knew to slip in behind me and stay there until the gunfire. The snow was meaty and soft and remarkable quiet. I on the other hand am big and toting a long black shotgun and maybe a bit impatient. Neither deer nor beavers make clean neat paths and soon we were mired in willow tangles, the live ones whipping my face and the dead ones tearing my shins and snapping with the force of me tripping through them. Halfway I was beginning to look for human skeletons of other hunters trapped and never found in there. The deeper we got the more anxious I was to get out of there! Soon enough I could hear the swish of the big river and started seeing the brittle yellow grasses that grow at its edge. The Willow border was a jungle and I gave in, dropped to my knees and crawled the last ten feet. Rossi looked embarrassed but kept right behind me. And finally we were out, surrounded only by the grass. Rangefinding binos said 80 yards to the geese across river from me. I figured to “boo” them into flying upriver and stood up kind of suddenly straight and tall. Fifteen yards upriver from me the world erupted in mallards, vivid in the morning sun, luminescent greens and blues and orange as they pumped over the blunt blue of the river. Didn’t come here to fish, might as well—geese! Slower in ascension than the mallards the big Canada geese used their voices to distract me, to their own doom. The old Winchester sx2 rose to its sweet spot and the white bead flitted through the mass and as it crossed a black and white head my cold miserable left handed trigger finger twitched. Goose folded dead, swarmed by a load of three inch number two steel. An impetuous second shot but the next bird is still close and dead before the river catches him. The third shell also knocks a bird cold but it’s head is up and it is swimming hard. As he reaches the far shore I have managed a three and a half bb load from deep in my layers of clothes and that one lays him over. I check again with the glasses. 78 yards, not bad and a bit surprising.
Rossi fights the current for the two birds, but the last trip across she gets to the far edge and doesn’t want to go to the shore. Each retrieve has led us far downriver, requiring us to walk back up to point zero. She swims across the river and into the strong current at the far shoreline for a minute then turns for me and my shore, soundly defeated.
Upriver the guns are quiet or if they shot I missed it. I crash back through the consarn-ed willows and drop the dead birds on the two track road. Me and Rossi pick up the other hunters as we hike back to the truck. I explain the situation and reinforce my reputation on the way to the truck-I don’t lose birds!
We drove the Chevy trail boss back to the two dead geese. It requires four wheel drive as the temps have risen and the tires bite through the old snow and into the thawed mud beneath. I drop the tailgate and set forth the judge. Judge is my big Chesapeake bay retriever. I typically alternate the two on stalks but now I need the muscle. More cussing as we force another willow path. The goose has moved some but not far. There is no gunfire and when I send the dogs with my hand they just stare at me with curious eyes. Finally I am forced to throw a rock and the dogs launch into the current. Swept downstream and then they see me waving upstream and yelling “back!” Urging them farther across the river. The chessie is on shore first. He is to far up and just stares at me. Rossi is in fast current and neither moving up or down, just wasting energy. Then a waft of scent catches her nose-and I watch her little black head rise a bit and she motors toward shore. Ten yard run and she bumps the goose. A short scrum between the little black dog and the big goose ends with her dragging it back, its wing in her mouth all the way to my hands. Quick pix with my phone-I try to rub her ears and scratch her belly, she will have none of that and is off to hunt pheasants in willow hell. The chessie noses over but he hasn’t earned a belly rub-not yet anyhow. . .

 

[Mekaniks]

Thats awesome thanks for the story!

 

[Firebird]

More to come-stand by

 

[Pheroze]

That is a great hunt! I am eager for the next installment

 

[BRICKBURN]

That recollection of Willow hell gave me flashbacks.
Good work from your little girl to get the job done.

Thanks for the tale.

 

[gillettehunter]

Been there done that sort of thing... Rough going but fun to talk about later. Enjoying the writing style. Impatiently awaiting more. Thanks for sharing!
Bruce

 

[Firebird]

Before Christmas my friend Steve and I had some time and the weather was good for traveling so we made our way north seeking Santa Claus or his reindeer or at very minimum some ducks, any ducks. It was so cold that steve was taking pictures of the gauge inside the truck 2*, 5*f I think was the lowest. Dropping off the high desert pass into the river valley was eerie as it was filled with dense fog. We were reminiscing about past trips where fog has played a part as we pulled into the snow covered two track that leads to what we call “the boat ramp.” Steve went up river since he has no dog and I went down river with Rossi. There were a couple protected trumpeter swans but I don’t see any ducks in range. Steve had fired a couple shots and I met him after a short jog. Rossi made short work of the gadwall he had killed. We left this spot and went to out next favorite. Later we would come back here to find a couple doofers had set up a giant square portable blind right on the river edge and parked a dodge Durango next to it. They had decoys out, like maybe the ducks couldn’t connect the dots.
Spot and stalk is our preferred method but the fog had us beat. So instead we just stalked into favorite spots where we normally find birds. The snow was crunchy and squeaky under our boots and I have a dog crunch, crunching next to me at all times. I was certain the birds wouldn’t tolerate a stalk.
One spot we call “the cairn” as I built a small rock cairn at the exact spot we would normally jump birds from. It’s an old roadbed that you can’t drive to anymore and then a sudden drop into those magical willows to the river. It is shallow here and if the river is low there will be birds loafing on the exposed rocks. We sneaked to the cairn then up over the roadbed and behind the ghostly form of a fog shrouded cottonwood. I’ve often wondered how old these big trees are and at all they have witnessed in their centuries. Fascinating things our friends the trees. Our vision adjusted to the scene, Swift dark grey water, frost crystals coating the willows blending into the frost and ice covered rocks. And then some of the rocks grew necks! Steve was in a better spot than I and neither of us were expecting geese. We had duck loads in but at thirty ish yards they did fine. We each killed a goose and Steve killed a duck or two. I know this spot well and ran down the road parallel to the river until there is a semblance of a break in the willows. I plunged in followed this time by big judge. Ice crystals broke free as I ran the gauntlet and turned to cold water when they got down my neck and beneath my layers and against my skin. Judge did some snappy work in swift water and we already thought we had enjoyed great luck and success.

Our luck stayed that way, defying the noisy snow and miserable cold and patchy fog. On one big mid river gravel bar there was a flock of geese sleeping with heads under wings. I went for a hike and sneaked up as near as possible to them. Steve stayed up river and hid just outside the grasp of the willows. The geese rolled off the bar complaining loud and bitter about my intrusion, it was a far poke but I killed one that thumped down solid onto the gravel. I watched them do something unusually dumb for geese-they went over the land right where Steve had hunkered down. Steve is a good shot but his triple on geese that morning is one we will recall for the remainder of our years! Funny thing is that after Rossi got my bird, we found Steve. He however had not found a single goose! Rossi has maybe the best nose of any dog I have owned. She went to one spot and came back with a feather. I was mad but followed her back to the spot where she would get birdy and run in circles but nothing. Steve finally shot from behind us and a goose came tumbling down. It had still been alive about twenty yards up and was just hanging to the snow covered boughs for dear life. The next was farther up the hill under the trees and the last one was fully buried in deep snow in a patch of sage brush. It was beautiful dog work. The day went like that-steve in the right spot and shooting without err. Me just out of range and just off the X.
Late in the day we sneaked down a different part of the abandoned road bed. It’s called “the green tree” and the road drops into the willows but makes for a good stalk and fun shooting if the birds are up against the willows. The fog was gone and the willows were wet, clean and red and grey. We sneaked over the road and nothing happened, not a duck, not even under lucky Steve. Judge headed into the willows for a better look and when he got to the river a pair of green winged teal jumped. I generally pass on teal hoping for bigger, “cooler” ducks but I hadn’t shot much today and really wanted to drop one. I mounted a hen greenie years ago and have since then wanted a nice drake to go with her. I’ve shot some but never in prime feather. I killed the drake first and then swung like Mr. Ruth himself, barely catching the hen and sending her dead back to the river. Big Judge (yes named after the yankee all star, but also for his ability to hold court on waterfowl) was not slow to retrieve and since they were small and he was out there, he brought them both back at one time. First time he has figured out that fun trick! Steve had killed a single goldeneye hen-a no no in my book since they are a pain to skin and not the best to eat. I have a bunch of them mounted and no desire to do another-at least not a hen. “Just little Brown ducks” Steve proclaimed.
This is a very sore spot for me. Nothing is just a little brown duck. In the hand all ducks, even the females are a fascination, something like a spiders web, full of subtle beauty and marvel, pure spun magic! Goldeneyes are fascinating in their nesting habits, glittering eyes and diving prowess. The drakes do steal the show for looks but a hen is nonetheless a treasure, especially whistling downriver at full speed. The same is true for teal and then some! I pointed out that these teal had a mother that had managed a nest, reared some tiny teal babies to adulthood and dragged them along on a brutal migration-which had just stopped here. We owed it to them to study the plumage, the detail of the toes, and surely the irredescent wings. And to utilize them to the fullest, they would be skinned by my big blocky hands and mounted properly. There is no such thing as a little brown duck-they are all wonders of nature and deserve to be treated as such!

 

[Pheroze]

I loved reading about the familiarity you have with this area. It creates a wonderful subtext of past experiences and memories. Thanks for the post

 

[Firebird]

I sent the “meat birds” home with Steve and I kept a couple taxidermy birds. We got home Saturday late and Monday I began skinning and washing. Painted feet today. The drake was very well hit with #2’s and not quite prime but I was happy with how he turned out. No such thing as little brown ducks!

 

[Firebird]

Well, some are smaller and more brown than others. I mounted this little ruddy duck for a biologist friend that was working on a slam or collection of some sort.
Called to tell him it was finished only to find he was in the hospital and he died shortly thereafter of a rare brain virus or some such evil. It turned out nicely, I’m sorry he won’t get to see it.