There is a lot that rides on what time a waterfowler wakes up in the morning. The night prior, we mentally comb through everything we have to do and regiment blocks of time to accomplish each. For example, one has to take in account how much time they predict they’ll spend on the porcelain throne. This, just like the weatherman, is purely science based and gauged from what was ate and drank the night before. We all know two helpings of chili and a twelve pack of our favorite, mid-grade domestic lager is nearly guaranteed to add more time than a thick cut of venison backstrap accompanied with a side of mashed potatoes and grilled broccoli that are nightcapped with an Old Fashioned.
All of us can glean what happened to the hunters that rip around the slough in their boats with 15 minutes left until shooting light looking for a spot to hunt: they either couldn’t get away from the porcelain throne, forgot to set their alarm, or both (indicating they had way too much fun the night prior). Those of us that made more responsible decisions the night before all look to our blindmates and pat them on the back while chuckling at the tomfool making wakes in our spread chiding, “Good luck finding a spot, buddy!” No one wants to be that hunter.
I certainly did not want to be that guy while coordinating Capable Partners’s first annual Veteran’s Day Waterfowl Hunt. My calculations blocked time for the porcelain amongst many other primary elements (my putzy nature for one…), some secondary, and some added wiggle room for a handful of tertiary elements; everything was accounted for when I confidently set the alarm. 2:30 AM came far too quick, but I had enough gumption to flop out of bed, trudge to the kitchen to put fire to the percolator, pack the truck, and hit on the road. “Kickstart My Heart” throbbed through my ears while sips of piping hot “black tar” throttled through my veins. A quick pit stop at Cub Foods for some donuts was made before I scampered over to Rice Lake to pick up an a-frame blind for a hunt on Blue Lake. The clock continued to tick…
I had 15 minutes to make it over to Blue after arriving at Rice – 11 minutes for the drive and 4 minutes to grab the a-frame. Speed was key as I motored to the parking area and made the 80 yard run to the blind. The inch of snow that had accumulated overnight gave a muffled crunch with each, sprinting kick that lead me to the blind area. My headlamp ID’ed the a-frame sheltered under some plywood sheathing inside one of the permanent blinds. It was at this point I took a few breaths to just listen; under normal circumstances at Rice, when it’s mid-November, there is a chorus of hen mallards contentedly quacking across the lake. This season, however, it was fairly rare to hear them at all – but listen I still did.
Just 50 yards to my left a hen started quacking, then another next to it, and then another just 30 yards from me. I shut off my headlamp and my eyes slowly poked over the edge of the blind I was in. Most of the lake was blanketed in white – an indication that the lake was iced over from the overnight snowstorm. The only black (open water) on the lake appeared right off of the point where the blinds were located. A half minute went by until my eyes acclimated to the dark of night and revealed a pile of black dots on the water. “Oh boy!!” I thought as I slowly dropped my head and slinked out of the blind until I was out of their eyesight.
CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH CRUNCH…. back to the truck I ran with the a-frame over my shoulder and then sped over to Blue with no time to spare. Under normal circumstances, Rice would be the spot to be, but this morning’s hunt was special; it had nothing to do with my thoughts or opinions – instead, it was about what our veterans wanted.
Around the horn I went with the phone calls. First to Justin (Marines) and his carpooling brother, Joe, who isn’t a veteran but got an honorary vote because it was his birthday, then to Quinn (Marines), and finally to Rod (Navy), who was having difficulty getting out of his snowed in driveway. They all wanted to give Rice a go, so I spun a U-turn. While speeding back to Rice, I informed my Old Man, who wanted to be a helper at this hunt, of the change of plans and detailed a quick list of items he could immediately help with.
He took duty of sprucing up the blind with more brush and then sprinkled on some snow for a final touch. Like clockwork, the moment he finished, Quinn and Rod arrived, so he took detail in helping get their gear down to the blind. Meanwhile, Joe, Justin, and I made haste tossing out a spread of 10 dozen decoys just after flushing the same amount of live birds that overnighted in the open water in front of the blind. The last bit was helping my old man get Rod down to the blind in his wheelchair and making sure everyone else was settled into the blind. “Ahhhh…perfect. It’s always great to be dialed in the blind with 20 minutes left until shooting light,” I remarked as all of us kicked back with our hot coffee and donuts while enjoying an unforgettable spectacle that was beginning to unfold.
Wings whistled overhead from all directions. Chuckles and quacks complimented the ambient, whistle filled sky. Birds poured into the spread in groups of 10, 20, and 30. Anticipation grew in our eyes as our index fingers were eager for the trigger while watching the birds tarry in our spread – just long enough to maintain open water before they’d take flight.
“One minute”, I whispered to the blindmates. Four mallards splashed in as we all slowly hunkered down. Just the whites of our eyes peered over the edge of the blind to see a drake taking a drink before realizing the other three he was with weren’t too sure of what to think of all the lifeless look-a-likes floating next to them. Seconds before shooting light, they left the last ripples our little open pocket would have for quite some time.
Shooting Light
It went radio silent. The sky was void of birds and so was our conversation: complete bewilderment. Quinn broke the silence by chatting with Justin about their times in the Marines. Rod then steered the conversation to his restaurant tour his buddy was organizing that offered free meals to Veterans. “Don’t go booking brunch just yet, ‘The Rod’. They’ll give this another look; we’ve got to be one of the few places in the county with open water; it’s just a matter of time,” I tried consoling in semi-blind faith. In the back of my mind there was a trace of doubt in what I said; who truly knows if they’d be back?
One would think considering most birds don’t migrate until dark anyway, so why would they completely abandon the area after weathering an overnight snowstorm – they shouldn’t. But who am I to give absolutes to some of the most wild and free spirited animals on the planet? Animals that may have been in Ontario the day prior and have their internal bearing set to arrive in Cuba in a few weeks. I was hoping all the pre-shooting light activities didn’t scare them further south. The thought of this alone seeded doubt and spawned remorse after pitching an audible to all these guys in an almost sure spot at Blue Lake. It was there, in the previous month we shot over 250 birds, while just one fifth of that number was taken on Rice in the same time. I took another sip of coffee and breathed a quiet sigh to myself hoping I didn’t oversell the spot.
“Two to the left,” Joe voiced.
Like clockwork, the pair committed to the spread and were stilled by a bismuth and steel curtain that Rod, Justin, and Joe blasted from their chilled 12s. My old man sent his pup, Kylie, after them. She made it all of 20 feet before slamming the breaks from the cracking of sharp ice at her feet.
Her neck contorted back like a scared cat – this was the first time her paws experienced a what most gundogs consider their worst nightmare: ice. Then she started barking at the ice as if to say, “I’m not sure what you are, but I’ve got important matters to handle…now go on and get out of my way because you’re not making this easy.” With a little more coaxing by my Old Man and her own blood pressure building to a boil at the ice not going away, she put her head down and began jumping to break the ice – all the while continuing to bark in frustration – until she reached each bird on successive retrieves. Warm laughter and praise plumed a cloud of exhaled steam from us hunters in the cold blind at the exhibition she put on.
“Pintails,” my Old Man announced and continued, “two pintails…a drake and a hen.” “No kidding?” I asked. “Yeah, pintails.” the Old Man confirmed. “Wow, I don’t know what it is about this season, but our pintail streak continues; we’ve shot at least a pintail or more every week since Opener! I’ve never seen so many pintails in the 24 years I’ve hunted.” I responded.
Another blended bismuth and steel curtain was shot off from the triumvirate on the left side of the blind at a single that worked the spread and died exactly how the pair before it did. Kylie’s mouth – full of feathers – confirmed a drake pintail. Then a hen mallard.
I told Joe it was his pup’s turn; Kylie was at four retrieves, and I wanted to be sure Knight got at least a couple reps. So we switched out dogs to keeps them fresh on a cold day and help promote a positive psyche. While Kylie got to warm herself back up in my Old Man’s truck, Knight got to partake in the party.
Not long after he settled in the blind with us, a drake mallard circled from the right. After giving it a few quacks through my call, I heard a few high pitched whistles to my right. There Knight anxiously sat with his eyes as large as frisbees while panting at Joe exclaiming, “LET ME GET IN THIS WATER NOW!!!” (as if he knew what was already about to happen). The drake was undeterred by the yipping – he liked what he saw from above and took four, quick volleys from the brothers before it dropped like a stone.
“DAD! DAD! DAD!” Knight’s head vocalized as he’d look quick at the drake, then Joe, then the drake, then Joe, then the drake until Joe lined him like he did a thousand times during offseason training and sent him. WHAP! WHAP! WHAP! Knight bounded and made quick work of the ice breaking retrieve. “This is pretty remarkable to have two young pups so undeterred by ice. You both (my head looking to my Old Man and then over to Joe) should be very proud.”
Speaking of proud, Rod continued sharing a bit about his glory years in the Navy when another hen mallard dropped into a 12 gauge ovation that folded her clean. An additional, raucous set of booms dropped another pair of pintails minutes later.
The Pintail Moratorium
“We’re at five pintails total, boys…Being there are six of us and each can only shoot one per day, we’re left with just one more pintail that can be shot.” I announced.
Rod, Joe, and Justin had dropped the first three (Quinn, my Old Man, and I didn’t even shoot). With this pair that we just dropped I asked my Old Man if he had shot. “Nope, I figured you all had them,” he remarked. “Good,” I replied, “Then I know for sure that pair that we just knocked down was dropped by Quinn and me because we were the only shooters. So that means you have a pintail to shoot on a pintail filled morning, Pops. That said, guys, it’s going to be tough with the sun glaring in on our faces (and therefore silhouetting a lot of birds), so it’s best we don’t shoot at anything unless we know exactly what it is – anything questionable we put our guns down and let my Old Man shoot or we risk going over our pintail limit,” I instructed. The band of blind mates agreed with the plan.
Then I asked Joe if he’d mind if we swapped out Knight for Kylie since he got four retrieves. He happily obliged, “He’s had a blast, but he could use the heat and a warm bed in the truck.”
Kylie, all freshened up by a quick, warm breather, returned to the fold from my Old Man’s truck while a 45 minute lull in the action ticked away. Then something happened that none of us hunters in our over 150 years of combined experience had ever witnessed.
Fool me once, shame on me, Fool me twice, shame on…
Rod marked a bird off to our left making their approach at the spread. The brown dot of feathers casually swung through – close enough for the Old Man to put a shot on it that hit true, but not enough to kill it. His tried and true Wingmaster neglected to shuck out the expended shell to allow a follow up kill shot – which is as certain as death and taxes to anyone that shares a blind with him. The bird sailed 100 yards, crashed on the ice, and laid motionless. Naturally, we assumed it met its demise after witnessing many times that a fall like that is enough to kill them. About five minutes later, Justin saw it poke its head up and then its body.
“Well, that’s going to make for a fun retrieve… best I get on it now before the ice breaking retrieve gives me a heart att…what the?! Are my eyes messing with me?” I questioned. “No, that thing is waddling back here on the ice… Now, give it a chuckle.” Quinn responded.
A few quacks, drake grunts and a mixing of feeder chuckles brought it right in gunning range.
“Well, it sure as heck doesn’t look like a pintail, so you two (directed at my Old Man and Quinn) take it since you’re closest to it on the right side,” I instructed. Kylie was after it, and to our surprise, the brown ball of feathers turned out to be a hen redhead.
“Joe, what the heck is with these redhead hens this year? First it was when we were at Legend’s cabin, a month ago, where a flock of pintails incessantly circled our spread just outside of gun range. Within the flock was a redhead hen that decided to land not once, but twice in our spread. Now it’s this?! Must be the flocked blocks!” I joked.
Green on the Deck
Halfway through the laughter Justin pointed out something I reminded them all to keep their eyes out for: the 30 pack flocks of green-winged teal. They had been zipping, under the radar, through our spreads for a few weeks – literally flying so low on the deck that you couldn’t see them until it was too late. Within seconds they ripped down the center of Rice, hooked hard along the shoreline and were within 20 yards of us at the next eye-blink.
“Take ‘em!” I yelled. Our guns erupted in a smattering of random percussion. In less than a second, it was all over. All of us recalled shouldering our guns, swinging on a bird that ducked behind another, then reappeared only to disappear in the sun’s blinding reflection off of the ice in front of us. When we’d pull for our next round, we could hardly put a proper bead on a bird because the flock erupted like a nest of angry hornets. Compounding that difficulty was the impossibility for our eyes to focus on the zig zagging birds after getting temporarily blinded by the sun.
I closed my eyes and kept them pressed hard shut to not only relieve my eyes and but also soak in all the stimuli from that lightning bolt of action. “WOW!” I thought to myself and then began to open my eyes.
I pinched myself after quickly seeing 6 on the water and quickly reassessed when Rod pointed two more (8), and then all of us eventually saw 10 were downed. “Joe, you may want to go get Knight!” I elated.
Kylie and Knight made quick work of the greenies. It was the outcome from each consecutive retrieve that began to puzzle us: first a drake, followed by another drake, a drake, a drake, a hen, a drake, a drake, a drake, a drake, and – you guessed it – another drake. “How on earth did we manage to drop 9 drakes out of 10 birds when we couldn’t even make out any distinguishing color characteristics from their sun-silhouetted bodies in that split second?” I questioned and continued, “Not in a million tries could that have been done again, right? Especially when two of the guys in the blind didn’t even shoot because they admitted to not being able to see from the sun’s blinding glare.”
Hail Mary
That essentially was our conversation for the next 20 minutes until Joe mentioned, “We all know why Quinn didn’t shoot…he was too scared to whip out his little sawed off.” WHOOOSH! A hen, hooded merganser clipping at Mach 3 buzzed our tower. Quinn’s forehead furrowed at the sight of it taking a sweeping turn and made another approach at giving us another look. One shot was all he needed (as usual with his sawed off Super Black Eagle). “Huckleberry Quinn, why on God’s green earth did you shoot that?” Joe asked.
“Because I need one for the drake I already have mounted. Any other dumb questions?” Quinn fired back at Joe with a death stare. ”Yeah, how much did you lead that?” Joe asked between laughing breaths knowing that by asking that, it would send Quinn into a mental funk.
“Heh heh…” Quinn responded in sarcastic distaste while the rest of us erupted in laughter.
“My face hurts from all this and now is making me have to piss like a race horse.” I voiced while making my way out of the blind. Joe found it opportune to go check-in on Knight tucked back into his warm truck after all of the reps he had already gotten on the hunt. Joe’s departure didn’t escape Quinn, who also got up to go stretch his legs. But we all knew it was more to commence the bombardment campaign of razzing Joe than to stretch his legs.
2nd Wave
The five minute banter between the two of them 50 yards behind the blind was silenced when we were startled to see a flock of 20 greenies buzz the blind with Rod, Justin, and my Old Man still in it. Then came the barking percussions from their guns. It looked, from our distant perspective, that three were dropped. Quinn and I made haste to the blind with Rod chuckling at what had just happened saying, “This is a hell of a lot more fun than making the rounds for free meals all day! How many did we drop?” “It looks like 6!” Justin replied and then looked at me with a big grin, “I spotted them doing the same thing as that first big group.” “How you spot those suckers from such a distance is insane…you’ve got eagle eyes!” I exclaimed then looked over my shoulder to Joe, “Time to get Knight! We need the dynamic duo to tandem retrieve this new lot of downed birds!”
As I arrived back at the blind, I saw my Old Man lining Kylie up on a bird and noticed a different one stand up on the ice outside of the spread 30 yards away. “Pop that before it runs off any further,” I mentioned to Justin and Rod. While they started shucking a shell in their unloaded guns, the green-winged took off like a phoenix.
I flipped a shell in the chamber, swung out ahead of it, and fired. The bird folded, falling like a brick.
“You’ve gotta be sh**ing me!” Rod exclaimed. “No kidding! What on earth are you shooting, heat seeking birdshot?!” Justin continued. “Remember those shells I told each of you earlier this season about? That there is Black Cloud TSS at its finest boys! I’m not taking credit for that – it was all the TSS,” I replied. “That stuff is nasty…look at where you dropped it; that’s gotta be at least 80 yards.” Justin remarked.
“Wanna know something even crazier?” The Old Man questioned us and then continued, “Kylie is now bringing back a second drake.” “Yeah, Knight first brought a hen and it looks like the one he has now is a drake.” Joe added. “I guess then I’ll have to go see what that one out yonder that took a heart shot from one of you boys… (pointing towards a bird out 60 yards from the blind)… and then make way to the little phoenix that almost put a slip on us.” I replied.
Using Quinn’s antique, Alumacraft Ducker as my icebreaker, I plodded my way out to the birds that crashed on a half inch of ice that glazed over 2 inches of water and 2 feet of the stickiest mud you’d never want to set foot into. Huffing and puffing to the first bird confirmed another drake. The track record held up with the once phoenix: another drake.
We called it a wrap after that. The Vets had a hankering for their free lunch and were beyond content with the morning’s results.
Encircled around a table mowing down burgers, we confirmed the morning’s events to be summed up as the most bizarre, successful hunts of our lives: 2 young pups undeterred by most dogs’ worst nightmare – ice – where they retrieved 14 drakes in 16 total green-winged teal, a redhead that didn’t learn her lesson the first time, not one but two Hail Mary shots, and more pintails than any of us have ever experienced bagging in a Minnesota blind.
“Speaking of pintails, just as we were about to pick the spread up, all of us but the Old Man were unloaded. A pair of pintails flew by at a very shootable 30 yards. What happened there; I thought he doesn’t miss?” one of us questioned.
“Huh, I guess we can add that to the list too…”
L to R: Rod, Quinn, me, Old Man, Justin, Joe with 16 GWT, 5 Pintails, 3 Mallards, 1 Redhead, 1 Hooded