You know it’s a good day when you contently put down your gun and take up your camera. You know it’s one for the books when you get to spend such a day with your old man – who hadn’t been on a diver hunt in 30 years – start making the sound effects (with bonus hand gestures) after one buzzed his tower. There in the blind was a 12-year-youth in a 60-year-old body holding up an imaginary F-16 Fighting Falcon in his right hand – with accompanied after burners sound effects – that rocketed past a smile that could span the Mississippi.
It was a moment to never forget. I had dreamed of such a morning months before when flocking and rigging in the offseason. It was one I hoped for in the days leading up to it.
The Association (The Man – Decker, The Myth – me, The Legend – Rob, and Noob – my cousin Andrew) assembled at The Legend’s hunting shack on Wednesday evening for our annual Waterfowl Weekend (WW’18). A winter gale howled overnight bringing our first snowfall of the season. The 2 AM wakeup call was greeted with anticipation as the blizzard raged on.
Our arrival at the public launch came with an unexpected sight: not a single trailer yet. Our arrival at our preferred blind, The Point, also was vacant. “There will be birds today boys!” I roared.
Pre-shooting light was filled only with the constant sound of the northwesterly wind – not a single jet or whistling wings to get the blood flowing in excitement. Shooting light, was nearly the same: disappointing. Four hours later we came out with 3 Buffies, 2 Ringers, 2 Gingers, and a bonus Greenie. A great outcome on public land, no doubt, but this didn’t measure up to The Association’s expectation. Especially with such a weather front moving through. The meager flocks we did see were heading north from our location – perfect since the boat launch was up that way too.
The numbers weren’t in the thousands like we hoped, but a few hundred were up in an area we’ve never, in years past, seen them go. The Legend and I devised to move up closer to them for Friday’s hunt by hoping to get to the Secondary Point across the bay. It’s one of the last locations any hunter would want, so we figured it’d be no problem to lay claim on in it in the morning – especially since no one was out to hunt or scout.
Day 2 – The Wingmasters Re-Unite
My Old Man greeted us in the middle of the second night with his arrival – due to previous engagements. Two hours later we coaxed him from his newly warmed bed, and we were up and on our way back out, hoping for our strategy to go as we had planned. Again, the boat launch was empty.
“Pulse check – how ya holding up after 2 hours of sleep?” I asked the Old Man.
“It could’ve been better, but it’ll take a lot more for this deadeye to be shaken,” He cocked back.
“Good. What can I grab for ya to pack in the boat?”
“I should be fine.”
“What about shell count – bring a couple boxes?” I continued.
“I’ve got a box in the boat and another here in my pocket (as he begins pulling it out).”
“Heh, you know – as of about 30 years ago – you can’t shoot lead anymore, right?” I questioned.
“Yah.”
“You trying to go back in time with that box of lead in your hands?”
“What do you mean?”
“Also, you know Prairie Storm is for pheasants, right?…I suppose you can certainly use them in their steel offerings for divers but this is definitely lead shot. Best go put that back in the truck while the Association goes to audit what type of shells you cached in the boat,” I winked.
As he made his way back to the boat, I confirmed, “Thankfully for you, there’s an open box of steel with about 18 shells.”
“Thankfully for you, all I’ll need is 6. Remember, I’m the deadeye.”
“Okay, Deadeye.” I bowed.
Our claim of Secondary Point was secured. There were birds; they all came from where we saw them on Thursday – just a quarter mile up the lake. Our shooting, however, was deadly deficient.
“Better make ‘em count!” I responded after the Old Man voiced being down to his last three shells.
“Just two more is all I need.”
“There’s one to the right.” Noob spied.
Before pulling on it, the Association’s lone lefty (The Man) and, therefore, permanent fixture on right side of the blind barked off a shot at the solo ringer. His shot marked true as the bird helicoptered down to the water.
WHAM! (another volley reported off to our left)
“What the?” We thought to ourselves as the bird continued its fall.
“Got ‘im!!!” The Old Man claimed.
Speechless, at this point, I looked over to see a puzzled look on The Man’s jaw-dropped face. All he could see from me was a shrug in bafflement. Even so, the Association be damned to question its Honorable Deadeye!
The Man then decided to dig out his last box of shells and hand it over to his Honorable – heeding to the Association’s call of speaking softly and throwing The Old Man a very large stick. I seconded the motion with a nod. A few volleys at flocks later, Noob came over.
“Got any more shells?”
“Yeah, I have a half box left.” The Man replied.
“Mind if I bum some off of you?”
“How many boxes have you gone through over there?”
“I have a confession,” Noob confided.
“Go on…”
“Well, when I jumped out of the boat this morning, the box of shells that were in my wader pocket went flying out.”
“How is that possible, given the top of the pouch looks to have Velcro?” as The Man inspected Noob’s waders.
“I didn’t secure it down.”
“You know where the box is? Maybe we could try to grab it with our feet.”
“That’s the other thing. The lid was open on the box, so they all spilled.”
The Man’s fatherly instincts kicked in. You could tell he was laughing on the inside, but there was no sense in opening an old wound. “Here. I’ll have plenty of fun enjoying watching you and Deadeye over there finish off your limit,” as he handed over the last of his shells.
The birds were bombing in our spread, but the keynote pocket area (the Fully Flocked Flotilla) was too far out – a fault exclusively mine. Making matters worse, there was a minor gap in our primary diver line that caused the birds to hit the line halfway and swing through the Flotilla on the edge of our effective shooting range – another fault exclusively mine. Too many cripples were had that morning. Including the lost birds in our count, as legally required, we hit our limit with just 15 ducks (10 ringers, 2 gingers, 2 scaup, 1 can) and two mergansers.
It was bittersweet. No one wants to lose a dozen birds; upon getting hit out of the air, most cripples promptly dove, never to re-surface – vanishing in the water abyss. Regardless, it was fun to watch the Old Man and Noob’s Wingmasters churn through shells. Both were getting their reps for what the rest of us in the Association were hoping for in the coming day.
“What do you think? Go to the spot they’re dialing in on up the lake, Legend? I asked.
“Yep, no one is going to go there tomorrow. They won’t have a clue (we had the lake to ourselves that morning).” he responded in sage fashion.
“More sleep for us too!” The Man chimed in.
“Yeah baby! Please don’t allow me to make the same mistake with our spread tomorrow. If there’s anything we learned today is divers are like water – they’ll flow in the path of least resistance; let’s firm up our primary line so they fly along all of it towards the Flotilla, which will be used as a dam / blocker.” I pleaded.
“Agreed.”
Upon returning to the launch, we found a couple camo clad hunters standing: one panning with his binoculars, while the other stoic with his arms crossed whispering. As we motored up to them we knew their brilliant plan would be for naught in the morning. All The Association could do was be about our own business while the “scouts” kept to themselves.
“I think you’re on to something, Legend.” I said over the burgers we were having at the local watering hole afterwards.
“Oh?”
“In years past, we come up to hunt Saturday through Tuesday. This has been the first year we’ve come up a couple days before the weekend; we’ve got the lay of the land before the weekend warriors – like those badass scouts, seen at the launch. We’re dialed. They, on the other hand, think they are, but haven’t a clue.” I remarked.
The Legend gave a smirk and wink, which was all the Association needed for an answer.
Tomorrow was going to be ours. All I could do was relish in hope. Hope for both my Old Man and the Noob would get even better shooting. Their Wingmasters reunited on the diver hunt today – something that hadn’t been done since my Old man and his brother were in college 40 years ago. I had inherited it, but this was the weekend it passed properly back to Noob.
Day 3 – Thirty for Thirty
The launch had a couple empty trailers that following morning – not to fret. The Association knew exactly where the birds would be. A calm breeze wisped from the southeast through the grin I was sporting when we got out of The Man’s truck. Rarely are there days like this when you know beforehand that it’ll be a good day.
Regardless, it was time to put those feelings in check while slipping into the waders. More times than not, that level of confidence would harken a bad omen. If there’s one thing hunting generously will teach, it’s that nothing in life is guaranteed. We’re at the day’s mercy, so go about it with humility.
First order of business: setting the spread. We started by laying out the Floating Flotilla at the proper distance – piece of cake. Next, build off of it with lines – no sweat to anyone with half a brain. What should’ve taken 5 minutes to put out two diver lines took The Man and me 30 – probably even longer. Nothing was going down right and the breeze from the Southeast that should’ve straightened them out went still. After the 5th time of trying to line them up, we both shrugged it off. Murphy’s Law had clearly kicked in high gear, and there was no way we were going to win.
“Best get in. Shooting light is coming soon.” The Man consoled.
“Yeah, you’re right.” I sulked. The perfectionist within me wanted proper spacing and alignment – something I was negligent about the day before. Now it was a cockeyed mess. Surely, if divers were to come, they’d short stop the line and swing too early, being completely out of range.
The Man could see that entire dialogue on my face; it was clear as day – despite it being illuminated by just his headlamp. He went on, “We can fix the line when the sun comes up to diagnose what’s actually going on; it’s probably hung up around a few submerged clumps of bog or wild rice. Or we’re just this stinking tired after getting 6 hours of sleep in the past three days!”
“You’re ever the voice of reason. Let’s go see how this plays out.” I smirked as the Honda tiller purred us up to the blind, where Noob, the Old Man, and my pup, Jacie (Jace) were.
“What do you think the blind is a waterbed?!” The Man chastised with his headlamp beaming down at Noob sneaking a snooze on the floating bog.
“(SNORT!) HechuUUM…Whaaa?” Noob shook awake.
“You heard me. That cozy blind of yours all brushed in ya friggin’ Millennial??”
“Uhhh, yeah I think so.”
“Good. We’ve got birds to shoot in 20 minutes.” The Man spouted as I hopped out with some gear while he took off down the shore to hide the boat with The Legend, who had gotten a head start brushing out his.
“How we looking, boys?” I asked.
“She’s a bit soggy in here, but I think it’ll work.” The Old Man said as the blind (a long sheet of plywood) was holding its own above a shaky floor.
“Good, let’s see those Wingmasters of yours.”
They both unzipped their cases and unsheathed them. “Ah yes. Time for a classic, blue-collar shoot! I’m sure glad those beasts are reunited this weekend.”
“Yup, me too. Almost time to unleash the steel curtain.” The Old Man smiled.
“What are you working with today?” Noob asked me.
In a big smile I pulled out “Ol’ Mac” – a 12 bore Lefever Nitro Special from the 1920s.
“Ohh man, he’s got the side by side!” Noob flattered.
“Yep, time for a taste of nostalgia. (Gordon) MacQuarrie had his Association back in the day. We have ours now. Here’s to an homage hunt for his legendary ODHA.”
“Now we’re talkin’,” The Legend remarked as he returned with his 3 year old chessie, Leo, and The Man. “10 minutes ‘til shooting – let’s load up and watch the morning magic.”
With the sound of shells clicking, pumping, and dropping into their respective barrels, a splash was heard off the line that The Man and I deployed. Two ripples formed 60 yards out from us around the bend in the long line we incessantly tried straightening.
“(insert expletives), there goes the first half hour of our hunt (until we could wait for sunrise to reveal what was bunching up the long line).” I said to myself.
I was not happy. The pair swam off just before shooting light. Hunter groups north, east, and west of us boomed away during the power half hour before sunrise. Just two flocks buzzed passed us during that critical time. Then we had to compete with all their spinners – now getting more prominent with each second of the rising sun.
“What do you boys think? Should we try to fix that line quick?” I asked.
“Nah, let’s give it a little time. I don’t think the birds we saw yesterday are up yet; it took them a bit longer to fly into this spot. Let’s adjust if it’s not working.” The Legend remarked.
The Legend surveying the Flotilla
I gave him the thumbs up. It was the best form of communication at the time as a bird buzzed our tower from behind. Then, in typical diver fashion, took a big turn and circled in. Landing gear down. We all gripped our guns tighter in anticipation.
Splash…
Right at the same kink in the long line. If looks could kill, I sure as heck was doing my Dirty Harry (a la Clint Eastwood) at that bird. Ten seconds later it got up and made a low approach at the Flotilla.
“Noob! Get after it.” I called.
Just before it set down, he put his Wingmaster to work and folded it clean.
“Nice shootin Noob!”
“Legend, wanna send Leo after it?”
“Sure thing”, he responded.
Before he could, a flock of three zipped by from left to right, circled and approached. “Don’t you dare go into that kink,” I whispered. They heeded the call – presenting a 20 yard, left to right shot for the Old Man and Noob.
“Take em!”
A steel curtain from the Wingmasters zipped out. One dropped. Then The Legend, batting clean-up, put a nice bead on another.
I sent Jace for the one the Wingmasters tagged on, and The Legend had Leo go for his, to the right. Both were easy retrieves. Jace, my pup, however wasn’t feeling it. A level of frustration came upon me; this was an easy retrieve she could do in her sleep. What gave?
It was her uncertainty in the shaky the bog. She was used to hard ground, mud, or sand to launch off from and into the water. The floating bog we were on was more like a waterbed – there’s no lift when the feet can’t plant into the ground. So it went for a couple more flocks. Leo took the lion’s share of retrieves while Jace just stayed pat in the blind.
“At least she’s keeping steady…Don’t worry, she’ll figure it out.” The Old Man consoled, then continued, “Ohhh, single high.”
“Maybe not high enough for the full-choke barrel on ‘Ol’ Mac’.” I grinned.
Duck hunters know the situation all too well. A literal second is all that is given to make a fateful decision: to shoot or to withhold. Within that second is an infinite span of time for the mind to weigh the options:
Eyes communicated to the brain a Ringer making a casual slip from our left at 45 yards up with a flightpath that’d leave most watching – it’d be flying over the thick bog, not ideal for giving the bird fair chase, if one did knock it down. First, justify the distance – time to jog back in memory bank to a couple months earlier: ‘Ol Mac’s fully choked left barrel at that 45 yard height on a tower shoot folded a pheasant with 4 shot – it just so happened that 4 shot Bismuths were anxiously waiting in the bores. Payload check: Cleared.
What about the birds’ speed and potential trajectory if it were to fold? No question it’d be landing in the bog behind the blind. Could the fair chase conundrum be morally justified? Yes, there were 5 guys that could put an honest mark on where it landed. Then it comes to dog power. Could Leo or Jace put a nose on it? There was zero doubt; Leo was more than capable, plus Jace’s bread and butter the season earlier was sniffing out cripples in the thick – she was 21 for 22. Not even Curry, Nash, or Price can compete with 95% at the free throw line. It could be just what she needed to get used to the unstable bog to make water retrieves later. Fair Chase: Cleared.
Ol’ Mac shouldered. Tang Safety click off. Index finger slide past the forward trigger and grip the back. Bead on a fluid swing with bird trajectory. Mental check: “NOW!” Back trigger pulled. Left barrel engaged: “BOOM!” Ringer’s wings fold. Bismuth payload delivery confirmed. Eyes peeled marking its thump to the ground.
“Ha! Typical Myth!” The Man cheered.
“That left barrel is always honest! You boys have a good eye on where it dropped?” I asked.
“Yep! Yep! Yes sir! Yep – just about 25 yards back to the left of the muskrat hut.” The guys confirmed.
“Alright, little girl, it’s your time.” I turned and then pointed in the direction that Jace already had locked onto, her eyes instinctively zeroed in on its fall. “BACK!”
With a leap, she bounded ahead. The bog was no issue this time around.
“She shorted it by 5 yards. Not to worry – her tail confirmed she was loving every second of this. Keep encouraging ‘Dead Bird’,” I told myself. She then bounded right over where it fell. With a little help from the wind, she spun a 180. There isn’t a sweeter sight for a dog dad to see than when their ‘fur boy or girl’ pulls that maneuver with their flailing tail that non-verbalizes, “I’m on it dad!”
Deep into the sphagnum her nose poked until a black and steel-grey feathered Ringer came out. Anyone with a pulse would be smiling at the sight of their pup enjoying what they love. Instead of taking it out of her mouth, I let her carry it back to the blind where she could prance around in front of the guys.
The purists out there would snarl their noses. Fine by me. She was getting praise with a bird-in-mouth in the area she was once uncomfortable in and around: the blind. That barrier shattered in one proud swoop. After the little hoopla, it was back to business – at “Place”.
A few minutes later Noob called a loner coming in hot on the deck. A shot from Ol’ Mac dropped it but wasn’t enough to end what divers are notorious for: diving at the moment of impact – this just 15 yards away. Its head poked up briefly for a water swat that came up vain.
Jace and I jumped out of the blind, then made our way along shore – keeping an eye on the bubble trail given off with each paddle from the diver’s webbed foot. It ended under a pile of floating lily pads and wild rice stalks. Without being able to see it, I had to go with option B and see if she could put her nose to work.
I gave Jace the command to go into the water on a line much like the hypotenuse of a 90-degree triangle; once she’d get to the point far enough downwind of it on the water, I’d handler her into the last point where I last saw the bubbles. With a touch of reluctance, she went in (thankfully). Just as I had hoped, she kept a decent line and pivoted left as I hand-signaled.
Now to let her nose do the work that led her right into the clump. No bird. Movement came from my peripheral: the bird’s tail waddling up on the bog – Jace’s swimming must have spooked it out of the water. With a little encouragement, she made her line up onto the bog again. Ten seconds later she emerged with a hen, Bluebill and a tail that spun as fast as a helicopter. Progress!
We proudly made our way back to witness The Man batting clean up on a drake Buffie. Leo’s retrieve to The Legend’s hand confirmed why he was flying with 5 hens and no other drakes: he was a little stud muffin.
A few minutes later a three pack of Ringers zipped down the line towards the Fully Flocked Flotilla. Two dropped and the left barrel put a heart shot on the last one that flew strong for a hundred yards and then dropped like a brick.
It was time for The Legend to paddle his kayak for the long retrieve, and simultaneously send Leo for the one that dropped to the right. At my command, Jace plunged in for the one on the left.
“Well, I think she figured it out!” The Old Man cheered as she made her way back with it.
“Yep! Just took a little session of connect-the-dots…crazy how much doubt she has in herself at times (stemmed from an experience when a dog attacked her in the blind during her first season).”
“It’s the same message I’ve been telling you since you were little: ‘Patience and Persistence, young Grasshopper’,” The Old Man smirked.
“Yes sir! And now it’s all gravy from here! Speaking of, I suppose it’s about time I fire up the Jetboil and get some Biscuits and Gravy cooking. Legend sure will be hungry after that paddle!”
Each time I made my way to my mess kit, another flock buzzed the Flotilla. More reps for Jace and a couple more for the Legend to paddle after – again, that unfortunate aspect of divers diving to safety out of range of the blind and impossible for a dog to swim down. We had our ace in the hole out, though; nothing gets by The Legend’s keen eyes.
I had to put Ol’ Mac down; I was closing on my limit and grub needed to be hot and ready upon The Legend’s return. It was time to enjoy from a watcher’s perspective.
Then came the sound of a solo Stuka Dive Bomber a mile up above with wings that made haste through cloudy ramparts; wings that effortlessly shredded the stratosphere like a silken tapestry. I looked up to see the Old Man’s face gleaning youthful anticipation; he knew it was coming; eyes not seeing the “bogey”, but surely feeling its imminent presence. A blink later, wind whipped past our heads revealing the contrail of a bird’s descent and winged departure. Then a laugh came out from his core – childlike enthusiasm I’ll only see again when another bird buzzes his tower.
The Noob and Old Man put the hurt on a couple more flocks of Ringers with their Wingmasters. Nostalgia was sinking in – my eyes were witnessing what it was like for The Old Man and his brother (Noob’s father) forty years ago with the exact same firearms.
Then, in typical, Fix family fashion, they got cocky…
“You sleeping over there?” Noob prodded to his right – where The Man stood.
The Man just shook his head with a smile. He knew the writing was on the wall: pride cometh before the fall.
At that moment a 6 pack of Cans made an easy pass down the line and into the Flotilla. Six shots barked from the Wingmasters. Not a single bird dropped. Thankfully for them – and all of us – The Man knows a thing or two about dropping Cans – stories that go down in Association lore.
There’s a reason why The Man is always on the right side of the blind: aside from being a lefty, he always comes through in the clutch – especially when Cans are in in range. Like clockwork, a Can dropped at his report of the Wingmaster’s misses.
“Nah, I’m just cleaning up your misses…errrrr…MESS!” The Man backslapped at Noob.
“THA MAN!” I paraded as Jace and I made for his Can.
Just as we returned, so to The Legend paddled back in – stripped of all upper garments except for his long underwear.
“Whew…I got all of em!”
“Need a respirator? I’ve got a full tank of gas you can siphon from my ass.” Noob offered.
“If it is as bad as your shooting on those Cans, I’ll graciously pass.” The Legend jabbed.
“Good, ‘cause I’ve got a bowl of biscuits and gravy you can choke down instead.” I segued and then began counting. “We’re at 19 birds!”
“Mighty fine morning,” The Legend confirmed.
“Ohhh man, why haven’t we done this before?” The Legend continued as he spied the grub. “Yesterday, warm breakfast burritos and today, BISCUITS AND GRAAAVAAAY!”
“Yeah baby! Leave it to The Myth to come up with the ideas.” The Man noted.
“Spoons down boys – we’ve got a flock keyed in on the Flotilla boys. Let’er rip!”
A rejuvenated Legend doubled up while the other fellas tag teamed on another.
“22!”
Just as Leo and Jace came back with the birds, another flock swung in.
“Take em!” The Old Man called.
1 more hit the drink. “Jeez, all the practice in the world this morning and you guys only got 1?!” I prodded – then ate my words with my breakfast at the sight of them dropping three Gingers. “I stand corrected! That’s 26!”
I made haste to ‘Ol Mac. I’d have one last flock at this rate. Just as I closed its breech, a flock of 4 crimson clad heads shorted the spread. Not to fret – “They’ll swing around,” The Legend assured.
Just like the flock that The Man chipped one down earlier, the 4 echeloned 10 feet off the water – connecting with the line and zeroed in on the Fully Flocked Flotilla. “Take em!” rang just as my thumb slipped up the tang. Then came the BANG, BANG – the left barrel finished what the right had started. End confirmed “CANS!” from Jace’s mouth. All four dropped from our volley, making a perfect 30, a triumphant close, a 5-man limit – all done on Public Land.
Leo & Jace
19 Ringers, 5 Cans, 4 Gingers, 1 Scaup, 1 Buffie
Points
“Time to celebrate!” The Man echoed while passing out some backwoods cigars to those that wanted while I got to packing some Captain Black in the tobacco pipe. As sweet smoke lofted out of our smiles, a chance to slow down and to recall the extent of the moment ensued – our kind of celebrating.
My eyes turned to The Old Man – the Hon. Deadeye – “You ever have a shoot like this?”
He paused for a moment, taking a jog down memory lane (one that he’s drove me down countless times through the years). “Nope, I’ve come close…but not with limits…and definitely not with 5 guys.”
Then the eyes turned to The Legend. “How about you?”
“Can’t say I have. On a field hunt, but that’s field hunting (far easier when you’re on the X field)…and it was on private land.”
Then they turned to The Man.
“Same here! Private land in a field with just mallards and honkers…just not the same – not even close! And to think we didn’t have a single spinner out while the rest of the hunters we’ve seen on the lake had them going non-stop.”
Then all eyes directed to The Noob. At that point The Association erupted in laughter. All of his hunts over the years were exclusively sanctioned with The Association, so the look was strictly rhetorical. “It may never be this sweet again for you, Noob, but we’ll do our damnest to try. You’ve come a long way over the years, and, clearly, have a lot more to learn considering the box of shells you donated yesterday to the bottom of the lake.
Regardless, you’ve earned the right to wield your Wingmaster. Next time, though, if you’re going to shoot off a celebratory shot off in the air, eject the empty shell. You don’t need another game warden questioning your sanity again.”
