Deer hunting was a mystery to me, but as an old (in many ways), duck and quail hunter, I do so enjoy reading the articles by Jeff North. He captures me with his descriptions, not just of the hunt but with his moments in the woods.
I remember when I, a female, my pounding heart full of hope, used to be a huntress (duck and quail only).
And if Jeff will forgive me, I would like to go way back in time, pen a few memories and tell him (and maybe a few others) about the beginning of duck and quail hunting for yours truly.
As a new bride, I wanted to be with my husband Willard whenever I could. So, when on a few weekend winter mornings he got up way before daylight, shucked himself into heavy hunting clothes, cranked the car, and pulled out of the driveway, I decided to go. To be with him.
Before we began the hunt, he first took me to a field outside of town that belonged to a patient of his, to safely and stoically teach me how to load, aim, and shoot a gun.
The first time I went hunting though, getting dressed made me think I wouldn't like it or would ever want to go again. All suited up, I was not a picture for the Northside Sun, or let alone any kind of fashion magazine. The only article of clothes I wore that were mine was a turtle neck sweater. I was clad in a pair of insulated underwear, Willard's canvas coveralls that were stained with quail and duck innards, a khaki vest, a padded hunting jacket, and not holy, but-holey, rubber galoshes.
Early on a cold, black, morning, I wondered what I was doing there, as Willard helped me get out of a rocking boat and into the V of a tree.
The undressed tree rose like a ghostly arm with spreading, arthritic fingers out of dark, pulsating, rippling water. My husband gave me a duck caller to shake and a long, heavy string with a few rubbery decoys at the end, and said to pull it every now and then so flying ducks would think my gray, rubber ones were real. Although a gentleman, he was also a very competitive man. If he could, he would kill the flock. He got back into the boat and glided off into the early morning stillness, far enough away so hopefully, I wouldn't mess up his hunting. (I later figured that one out).
I hooked one arm through a looped branch, tied the thick string around my leather-gloved finger, leaned back, and shook my caller vigorously. It made a racket like a tubercular man with a coughing fit, but I kept doing it because that coarse croak was the only hint of life in a gloomy swamp.
My wrist finally got tired and I stopped to rest for a moment. When I did, overhead and close, I heard an ear-grating quack.
I dropped my caller, took off the safety and quickly raised the shotgun to my shoulder, jerking decoys through the water like troop ships on a fast, unknown maneuver.
I could see the startled duck try to reverse as if he were a sidewalk drunk and had seen his sober, angry, wife coming toward him.
I sighted, closed my eyes, squeezing the trigger, fired and nearly flipped backward into the icy swamp. I had been sitting loosely in the tree branch and my legs shot up as if I had been dumped backward from a high-swinging park swing.
I bumped part way down the spiny tree toward the water, barely holding onto the gun, my eyes still squinched shut, but my wide-butted body stopped on a sturdy branch just below the water line. I heard a splash, opened my eyes, and saw that with my very first shot, I had a duck.
The early morning sun began leaking through and as it got lighter I could see flights of ducks circling overhead, so I balanced myself, aimed and skybusted until my shoulders ached, and I finally ran out of shells.
There was nothing else to do.
It was freezing cold, I was tired and shaking, and my bottom was resting in half a foot of ice water.
My duck was caught in some underbrush, so I sat, watching it bobble and float just a few yards in front of me, like a dog sits and watches over a squirrel he has killed, a ready growl in his throat.
A long time passed before I heard the hum of a boat engine in the distance and knew Willard was coming to get me.
"Blondie, where are the rest of your ducks?" he asked, as he reached over, picked up my dripping trophy, then swung the boat around to my tree. "It sounded like a war going on over here."
I had sat so long I was stiff, and it was hard getting from the bare, slippery bough and into the boat because a wind had come up and was moving it back and forth like a rope ladder.
"If you want me to go hunting, I need a gun with a longer barrel and some more decoys. I want a good retriever to fetch my game." I looked around the boat. "Where are your ducks?"I asked.
Willard ducked his head, almost as if he were dodging an imaginary bullet.
"You scared them off with all that shooting you did," he grumbled in a low, wounded tone, his breath puffing out in a cloud of steam.
We went back so fast wind stung my face, making my eyes smart. I thought my dear sweet husband might be trying to toss me out of the boat. There was a smell in the air like an old, rotting fishing pier as we churned up the muddy gumbo bottom.
But you know what?
I had me a duck.
I was hooked.
