A long time ago I came home on leave and the lake where we hunted in Ohio was frozen up and the ducks all gone. I talked to my Dad about heading back home to Kentucky to hunt. Maybe it was the non-resident license fee, or maybe Dad really knew what he was talking about, but he suggested we head down to Brush Creek. Brush Creek is a good sized tributary of the Ohio River, just a little ways east of our home town of Maysville. Way back when Dad worked on a towboat he said he always remembered seeing ducks at the mouth of the creek, so we decided to give it a try.
My younger brother Tom went along with us, one of his very first hunting trips. The first morning we launched after daylight and sort of cruised the creek, looking for a likely place to put out a few decoys and try our luck. It was late December or early January and the River was high and the creek was flooded in a couple spots. We found one really nice looking cornfield along the creek that was pretty well flooded. The water was deep enough and the bottom muddy enough that we used the boat to put out a half dozen Mallard decoys. Tom and I got out of the boat and hunkered down in the edge of the corn while Dad motored on up the creek to see if he might stir up any ducks. We hadn't hunted too long when a nice flock of Black Ducks came down the creek. I called and they saw our decoys and started working. When it looked like they were committed, I told Tom that I'd call the shot. I counted to 3 very slowly. Tom was just a second ahead of me. By the time I started to say 3 he was up and shooting, bagging a nice double. I killed a duck or two as well. Wasn't but just a short time later when another flock came in. Tom held his own on that pass as well.
Dad heard our shots and headed back down to see what we were doing. Just as he killed the motor and prepared to row into the field to check on us, a Mallard drake passed over him really high. He made a great shot on it. He retrieved our birds, we had 7 Black Ducks down, then told us where to meet him so we could get into the boat safely. Just about the time we were climbing into the boat, a single Blue Winged Teal passed over us high. I took a crack at it and killed it stone dead. It must have fallen 40 yards out into the cornfield. Before Dad or I could say a word, Tom attempted to turn and run out to get the duck. Unfortunately, his hip boots didn't get the message. They were sunk, ankle deep, in the mud. His feet stayed in place and he fell face first into the mud. Really bad river bottom mud. He was down, his gun was buried in the mud. One of the biggest messes I have ever seen. I imagine if you asked him today, he's just about forgotten about the muddy mess, but I'm sure he remembers his nice double and the other good shots he made that morning.
We hunted again the next day, but the water level was down and we couldn't get back into that flooded bottom. I think we killed about as many birds the second day, but we did it mostly by sneaking around in the boat. Pretty good trip for all of us, after we got all the mud cleaned off my little brother.
My younger brother Tom went along with us, one of his very first hunting trips. The first morning we launched after daylight and sort of cruised the creek, looking for a likely place to put out a few decoys and try our luck. It was late December or early January and the River was high and the creek was flooded in a couple spots. We found one really nice looking cornfield along the creek that was pretty well flooded. The water was deep enough and the bottom muddy enough that we used the boat to put out a half dozen Mallard decoys. Tom and I got out of the boat and hunkered down in the edge of the corn while Dad motored on up the creek to see if he might stir up any ducks. We hadn't hunted too long when a nice flock of Black Ducks came down the creek. I called and they saw our decoys and started working. When it looked like they were committed, I told Tom that I'd call the shot. I counted to 3 very slowly. Tom was just a second ahead of me. By the time I started to say 3 he was up and shooting, bagging a nice double. I killed a duck or two as well. Wasn't but just a short time later when another flock came in. Tom held his own on that pass as well.
Dad heard our shots and headed back down to see what we were doing. Just as he killed the motor and prepared to row into the field to check on us, a Mallard drake passed over him really high. He made a great shot on it. He retrieved our birds, we had 7 Black Ducks down, then told us where to meet him so we could get into the boat safely. Just about the time we were climbing into the boat, a single Blue Winged Teal passed over us high. I took a crack at it and killed it stone dead. It must have fallen 40 yards out into the cornfield. Before Dad or I could say a word, Tom attempted to turn and run out to get the duck. Unfortunately, his hip boots didn't get the message. They were sunk, ankle deep, in the mud. His feet stayed in place and he fell face first into the mud. Really bad river bottom mud. He was down, his gun was buried in the mud. One of the biggest messes I have ever seen. I imagine if you asked him today, he's just about forgotten about the muddy mess, but I'm sure he remembers his nice double and the other good shots he made that morning.
We hunted again the next day, but the water level was down and we couldn't get back into that flooded bottom. I think we killed about as many birds the second day, but we did it mostly by sneaking around in the boat. Pretty good trip for all of us, after we got all the mud cleaned off my little brother.
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