Back when I was a kid, my Dad had an assortment of hunting partners. A few were neighbors that started hunting because they saw all our gear and dead birds we brought home. A few were policeman buddies of Dad's, because that's who he hung out with. Mainly the 'friends' that got to hunt were the ones that were willing to help out a little. Like taking turns standing in line at the Park Office, back when blinds were on a 'first come, first serve' system. Eventually turning into drawing names from a hat, so the more friends' names that were in the hat, the better chance you had. Dad had some little system of deciding who got to hunt, I think a pretty fair system. The only snag was, in wanting to ensure that they continued to stay 'friends', he always wanted to ensure that they got some ducks.
At times the deal sort of bit me in the ass. Like having a nice drake swim in about daylight, and instead of his son getting the nod, some half drunk police buddy would get to take the easy shot. It really hurt. It also made me try even harder when we got birds to decoy. Unfortunately, there were still times when some non-shooting pal of Dad's would get or take credit for killing a bird that I was really sure I had killed. Oh, well, tough to be the junior man.
Anyhow, one year out in the Reed Patch blind, my Dad had one of his ne'er-do-well friends along with us on a two day hunt. The first day, right at daylight a big Mallard drake swam in. Of course Dad told his buddy to take him. Well, he missed on the water and I killed the bird on the jump. Dad praised him for his good second shot, saying nothing to me, and the guy never said a word. I was crushed. A few other ducks came and went, Dad killing some, and the other birds that fell were awarded to his buddy.
I truly was so upset, so disappointed in my Father, that I absolutely didn't know what to do. I knew that I was killing some of the birds, but NOTHING. Never a word of praise, or even acknowledgement that I was shooting pretty well.
The following day was a Saturday. A lot of hunters on the lake. Birds really stirred up, flying high, not wanting to decoy. We only had a couple of long shots. Nothing I was skilled enough to shoot at. After a couple hours, a small flock of divers decoyed to us. I had ended up on the left hand side of the blind after taking the boat out to look for a cripple. Dad was in the middle, and his buddy on the right end. Typical of my luck, the birds swung to the right when they got over the decoys. All of them except one. At 50 yards away I could see his beautiful, huge, red head. I guess when the shooting started he decided the quickest way to safety was to break back to the left away from the other birds. I swung on him and dropped him, well out to the left of the decoy spread. Dad and his buddy had killed a couple birds and immediately said to get the boat out to pick up their birds. I rowed out and headed for my Redhead. Dad hollered that I was going the wrong direction, not even seeing my duck. I ignored him and picked up my duck first. Holding him high in the sunlight for everybody within miles to see him. While I was holding him up, I spied the band on his leg. Doesn't get any better. I rowed over and retrieved a couple hens they had shot and headed back into the blind.
Of course they wanted to see my nice duck, but when I handed it to Dad, I really thought he was going to give it to his buddy. My heart nearly stopped. Then Dad commented that I had finally gotten a duck. His friend responded immediately that I had been killing everything, and that he didn't think he had killed a duck either day.
Damn shame that those words had to come from some drunken cop and not my own Father. I guess in his own mind, he thought having the other guys hunting with us in exchange for their small bit of help in securing a blind was worth it. Maybe it was. We always seemed to have a good blind. But it was really hard on me at the time.
The drake Redhead turned out to be 13 years old according to the information from the band. He was a giant. So large that I saved the head and feet, and some of his internal organs to compare with other birds we killed the rest of the year. Mallards, Black Ducks and Canvasbacks were noticeably smaller than that big Redhead. A million times I have looked back at the picture of that bird and wished I could have had it mounted. It was truly the most magnificent duck I have ever killed. 50 years ago and I can remember it like it was this morning.
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