Unlike some lucky folks, I didn't grow up shooting a big pile of ducks every day. So, each duck was very special. The dreaded nightmare was to knock down a bird, then not be able to retrieve it. I will say that my Father tried hard to find each duck. He never owned a retriever, but used my Uncle's Chessy when ever he could. Used a dog that belonged to Harry Fleming. Hunted with a couple other guys that had retrievers. He had been a hunter all his life, and naturally marked downed birds very well. All in all we did better than anyone else that hunted around us. Sometimes it took quite a bit of searching, and possibly some missed shooting opportunities, but we always tried our best.
I never got over that. Quite possibly, it was imprinted on me to an extreme level. Like killing 267 ducks one season, and only remembering the two crippled Bluebills that got away.
I have had a lifetime of good dogs. All of them seemed to understand my passion for finding all our birds. None of my dogs would ever give up the search until I called them off. I can honestly remember searching for a cripple for an hour. Walking the marshes, riding in the boat for miles, sending the dog over and over. I was lucky enough to have hunting partners that felt pretty much the same way.
I didn't keep great hunting records when I was a boy. Unfortunately, my Mother threw out most of my notes when I went in the service. Luckily, I had one old notebook that was about 99% complete, so Mom didn't completely ruin things. So I don't really have many notes on how many ducks we lost crippled during my early years. Later in life, I recorded them as earnestly as I did all the birds we got.
It sickens me to see other hunters not even make an effort on long cripples. Enough to make me want to throw them in the lake/river/ocean, whatever was handy. Last year, McGee and I saw a guy not even leave his blind after skybusting down a drake Pintail. He deserved an ass whipping for even shooting at the bird, but then to not even try to find it. Disgusting. Unfortunately, too many hunters take a half hearted approach to finding their birds. I guess it gives them the opportunity to keep on shooting.
Down in Argentina, things didn't suit me when I first started going down there. The bird boys were instructed by the outfitter to sit quietly, and to only retrieve birds once the shooters were finished. Even the best shot doesn't kill every duck stone dead, and cripples will sneak away if you aren't prudent. Very first afternoon I shot ducks in Argentina, the outfitter positioned my bird boy on a shoreline, about 80 yards down wind from me, so he could gather the birds when they floated down there, without disturbing my shooting. Seeing how it was going to work, I tried my best to put an extra shot on ducks that weren't stone dead. 50 ducks was our afternoon limit. When the bird boy clicked up 50 on his little counter, he came to pick up the decoys. I unloaded my gun and waded to the bank. I was anxious to see all the new species that I had killed and started looking over my birds. So that I could keep my log book up to date, I tossed the birds in piles by species. Huh, only 46 birds were there. At first I wondered if I had been cheated out of my last four birds. Then when I turned to look out over the pond to see where the bird boy was, so I could question his count, I saw two crippled ducks swimming away from where he was gathering decoys. I hollered at him and pointed out my birds. The outfitter intervened and told me that they would return to the marsh the following morning with dogs and pick up any remaining cripples. I wasn't sure about that, so I reloaded my gun and waded out to kill the cripples I saw swimming. I found three, but not the last one. By then it was getting pretty dark and the other hunters and bird boys were showing up, ready to head back to the lodge. One of the other hunters looked at my pile of ducks and laughed about me worrying over "one lost duck". At the dinner table that evening, I informed everyone that it was not acceptable to leave cripples out there due to laziness. Most of the guys agreed. The following morning, I kept the bird boy at my side and had him retrieve each bird right when I killed it. When we got finished, the outfitter proceeded to inform me that I was not supposed to do it that way. So I told him to come into the marsh with me and bring his dog. He insisted that after I finished shooting, he would have his dogs check all over the marsh to pick up any cripples. So, that afternoon I shot till the bird boy counted 50, unloaded my gun and had him go pick up the birds. When he returned with 42 out of the 50, I called for the outfitter to bring the dogs. they picked up five more ducks, so I reloaded and shot three more, then told them the bird boy was to show me his little clicker after each duck I shot. At the dinner table that night, we again "discussed" the situation. The following morning, the bird boy made a point of letting me know that he had not cheated me the afternoon before, but that the missing birds had been cripples that swam away. I had kept track, so I actually knew he hadn't cheated me, just a sloppy system of retrieving the birds. I don't care how many millions of ducks are in Argentina, or how big the limit is, that is not how I shoot ducks. By the end of the week, we had it all squared away and I continued to hunt with that outfitter for several years. After that, the duck strap matched the bird boy's little counter on every hunt but one. A single White Cheeked Pintail, that I should never have shot at because it was too high, set his wings and sailed about a mile out into the middle of a lake too deep to wade. By the time they drove around to the far side and let the dogs out, it was sitting about a mile out in the center of the lake. Too far for the dogs to work.
So, what do you think I remember about that 750 duck week? That one lost cripple.
