Barnegat Bay

In December 2011, I made a trip to the famous Barnegat Bay. It was worth it. I met up with Dave Schneider, who I had met in Maine a few years before, gunning Eider. We hunted with Ray Bukowski and Brian LaFay of Reedy Creek Outfitters.

The trip was all arranged 10 months in advance and all went well, except the weather. It had been a very warm winter up to that point and unfortunately that continued during our trip. Sunny, warm and no wind. Really had it going our way! But we managed to make the best of it. The first day we shot Sea Ducks from a layout boat. Uncomfortable for an old crippled guy like me, but all in all a very exciting shoot. Been a few years since I had shot any Oldsquaw. Dave had his chance for a triple-play on Scoter, but missed his shot on the Black Scoter. He had never shot any White-Wing or Surf before, so it was still a great shoot for him.

The next two days we went into the marshes and small bays down near Tuckerton/Brigantine. Really neat terrain. Seemingly endless bays and channels all surrounded by grassy flats (referred to as salt meadows by the locals). Brant and Black Ducks were everywhere. Due to the terrible hunting weather, not a whole lot moved but we pretty much made the best of it. The last day we had 3 beautiful passes on Brant; 30 yards out, wings cupped and feet dangling.

Dave took 3-4 birds home for mounting, the rest are in my freezer.

The guides were really knowledgeable duckmen. The had great decoy spreads, mostly consisting of E. Allen decoys. Those decoys ought to be good since they run $90 apiece. The guides said it was worth the money not only due to the success they had shooting over them, but the decoys were very durable and they were still using a lot of the decoys they had when they first started guiding. They also had great boat blinds. Home made affairs, and each a little different, but comfortable and effective. Their knowledge of the area, combined with daily scouting put us in a decent spot each day.

I've heard about Barnegat Bay since I first read about duck shooting, and I am very happy to have gotten up there. To hunt a place with such a wonderful gunning heritage was really great.

The End of an Era

In January of 1979 I first ventured to Pamlico Point. McGee, Trevor and I hunted the Goose Creek Impoundment. Killed Pintails and Blacks. Doesn't get any better than that. So we started going up there on a regular basis. After a few trips to the impoundment we heard enough shooting out on the sound to get us interested in trying it out. Turned into my primary shooting location for many years.

About 10 years ago, Kelly Murphy and I pooled our money and bought Whitfield's trailer on Horne Road. We worked like crazy to fix up the 56 year old mobile home and get the yard shaped up. Didn't have a lot of money to work with, but we made it into a nice duck camp.

Then the birds started getting scarce. Then Kelly fell on some hard times and couldn't get up there to hunt very much. As I got older I didn't feel like making the trip and going to all the trouble just to hunt by myself. Slowly but surely I quit hunting up there completely. Never totally ruled it out in my mind, but something always seemed to keep me away.

This Summer we sold the place. It was a hard decision. Absolutely some of the best times of my life were up there at Lowland. But it all fizzled away to nothing. Just a place to have to fight the bugs and cut the grass. Am I sorry I sold it? In a way yes. It will always hold a million good memories in the back of my mind. But, I feel it was a good time to move on. I can kill ducks anywhere. So without all the old friends that made 825 Horne Road so special it just wasn't ever going to be the same again.

Maybe in time I'll regret the decision. But for right now, I think I am OK with it.

27 August, 2011 - Hurricane Irene devastates Goose Creek Island. Virtually every home is destroyed. An eight foot storm surge covered the island. The eye wall of the hurricane was over Lowland for 2 1/2 hours. Terrible, just terrible.

Aerial Photos

About a thousand years ago, when I was stationed at HQMC, I got some really good maps of the Pamlico Point area.

I was hanging out over in the Pentagon one day, either in the Command Center or the WWMCCS
Center and saw a really awesome map. It was comprised of about 50 satellite photos, all overlapping each other. The detail was fantastic.

I mentioned that I'd like to get a set of photos like that of the mouth of the Pamlico River. One of the guys that worked there sat down at a computer terminal and asked for some details on the location. I told him just west of BT-9. He looked on a broad overview map and found the area I was talking about and I pointed out just exactly where I was interested in. (My duck hunting area.) He told me he'd see what he could come up with.

A couple days later he called me over in my office at the Navy Annex and told me he had some pictures. He said I could come over and see if they were the right area. I went over that afternoon and he had about 25 photos, probably 24"by 36" that all overlapped each other and covered the exact area I wanted. I thanked him and he asked me what type of an exercise was going on down there, or was it classified and I couldn't tell him.

I told him there was no Marine Corps interest in the area, that it was where I hunted and that I had never seen a good map of the area, until now. Well, he went ballistic! Hollering and ranting and raving like a mad man. I asked what was wrong and he asked me right back "Do you know how much it costs to move a satellite and take a camera run like that?" I told him no, but that I really appreciated it.

Brannen's Seahorse

They say you can't teach an old dog new tricks. I personally never taught a young dog any new tricks either. I've taught them a little obedience. I've taught them to behave socially. I've taught them a few basics in order for "us" to be a little more successful in our hunting ventures. But most of the teaching came from wise men, many years ago, who didn't actually train dogs, but instead they bred dogs that had the desired knowledge born in them. Men who had far more patience than I do. Men who weren't greedy. They worked toward a goal that they knew might not be achieved in their lifetime. But they were men of necessity. They were men who knew they needed help retrieving their ducks. When these wise men lived, duck hunting was a job. Well, I'm sure some guys hunted for sport, but they didn't have the NEED for a duck dog, like the market gunners did. The market hunters needed a dog that was multi-talented. A dog that was at home in the water; being able and willing to take on the cold, rough, dangerous swims that went along with the job. They needed a dog to take care of things around the hunting lodge - a guard dog. They needed a companion to help keep them sane on the long, cold, days and nights of the Winter gunning season. These traits were developed fairly well, and many a duck hunter has reaped the benefits of the dogs developed more than a century ago. But the true gunners needed another trait in their dogs. Gunning for the market was a rough job. Face it, alone on the water in the the winter, with much of the work being done at night, is no job for the weak at heart. The gunners had a lot to think about: survival, prices of the birds they shot and sold, keeping their powder and/or shells dry, keeping their guns in working order, keeping their boats seaworthy. Since they almost always worked alone, there were a lot of things they had to tend to by themselves. These men knew they needed a duck dog that could be depended upon to share the responsibilities of their work. A dog that needed no special attention, no handling, no directions, no help getting the job done. They needed the Chesapeake Bay Retriever. A dog that could mark multiple downed birds and stay in the ice water long enough to retrieve them. A dog that would swim out into the dark, in crashing waves, time after time , searching for more fallen birds. A dog that would quit only when all the birds were gathered up. Sometimes that came after the hunter had long since left the water and headed for the fire. Then the dog guarded the gunner while he slept, and guarded the gunner's meager belongings while he was gone to town to sell his birds. A dog that could live on corn meal and cracklins, with a few fish heads and coot gizzards to add some flavor. A dog that needed only a pat on the head at the end of the day to signal that he had done everything asked of him. Those market gunners developed the one true duck dog. Brannen's Seahorse was such a dog, and I was able to spend 12 years with him. Pretty lucky for me. I was much younger, and not even as smart as I am now (hard to believe) and for a while I didn't know what I had. I was crushed at my inability to "train" Hoss as I wanted to. I could not accomplish even the simplest steps of dog training, but he was always there beside me, loved being with me. Since he was all I had, of course I took him hunting as soon as his first duck season rolled around. I was all set with my dog trainer's whistle, ready to give him all sort of commands, just like the field trialers do. He ignored me completely. He just hunted along side of me. He retrieved over 2300 ducks and surprisingly, he didn't need my help on any of them. The only thing he asked was to be allowed to go along, he handled the rest. Hoss and I rode many a mile in my old CJ5, and across many miles of water in my Herter's Model Yukon. I can still see him braced against the wind, staring out into the distance. I can still see him curled up beside my bed in the trailer at Lowland. Hell, those were the only nights of his life he ever got to sleep inside, and I sure hope he enjoyed it as much as I did. Big Hoss, I still miss you.

The 30-Minute Fly

A few years back, when my friend Kelly was just getting started, we went up to Lowland for a few days. We hunted the state impoundment on the open days and hunted sea ducks out on the Pamlico Sound the other days. We had a good week. Kelly got to shoot her first Scoters and also got to kill a few "new" species of puddleducks. So all in all, it was a great hunt.

One morning in particular, we were hunting in the Spring Creek Impoundment. There were Gadwall, Wigeon, Blue and Green Wing Teal, Mallards and a few Pintails around. We were lucky enough to shoot steadily all morning and kill a good variety of ducks. The only "different" thing about the hunt was that the ducks seemed to move only at certain intervals. We were in there for about 5 hours, and all morning we would sit for a half an hour and see nothing, then there would be a good movement of ducks, we would get some shooting and then all would be quiet for another half an hour.

I jokingly told Kelly that the birds were on the "30 minute fly" rule. Being fairly new to duck hunting she took me seriously, thinking that this strange occurrence actually happened regularly and that the official name for it was the "30 minute fly" rule. I guess maybe I had a little to do with convincing her that this was the case.

So anyhow, we had a good day. That evening we were out in front of our trailer and saw a car go by that I recognized as some of my hunting friends. We jumped in the Blazer and followed them down to their trailer to shoot the bull. When we got there I introduced Kelly to the guys and explained that she was my new hunting partner. They seemed pleased to meet her and asked her about getting started in the sport and how much she was enjoying it. She conversed with them for a while, and then one of them asked if we had done any good that day.

Kelly piped right up and said we had done real well. Told them the ducks were on the "30 minute fly".

They all sort of averted their eyes and stared at the floor or whatever else seemed handy. No one seemed to know how to respond. We talked a few minutes longer and then left. On the way home Kelly asked me what had gone wrong with our visit. I explained to her that no other hunters were familiar with the "30 minute fly" rule, that it was something I had just made up that morning. She slugged me a few times for making a fool of her, but that has all since past and is now a joke for all of us.

Reelfoot Lake

One of the very first places I ever read about, that sounded like great duck shooting, was Reelfoot Lake in Tennessee. I looked at pictures in my Dad's very first hunting book and it seemed to be a true duck hunter's paradise. For 45 years or so, I thought about it and even tried to schedule a hunt there about 10 years ago. Finally made it over there this past season.

What a disappointment. From what was once a great duck hunting destination, a sad, commercialized industry has formed. The entire lake is controlled by guides. According to the guide that took us out, he "owns" his blind location for the rest of his life. He told us that several years ago there was so much hunting pressure, that the Wildlife Commission stepped in and put a halt to any future blind locations. Guides seem to own mostly all the blinds and have erected monster blinds that will hold 8-10 hunters. Along the route to the blind we used, we only saw one blind that appeared to belong to an individual hunter. The big commercial blinds all had out huge decoy spreads. Put out before the season and left all season long. I guess that there are enough migrating birds that each day a few fresh birds see the decoys and respond. But most birds flew high over head and seemed to move from one of the three refuges to the other.

Besides the fact that the once famous Reelfoot Lake has become just a money-maker to the few blind owners, we also made a poor choice in our guide service. We were not told anything like the real truth about the hunting. Black Jack Pocket Hunting Club was a major disapointment.

Any duck hunter knows that the weather can be all the difference between a great hunt and a total bust. We had good duck hunting weather. We saw a lot of ducks. But seeing them at a distance and getting them to decoy were miles apart. We only killed a couple ducks that came into what I would consider "shooting range". Everything else we killed was skybusting. We had a good bunch of hunters in the blind and didn't send a single cripple away from the blind. We either killed them or missed them clean.

The trip was expensive, the drive was long, and the results were not what we hoped for or expected. Am I sorry I went? No. Dreamed about it for too many years. Would I ever go back? No! Certainly wouldn't recommend it to any other sportsman.

Damn shame.

Hunting with Jorge

One year in Argentina, the outfitter was spread pretty thin due to scheduling multiple hunting parties. Daniel stayed at his lodge, Roger stayed down at Estel's goose ranch and they left the duck hunting to the senior bird boy - Jorge Alvarez. Jorge and I hit it off from the very beginning. My first hunt in Argentina, I was in a group of 8 hunters. When we got all squared away with gun permits and export permits at the airport, they hauled us to the first ranch in a large van. All the other hunters were small groups of friends, so I was the odd man out. I sat in the passenger seat in the front of the van because all the buddies wanted to sit together, it made perfect sense. Well, Jorge was our driver. He spoke no English and I spoke no Spanish so we pointed at things and grinned and shared the sights of the trip. None of the other hunters were smokers, so it was a no smoking ride for me, whatever. When we made our first rest stop, I didn't go into the restaurant with everybody else, but stayed outside and smoked a couple Luckies. I saw Jorge refueling the van, then light a cigarette. We hung out smoking while the others had a snack and then got back on the road. After about 40 minutes, Jorge made an announcement that we needed to pull over because he had to add some oil to the van. A couple of the other guys spoke Spanish, so we all got the message. I stepped out of the van to see if I could be of any help and Jorge motioned me to come around to the front with him. He opened the hood then pulled out a pack of smokes and offered me one. I declined, but lit my own Lucky Strike. We smoked for a few minutes and then closed up the hood and got back in the van and drove on.

At our next rest stop, again I stayed outside and Jorge brought me out a cup of coffee and we burned one. A little side note; that was my first cup of Argentinian coffee and it was delicious. Anyhow, a while later, Jorge announced the van was overheating and we needed to stop for a few minutes for him to add some water. I got out to help and we had a smoke and then drove on to the ranch. It became our little private joke and Jorge and I shared a smoke break every chance we got for the whole week. That small common bond turned into a fast friendship. That was several years ago and we still exchange Christmas cards and emails.

Back to the story. We did our duck hunting near Bragado, a fairly famous small town. Jorge apparently was a duck hunter all his life and really understood how to hunt and how to make us hunters enjoy the hunting. We did something different each morning and afternoon. One morning he took us to a private Argentinian hunting club. I have no idea how he had a membership, but it was a really neat place. Some natural ponds and some man made that were ideal for duck shooting. The terrain was more varied than the places we had hunted the first year, so we had a great number of species of birds. We shot everything from Whistling ducks to Swans. It was fantastic. I killed my Coscoroba Swan there. A few had passed us a little out of range for our #5 duck loads, but one ventured too close to our decoys. I put a good head shot on the bird and saw him absorb the hit and saw the blood spreading on his head and neck, but he flew on. Fortunately for me he only made it to the field behind our pothole and I retrieved him after the hunt.

Another morning we went out on a large lake. That was the only time I ever went out in a motor boat to a blind in Argentina, all my other hunts have been wade in hunts. Out on that big lake we again killed a great array of birds. I killed my first ever Fulvous Whistling duck and a Black Necked Swan that morning. The lake was full of Swans, but again, none flew close enough for me to be comfortable with taking the shot with duck loads. Then a fully mature bird came loafing by only about 10 yards off the water. I dropped him stone dead and it actually fell in the boat where we had it tied up in the reeds behind the blind. Pretty cool.

One afternoon of that hunt we had some really foul weather, or maybe fowl weather. Got fairly cold and the wind picked up a lot and just about the time we got to the pothole to hunt it started sleeting really hard. We killed 95 ducks in a half hour. They were pouring into that little pothole in a cornfield by the hundreds. I actually stopped the shooting well before dark. My gunning partner was miserably wet and cold and I wanted to make sure we got all the ducks gathered up before it got dark. Once we counted the birds I was sort of sorry that we hadn't made it an even 100, but it was fine.

Another morning of that hunt Jorge put me in a tiny pothole in the middle of a huge cattail marsh. I only had about a quarter of an acre of open water. No flocks of ducks came in the whole morning. But singles and pairs gave me steady action. I killed pairs of 7-8 different species than morning. Actually had one triple on Silver Teal, but don't remember anything else but singles and pairs. The other hunters had more shooting than I did that morning, but all of them shot together and killed about 50 spoonbills and only a couple other birds. So I still felt I had the better shoot.

As things go, that was the last hunting I did with Jorge. He unfortunately became very ill the following year and didn't do any guiding. Then had a bad car wreck which had him laid up for quite a while. I did hunt with his son one week, he took up the bird boy job just as his father had done. Jorge runs his own guide service now. Very small outfit that hunts big game only. I hope that he gets back to the ducks some day, I'd enjoy hunting with him again.