Unusual, Lucky, Outrageous Shots

One of the most remarkable shots I've ever seen was my Father killing three big Skunkheads with one shot.  They were close, they were knotted up tight, so it wasn't the shooting skill that was so amazing,  The thing that really made it stand out was that Dad was shooting some of his first attempt at steel shot reloads.  They were so weak that when you shot into the water it didn't even make a splash.  But, of course, he was determined to kill something with the pathetic shells.. By golly he did!

One year in the blind at Blackhawk Island I made a couple unusual shots.  Stood up on a pass of Buffs, and shot just as they disappeared into the sun.  One shot, five dead birds floating out of the blind spot on the water.  The other was a desperation shot, late in the afternoon on the last day of my hunting season leave.  I killed a Mallard hen, flying so high and so fast that she fell 95 yards from the blind.  Dad stepped it off on the ice, because he said he had never seen anything like it.

Before the Amtrac knocked down the original Rhodes Point blind, it was 110 yards from the blind to the old tactical boat ramp.  I shot a Bluebill drake, so high and flying so fast that it fell on the ramp right among some Marines, who were there launching a boat.  They all cheered for me.

One day Kelly and I were just finishing up our limit at Rhodes Point.  I needed one more bird. A flock of about 20 Bluebills gave us a nice pass.  To ensure that I didn't accidentally double up on them, I purposely shot at the last bird in the flock.  Killed it stone dead.  BUT, with that one shell being the only one fired, the lead bird in the flock also fell out stone dead.  Of course Kelly hollered out, upset with me, for shooting two.  She said if she had known I was going over the limit, she would have too.  I told her to stop and think on it.  Two birds, 25 yards apart, both killed with one shell.  I have heard stray pellets called "fliers" before, but never heard of anything that bizarre.

Watched my Father knock down a nice triple at Walnut Island one time.  A Redhead, a Bluebill, and a Ringneck.

Wading in chest deep water between the Walnuts, trying to pull the boat to the bank, I grabbed my gun and holding it only with my right hand on the pistol grip, I shot a BW Teal zipping by so close that the shot severed the head.

I shot a hen Pintail out at the Goose Creek Impoundment that was so high and took so long to fall, that my buddy McGee's dog had time to wade out and get under it and try to catch it like a baseball player on a pop fly.  Good thing she missed it, it may have killed her or at least broken her jaw.

One day at Rhodes Point, my Father's 1100 broke.  I told him we would just take turns using my gun.  Well it was his turn when a big drake Goldeneye came by.  He missed it three straight shots.  I grabbed the empty gun from him, dropped a shell in the side, let it slam closed and killed the bird on a long shot going straight away from us.

One time at Rhodes Point, I was out in the boat chasing a crippled WW Scoter when I saw geese heading to the blind.  Kelly was pretty new at duck hunting, but remembered that I always kept some heavy goose loads laying on the top shelf of the blind.  What she forgot, was that I also kept some light #6 water kill loads there too.  She grabbed a shell, stuck it in her Benelli and made a nice high shot on the goose, killing it stone dead.  When I got back to the blind, she told me the "goose load" worked out great.  I looked at the shells on the shelf and saw that she had used a 2 3/4" #6 steel water kill load.  Oh well.

Out at Hospital Point one time, I had a screaming. down wind pass on Bluebills.  Only about 20 yards off the water.  I jumped on them with my 870, tripled, and had the classic "3 falling".  Nobody there to watch it with me but Hoss.  He wouldn't ever tell the story to my hunting partners.

I have seen two very quick shots in my life that really stand out.  One was a shot Mike made on a Ringneck at Catfish Lake Impoundment when he was a teenager.  The other was a double on Ruddy Ducks that Kevin made at Spring Creek Impoundment.  I am pretty fast, but on both of those occasions, I never even got my gun shouldered before the shooting was over.

I did some shooting out at Hospital Point back in the early 80's that my partner Mike McGee was still talking about this past season.  We had a lot of ice on the decoys one day and both of us waded out to break it loose.  While we were out in the decoys, McGee was facing the river and I was only a couple yards from him, but facing back towards the blind, as we knocked the ice loose.  He said to hold still and called at some Bluebills.  He said for me not to move, the ducks were coming right at us.  He said on the count of three to turn and shoot.  So, I did.  When I turned, there was a huge flock of Bluebills just arriving.  I picked out one, killed it, pumped my gun, and there was another, killed it, pumped my gun, there was another, killed it and my gun was empty.  There lay three drake Bluebills on the water, so close to each other that they were touching.  I really never swung my gun barrel.  The ducks just kept arriving at the one spot where my gun was pointing.  Easy shooting, but impressive to an onlooker I guess.  Particularly when you had a big pair of leather mittens on and when you tried to shoot your Citori, the first shot went off when you tried to get a finger on the trigger, then the trigger didn't have room to reset and you couldn't shoot again.

On a VERY windy, rough day, shooting Sea Ducks in the Kent Narrows, I knocked down an Oldsquaw flying low on the water. With the height of the waves and the speed of the bird, it just happened to skip off the top of three waves as it fell.  Just like skipping a stone across the water.

One day out in the Goose Creek Impoundment, we were having a great morning.  Tons of ducks, not much gunning pressure, beautiful, late season plumage on the birds.  A dream come true.  As we took turns shooting, it came around to me to kill the last bird.  I told Tom and McGee that I was holding out for another Bull Sprig.  A nice drake came by and I stood up on what was a very easy shot.  Missed it clean.  Something just didn't feel right.  A few more minutes and it happened again.  I became a little worried.  Something seemed very surreal about my missed shots.  I was doing everything right, but for some reason, the birds weren't falling.  After the third terrible miss, and the same confusion on my part, I actually began to think that I was having a stroke or some terrible medical problem.  Finally I got my last bird.  My hunting partners were just having a hoot about me missing so many easy shots. When we got home and I was cleaning my gun, I found a small piece of  a weed jammed into the rear of my trigger.  I removed the trigger assembly to investigate.  When I pulled the trigger, it couldn't move quite far enough for the sear to release and the gun to fire, until you pulled it really hard.  So, I  can only guess that is what was happening out on the marsh, and my timing was thrown off.  My hunting partners said they never saw any debris hanging out of my trigger guard, so they weren't buying it.

Probably the second or third year that Kelly Murphy had been hunting with us, I made a really nice double.  Granted, it was on a pair of lowly Hooded Mergansers, but Kelly had never seen how pretty a Hooded drake was, so I shot.  They were flying right down the shore, over top of the blind, rather than out over the decoys.  Coming really fast, downwind.  I killed them both with two very fast shots. They fell well down the river because they had been flying so fast.  Cain fetched up the hen first and Kelly was less than impressed.  But when Cain brought the drake back, she said it truly was a beautiful bird.  I just sat there for a while.  Guess I sort of had my feelings hurt.  After a few minutes Kelly asked what I was pouting about.  I told her that is was sort of customary to compliment another hunter when they make a really nice shot.  She paid me an even better compliment than I was hoping for.  She said she didn't mean to slight me, but that since she had started hunting with me, she had never seen me miss, so she didn't think it was anything out of the ordinary.

Out grassing a blind one day, Whit and I had a couple of his "friends" out helping us.  While we were all in the blind, tying grass bundles, somebody looked out and saw a very large water moccasin  swimming by about 30 yards out in the river.  I never saw one out in good sized waves before.  I asked if anyone had a pistol and Whit pulled one out of his gunning bag.  I had to get him to load it for me, it was a model that I had never seen before.  Anyhow, I shot at the snake, hitting right in the head and killing it.  One of Whit's buddies said that I couldn't ever do that again.  I didn't respond to his comment.  But, as Whit was putting the pistol back in it's holster, he sort of mumbled under his breath "he doesn't have to".

One day out on Mouse Harbor, the ducks flew real well early, but by mid morning they petered out. We stood there staring at an empty sky until we spied a merganser coming our way.  Like a merg would do, it was ignoring our decoys but just cutting across the point where the blind was.  Whit shot it and it fell on the shore behind the blind, right next to the piles of Bluebills and Scoters that Patty and Hoss kept segregated back there.  Pretty soon here came another merganser.  Same exact results.  15 minutes later, the same drill.  I knew Whit was a good shot.  His much repeated, deliberate shooting style just led to the birds all falling on top of each other back there.  He felt good about his shooting.  I was enjoying the show, but the dogs got a little concerned.  Not used to us shooting mergansers, they were seemingly upset that there were three piles of birds back there and they weren't getting to retrieve them.  Patty picked up a Merganser, carried it to the edge of the bank and dropped it in the water.  Hoss jumped in and retrieved it.  Put it back in the Merganser pile, then both dogs seemed satisfied and went back to watching for more ducks.

In Maine, shooting Eiders, I did well, very pleased with my shooting in pretty tough conditions.  Extremely cold and windy.  Late in the season and the birds were a little wary.  But I was pretty much one shell for each duck.  Not having to blast around on the water to kill them.  I shot mostly drakes, but actually shot at least one hen per day.  The bird banding folks concentrate their efforts on hen Eiders, about 90% of the banded birds are hens.  So, I at least took that chance each day.  No luck. Well, anyhow, the hunter that I was with had decided not to bring his own shotgun, but rather chose to borrow one from the guide.  First time I saw his pattern hit the water, I asked the guide what choke tube was in the gun.  He responded that he preferred a cylinder choke for Eider.  Sorry, I could not contain myself.  I made a couple more 40 yard, stone dead kills on the big birds and then said that is what a pattern is supposed to do, and that I was using a Full choke.  He defended his choice, as my partner continued to cripple birds and take only very close shots.  Anyhow, on the last day of the hunt, I was finished with my limit before the other hunter had killed any.  He finally got a drake to decoy in close enough and knocked him down on his third shot.  Once again, I had to mouth off a little.  The next pass was fairly close, and he missed on his first two shots, then killed three hens with his last shot.  Of course, one was double banded.  So, who got the last laugh?

Argentina Birds

I originally went to Argentina to shoot geese.  Childhood memory of a goose shooting show on TV.  Took me 50 years, but I made it.  Made it a few times.  As I've written before, I am a waterfowler.  Ducks first, then geese.  But I am also a wingshooter, so all the birds in Argentina were fun.  The world renown dove hunting was actually the only thing that didn't interest me.  Actually, I only shot doves a couple days on my trips down there.  Too many birds, flying every direction, not challenging at all.  I shot doves the first afternoon of a couple of my trips.  After the long ride from the airport, to the lodge in La Pampa, there really wasn't enough daylight left to go anywhere too far, so we shot doves at a roost just a couple miles from the lodge.  Both times I only shot two boxes of shells.  Positioned myself to shoot 12 birds coming at me. 12 going over from behind, 12 going left to right and 12 right to left.  Just enough to get comfortable on my gun and a little practice for the duck marsh the following morning.

So, each afternoon after the morning duck shoot, the outfitter would ask what we wanted to shoot in the afternoon.  Everything from big game to hares, pigeons, perdiz, parrots, just take your pick.  Well, I've always enjoyed pigeon shooting so most afternoons that was my choice.  Spot-wing Pigeons are a specific species, as are Blue-wing Pigeons.  Not multicolored barnyard pigeons, but actual wild species.  I was incredibly lucky to shoot a Blue-wing Pigeon.  Only saw one of them in all my years in Argentina, but I got it.  Shot hundreds of the Spot-wing Pigeons decoying to cattle and hog feed lots, just like barnyard pigeons back home.  But along with the pigeons, there were often a lot of parrots.

There are two distinct species of parrots that we shot down there.  One about the size of  a dove, the other as big as a pigeon.  They are fast flyers, and incredibly enough, they can hover in place, just like a hummingbird.  Many times they transition from a hover to full speed flight in just a split second, and can slow down from full speed to just a hover in an instant.  Seemingly, they fly around stopping and starting for no reason.  When you don't see it coming, it can lead to some terrible missed shots.  I shot at birds that came screaming by at 50 mph and stopped about the time I swung on them.  Probably missing them by 25 yards.  I didn't ever try to shoot them when they were hovering, not much sport, just a way to embarrass yourself when they accelerated away about the time you chose to shoot.

The parrots fed on whatever wild birds feed on, but they were also able to break the shells on nuts with their incredibly strong jaws and beak.  Like Brazil nuts?  Imagine the chomping power of a half pound bird that can easily crack open Cashews and Brazil nuts.  Also imagine how tasty a bird is that dines on those nuts.  The very first parrot I shot, came as a surprise.  I was hammering the pigeons and saw a few parrots around, but really didn't pay them any mind.  Jokingly I swung on a flock of them and the bird boy said to shoot.  I crippled one down and walked over to pick it up to examine it.  The bird boy virtually tackled me and hollered at me to stop.  He cracked the bird on the head with a stick and then handed it to me.  After I went back to my shooting stool, he walked over to a bush, plucked off a big nut and brought it over showing me that the parrot was able to break them open.  He also indicated how they were capable of easily removing your fingers.  A lesson that I never forgot.

I don't kill edible birds and let them go to waste.  The locals were glad to eat all the pigeons that we could kill.  So I felt no remorse in shooting hundreds of them,  but I wondered on the parrots.  Before I shot another one, I asked about eating them and was told they were very dark meat, which was surprising, but very tasty.  That was an understatement.  I supplied the parrots for everybody at the lodge to have a few of them as an appetizer for each meal.

So, all in all, the abundance of different species make the wingshooting in Argentina a real blast. 

Cooking in the Blind

We have never taken cooking too seriously.  Back at Indian Lake, we knew some hunters that had pots and pans and skillets, cooking utensils, condiments, plates and forks, all hung neatly on the back of their blind.  I once hunted out on the ice at Celina, and our host fried hamburgers on a charcoal bucket.  On a guided trip to Reelfoot Lake, the guide fixed sausage and eggs for breakfast and hamburgers for lunch on a gas range he had in a back room of his blind.  Huh, imagine that.

I never wanted the distraction of cooking to interfere with my hunting, still don't.  A thermos full of semi hot coffee and a couple snacks is all I am interested in.  But, there again, our open topped, stake blind out near the ocean would be a tough place to cook even if I wanted to.

Years ago, back in Ohio, we used to have a roof on our blinds.  For concealment primarily, but they kept us a little warmer and drier as well.  Then we got a kerosene heater.  Properly located in the blind it could definitely make a difference.  Was also pretty handy for drying gloves and thawing out frozen duck calls.  A friend once brought out a ham and cheese sandwich, wrapped in foil and warmed it on our little stove.  Easy enough.  Dad and I got a big roll of bologna and some sliced cheese and started toasting a sandwich every day.  Then moved up to two a day.  Then we decided to start bringing cans of soup.  There was one brand that was alright, straight from the can, didn't have to add water.  We figured out that making a little tent of tin foil over the can of soup to seal down around the edge of the stove was a good way to warm the soup pretty fast.  Dad always cautioned to punch a small hole in the top of the can so as not to build up too much pressure.  We were good to go.  Our little system of cooking our lunch was simple and didn't really distract you from hunting.

I remember one day, when somebody forgot to punch the little vent hole in a can of soup.  We put the soup on the stove, sealed the tin foil around it, and went back to hunting, while the soup warmed up.  About that time, we got a pass on ducks and knocked down a half dozen birds. Started working the dog and had to get the boat to go after a long cripple.  Probably took 20-30 minutes to get them all gathered up.  Got settled back in the blind, a little chilly from being out in the water, working the dog and all.  About then, I remembered I had a can of soup 'warming'.  Pulled off the little foil tent and saw that I had forgotten to stab a vent hole in the top of the soup can.  Whatever, I was anxious for some soup.  I pulled out a knife and stabbed a small slit in the can, no bigger than  maybe 1/4 X 1/16 of an inch.  All hell broke loose.  Faster than the human eye could even see it happen, a pea blew out through that tiny slit, hitting the underneath side of the bill of my hat and knocking it off my head.  Then a geyser of boiling soup broth shot out about 2 feet.  Dad and Chief and I all dove for cover.

After a few seconds the can quit spewing.  We wiped the soup mess off our guns and shells on the shelf of the blind, cut the can the rest of the way open and let the soup cool for a while, found my ballcap, then enjoyed our lunch.  No harm, no foul.

Redhead Drake

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.

Small Mistakes

It is hard to admit, with the incredible size of my ego, that even I have made a couple blunders in my duck hunting career.  Nothing earth shattering, not enough to group me with the multitude of Bozo's I've encountered out hunting, but ever so slight glitches.

Out Teal hunting one year when I was young, I came very close to running out of shells.  Came down to needing one more duck for our limit, and only having one shell left.  My partner hadn't been shooting so well, and I convinced him to let me have the last shell.  Passed up a couple tricky shots, but finally put down the last bird.  I haven't run out of shells since then.

Another time, when I was young, Dad went for beer and left me in the blind by myself.  Not having a lot of confidence in my shooting abilities, I looked at this to be an opportunity to prove myself.  Sure enough I got a nice pass on a small flock of birds.  Killed two.  Just couldn't wait to show them to my Dad.  When Chief brought the first one in, I was crushed to see it was a Merganser.  When he went back for the second bird, I closed my eyes and prayed it was a real duck.  That didn't work.  Whatever.  I had shot well. Nice double on a good pass.  But Mergansers, not real ducks.

First time that I ever had any money in my life, I spent it on decoys from Herters.  Don't remember exactly when it was, back in the 1960's, and for a limited time Herters was selling off the last of their balsa wood decoys.  I bought a pair of Mallards.  I was very proud of them.  I think maybe we had a couple dozen Model 63 Mallards back then, but mostly old paper mache blocks.  My fancy balsa wood decoys really stood out.  Dad and I were hunting a blind we had back in Bear Wallow.  Too windy to hunt our main blind out on the lake.  So, anyhow, I asked Dad if we could separate my pair from the rest of the spread to see if they looked better to the ducks.  We placed them off to the side of the stool, sort of like they were swimming up the channel to join the other decoys.  Looked very realistic.  Waiting on shooting time, half frozen, I fell asleep.  Woke up sometime later and the first thing I saw was a pair of Mallards swimming in to us.  I eased my gun up, not saying anything to my Dad.  When he heard me click off the safety he said, "Are you going to shoot those nice decoys?"

Dad and Harry Fleming and I were hunting Walnut Island one time.  Nice flock of geese came into the bay and we started calling.  They turned right towards us.  Dad was already cautioning us to remember the limit was two apiece, and to be careful.  Well, the geese landed short.  We called a little more and they swam into our decoys.  Probably 40 geese right in the pocket and in among the decoys.  One more time, Dad reminded us to only kill a pair.  They stood up and shot.  I waited until the birds cleared the water, swung with a bird and killed him stone dead.  Swung on another bird, concentrating on the goose and not letting anything distract me.  Unfortunately, I didn't let the other birds that were trying to escape distract me,  and as my bird fell, two more directly on the far side of mine also fell out stone dead.  Four big Canada Geese down with my two shots.  Luckily, two of the birds that Dad and Harry shot were just cripples.  Dad chased them in the boat, and was able to herd them into some other hunters' decoys.  The other hunters said thanks, but it was us that were thankful.

One year at Oldfield Island I went out in the decoys to break up an ice floe coming through the decoys.  Underestimated the weight and momentum of the ice.  As it was shoving me backwards, I tripped over an old stump under the water and the iceberg sort of floated over me as I was trying to regain my footing.  I was completely submerged, looking up at the bottom of the ice, clinging to the leading edge and trying to pull myself back up, with very little success.  Next thing I knew, my Dad grabbed me by the coat collar and lunged his large frame against the ice.  He slowed it's progress enough to pull me back up.  Learned a lesson about ice that day that I never forgotten.

One day I sat on a little Wood Duck hole, hoping a few Woodies might return after the morning flight.  Nothing much happening.  Across the little hole, about 50 yards away, I was surprised to see a fully mature Snow Goose swimming around, minding it's own business.  I was shocked, but immediately started sneaking around the edge of the pothole, trying to get close enough for a shot.  When I was at the closest point that I could get to the goose, I was still a little unsure of what was going on.  The more that I peeked out  of the underbrush to spy on the bird, the more I was convinced that something just wasn't right.  It started to swim into the mouth of the small stream that formed the pothole and suddenly I realized it wasn't a Snow Goose at all, but just a domestic white duck.  I was very glad that I hadn't shot someones pet.  The next evening, a friend of mine called me to tell me the great news that he had killed a Snow Goose on the little Wood Duck pond.  Last time I saw him, he still had the mounted goose on the wall.

There have probably been a few more miscues, but no harm, no foul.  At least I never left my gun on the dike when I waded out into a public hunting impoundment.  Never took the wrong gauge shells to match the gun I was shooting.  Never let feral hogs find my gunning bag and eat all my shells.  Never let a flock of Green Wings fly over me so close that they pooped on my new hat and not get a shot off.  Never let my dog run off in the marsh, tied to a military ammo can, and retrieve other hunters' birds.  Never let my boat float away.  Never lost a gun on a canoe tip-over.  Never had my dog eat my hunting partner's ducks.  Never had the magazine cap come off and spring gun parts out into the marsh.  Never pooped in my waders.

I'm still alive and kicking after 55 years of waterfowling, so I have avoided the big mistakes.

A Good Dog

When I got my first Lab, I had no prior experience at training a retriever.  I had been the "assistant" when Dad and Harry Fleming  worked with Harry's dog, Midnight.  She was slow and steady.  Got the easy birds, passed on the difficult retrieves.  When she had a litter of puppies, I was given one for the help that I had been to Harry.  Harry also gave me a book to read to help me train Chief.  I would say the book gave me all the basics to start my dog.  But I had no training equipment, no access to water, nothing.  Basically my homemade retrieving dummies and my back yard.  Chief was actually only in the water one time prior to making his first retrieve when he was 5 months old.  I tried, but my Dad truly let me down.  Somehow he had been so long without a retriever, that he didn't expect much from a dog.  Keep it on a leash, throw rocks toward a dead bird to get the dog to head that direction.  So, all my requests for help fell on deaf ears.  Dad never had a retriever, content to rely on other hunters.  To my knowledge he never had a dog in his life that he cared about, or was worth a damn.  Whatever.  But when my dogs performed well, he was the first one to step up and include himself in the credit for having a good dog.

Let that go.

When Chief was about 5 years old, he was a fine retriever.  His only shortfall was his failure to go very far "back" on a blind retrieve.  I take the blame for that.  I didn't have access to the proper terrain to teach him.  He would only go "back" about the length of my backyard.  Huh, imagine that.  Other than that he was a fine gundog.  Something that I didn't train into him was his keen nose.  I swear he had the nose of a fine bird dog.  Quail and pheasant were a sure thing with him.  He even ran rabbits, not that I wanted him too.  He used his nose to all of our benefit, finding numerous ducks in solid reed patches where marking a bird was really only feasible to a small extent.  He worked fallen Jacksnipe without ever losing one, in the thickest of cattails and reeds.  Sweet.

So, anyhow, one day Dad and I were hunting in Lucy's Pond.  We liked to set up in the first big opening just inside Blackhawk Point.  About 5 acres of semi open water.  A few lillypads and reeds, but a nice open water pond in the big marsh.  That place was a fallback option for us when it was too windy to hunt our blinds.  We had about 3 dozen Mallard decoys scattered along the bank and hoped for ducks to come into the marsh to get out of the wind.  A Mallard drake swung on us, stayed a little wide, but was fairly low on the water.  We both shot and he he crippled down about 80 yards from us, in near the bank on the end of the pothole.  I sent the dog and he headed right towards the Mallard.  The duck was swimming for shore, and I figured Chief would have no trouble.  After a few minutes of Chief hunting around where we had last seen the duck, we lost sight of them both.  I started a circuitous journey around the bank to get over there and see what was going on.  When I got over there, I was up on a 10 foot high bank with a very steep incline down to the water.  No sign of the duck or the dog.  I couldn't see any way Chief could have climbed that bank, if the duck had somehow gotten up there.  As I wandered around and called for the dog, I seemed to hear splashing, almost under my feet.  I was perplexed.  Finally I saw that the earth was caved away along there, and I was only standing on tangled tree roots with a little dirt clinging to them.  I stood very still, ignored Dad's instructions and told him to be quiet.  I could here the faint sound of splashing and it sounded like a dog attempting to climb up the bank.  Turned out the duck dove and swam in under the bank, sort of into an underground cavern and Chief had followed him under.

I hollered at Dad to bring the boat, thinking that if I could get down to the water, right where he had disappeared, make a commotion and maybe he would dive under the edge and come back out.  But I was seriously concerned.  Before Dad even got up to head for the boat, Chief popped up, breathing hard, with a nice fat Mallard in his jaws.

I was relieved, and very proud of my dog.

We hunted on, killed a couple more birds and were having a good time.  Chief loved it when I hunted there, sitting on the bank, because he could sit right next to me.  We both loved it.

So a while later a hen Mallard flew by.  Didn't really look at our decoys, but instead flew out the end of the pothole then abruptly landed in what looked like a solid patch of cattails.  We called for a while, but the duck wasn't interested.  I told Dad that I was going to try to walk and wade over there to see if I could jump the Mallard.  Off Chief and I went on what I almost considered a fools errand, but nothing else much was happening.

It was difficult to get there, but the wind was in my face, so the duck would have had a hard time hearing us in that windstorm.  Suddenly Chief seemed to go on point.  The reeds were far too thick to see a duck, but Chief was solidly on point, facing the wind.  I crept forward, Chief crept forward, we pushed on about 15 yards through the reeds.  There she came, big Mallard hen, jumped about 20 yards in front of me.  She climbed a little, then about the time she leveled out, I leveled her.  Chief  fetched her back to me in nothing flat.

Of course when we got back over to our hunting spot, I had to listen to Dad run off at the mouth about "good" dogs he had seen do this and that.  Just a droning in my ears, like the unrelenting wind that was howling the worst of the day.  I didn't need anyone to tell me about good duck dogs, I had one of my own.

Row, row, row your boat

One year during November, the Scoter were on the Pamlico Sound by the thousands.  We had anticipated their migration and I was on leave from the Marines for a full week.  Dad and I and a couple other friends had a great week.  Six months later, after eating 300 Scoters, I thought that possibly we had overdone it.  But when the ducks were falling and the gun barrels were hot, it was great.

One morning it was just Dad and I.  We  shot a 14 bird limit in an hour or so.  Just fantastic.  Went back to the hunting camp, dressed the birds, then drove around looking for some of our local friends up there on the island to give the birds to.  Mission accomplished, we returned to the trailer for a nap.

About noon I woke up, looked out to see that the weather was just perfect, and decided to see if Dad wanted to go out and try the Scoter again. Never had shot them in the afternoon, but decided to give it a try.

Same success as the morning hunt.  An hour after we put out the decoys, we were ready to pick up and head in.  Not so fast.  The outboard motor wouldn't start.  Turned out to be a short in the kill switch, but out there on the sound we had no clue.  We decided to leave the decoys on the water.  It was 3 dozen heavy cork decoys, so we wanted to save the extra weight on the long row in.  Then I headed to the nearest point of land and we removed the boat blind from the boat and set it up the shore.  To lighten the boat and give a more full range of motion while rowing.

Anybody that ever rowed a Herters Model Yukon can appreciate the weight of the boat, the wide beam of the boat, the high wind catching sides, and the lack of a good deep keel to help steer.  Just to add to the excitement, for the first and only day of my hunting career, I didn't have any gloves in my gunning box.  Added to that was the fact that my Father didn't happen to have his evening dose of heart medication.  Sweet.

About six hours later, with my hands worn pretty much to the bone, we arrived back at the landing.

The next morning, Dad took the boat to a marina to get the motor repaired, and I took Whit's Sea Ox out and found my decoys.  Shot a limit of Scoters while I was there.  Sore hands and all.