| Waterfowl Articles |
John N. Felsher's Waterfowl Hunting Adventures
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With billions of stars shining overhead on this cold Christmas Eve,
one could imagine the Star of Bethlehem illuminating the desert.
However, this trip did not involve crossing the desert. The outboard
motor droning against the river current pushed the 14-foot aluminum
flatboat near towering cypress trees. With only the stars lighting the way as
it did two millennia ago, the twisted shapes of giant cypress trees along the
shoreline took on an eerie appearance. Ethereal wisps of fog climbed from
the dark, swirling currents like ghostly soldiers marching to one final battle.
Above the fog, a shooting star plunged to its death in a brief, but
brilliant blaze of glory across an ebony sky pockmarked by points of light.
Beyond the blackness that marked the water edge, unseen creatures
began to stir with various squawks, grunts and whistles.
A few miles upstream, we turned off the main river channel into an
oxbow lake. A sandbar nearly capped the mouth of this former river
channel and would eventually seal it completely. Abandoned by the mighty
river current eons ago, only a tiny, barely flowing ditch remained of the
once powerful channel.
The motor kicked up sand in the shrinking ditch as we crossed the
bar into the oxbow. Beyond the bar, the ancient oxbow took on more of its
former riverine shape. Rounding a couple bends, we stopped the boat next
to some overhanging brush along the outside point of another bend. We
broke off some brush and draped it over the green boat. Finally, we
covered the motor with an old ripped camouflaged poncho and waited.
Wood ducks generally follow the same flight patterns each morning
and evening. Usually, they move at first light and after sunset between
roosting and feeding areas. They eat a variety of nuts, berries, fruits, wild
grasses, sedges and seeds. Among all foods, they prefer white oak
acorns.
“Wood ducks have a distinctive flight pattern,” said the late Robert
Helm, long time chief waterfowl biologist for the Louisiana Department of
Wildlife and Fisheries. “They like to roost in very dense wetlands. Button
brush is a very common component of their roosting habitat. They also like
to roost in beaver ponds where there is a lot of dead timber, thick
underbrush and difficult access.”
This predictability exposes their weakness. Intensive scouting helps
pinpoint flight patterns. If hunters can position themselves in the right spot,
they can find almost continuous action as waves of ducks rush overhead —
but only for a short time!
Having spent every possible hour exploring this swamp as we grew
up, my friend, Eric Holbrook, and I knew where to find wood ducks. Every
morning, woodies and an occasional green-winged teal or greenhead
mallard flew across the bend of this oxbow. They roosted in the cypress
swamps, but ate acorns dropped by oaks on a low ridge running through
the swamp behind us. Wood ducks followed the river for navigation. They
often flew up this oxbow on their way to the oak ridge.
The woodies always flew fast at treetop level. Sometimes, they
zipped through trees, dodging trunks as if radar-controlled. In limited open
pockets between the trees, wood ducks only offered quick hunters long,
passing shots. In seconds, we needed to see, identify and fire, all under
low-light conditions.
We seldom used decoys or calls, although I sometimes whistled at
flying birds. Occasionally, a duck flew low down the channel between the
trees, but they never landed in decoys or even slowed their momentum.
They knew where they wanted to go and nothing, except a well-placed shot,
could deter them from their preferred destination deep in the swamp.
Expecting long shots, I switched the old adjustable choke on my dad’
s Remington 870, already ancient even back then, to extra full. For high,
fast ducks, I needed maximum range and knockdown power.
On this frosty Christmas Eve, temperatures hovered just above
freezing. A hint of pale gray barely lightened the eastern sky as we
shivered in the aluminum boat. In the gloom, whistling black specters
already rocketed down the oxbow channel. As shooting hours arrived,
several loose clusters of weaving objects burst through the fog. We
opened fire, unsuccessfully. For the next 15 minutes, we couldn’t load our
shotguns fast enough as birds suddenly materialized and vanished
between the trees.
When action died down, we warmed our hands on the heated
barrels. A fleet of spent shell hulls bobbed in the frigid wispy water. Others
clattered and rolls around the bottom of the metal boat. The morning wave
seemed over. We had enjoyed an exciting, although brief, hunt. Still, we
had nothing to show for it.
“Felsh, we’ve been hunting and fishing a lot of times, but we never
been skunked,” Eric said. “So far, we’ve shot more than a box of shells and
didn’t touch a feather.”
“Day’s not over yet,” I replied. “Maybe we’ll get a Christmas present.”
As the morning become much brighter, diurnal denizens of the swamp
began to awaken with chirps, screeches and chatters. Nocturnal creatures
sought places to sleep.
With nothing flying, I poured myself a cup of Community coffee and
chicory. I hardly had time to enjoy the strong, rich chicory flavor before a
lone wood duck appeared. Flying below the treetops, much lower than the
others, it flew straight up the channel. As I pulled the trigger on Ol’
Reliable, the bird splashed into the water. A single pellet of the 12-gauge
magnum load found the mark.
“That’s a beautiful bird,” Eric said. “Look at all the colors. Incredible!
We still haven’t been skunked yet!”
“Yep! This one is almost undamaged. I’ve always wanted to mount a
drake wood duck. This one’s going on the wall, a little Christmas present to
myself.”
one could imagine the Star of Bethlehem illuminating the desert.
However, this trip did not involve crossing the desert. The outboard
motor droning against the river current pushed the 14-foot aluminum
flatboat near towering cypress trees. With only the stars lighting the way as
it did two millennia ago, the twisted shapes of giant cypress trees along the
shoreline took on an eerie appearance. Ethereal wisps of fog climbed from
the dark, swirling currents like ghostly soldiers marching to one final battle.
Above the fog, a shooting star plunged to its death in a brief, but
brilliant blaze of glory across an ebony sky pockmarked by points of light.
Beyond the blackness that marked the water edge, unseen creatures
began to stir with various squawks, grunts and whistles.
A few miles upstream, we turned off the main river channel into an
oxbow lake. A sandbar nearly capped the mouth of this former river
channel and would eventually seal it completely. Abandoned by the mighty
river current eons ago, only a tiny, barely flowing ditch remained of the
once powerful channel.
The motor kicked up sand in the shrinking ditch as we crossed the
bar into the oxbow. Beyond the bar, the ancient oxbow took on more of its
former riverine shape. Rounding a couple bends, we stopped the boat next
to some overhanging brush along the outside point of another bend. We
broke off some brush and draped it over the green boat. Finally, we
covered the motor with an old ripped camouflaged poncho and waited.
Wood ducks generally follow the same flight patterns each morning
and evening. Usually, they move at first light and after sunset between
roosting and feeding areas. They eat a variety of nuts, berries, fruits, wild
grasses, sedges and seeds. Among all foods, they prefer white oak
acorns.
“Wood ducks have a distinctive flight pattern,” said the late Robert
Helm, long time chief waterfowl biologist for the Louisiana Department of
Wildlife and Fisheries. “They like to roost in very dense wetlands. Button
brush is a very common component of their roosting habitat. They also like
to roost in beaver ponds where there is a lot of dead timber, thick
underbrush and difficult access.”
This predictability exposes their weakness. Intensive scouting helps
pinpoint flight patterns. If hunters can position themselves in the right spot,
they can find almost continuous action as waves of ducks rush overhead —
but only for a short time!
Having spent every possible hour exploring this swamp as we grew
up, my friend, Eric Holbrook, and I knew where to find wood ducks. Every
morning, woodies and an occasional green-winged teal or greenhead
mallard flew across the bend of this oxbow. They roosted in the cypress
swamps, but ate acorns dropped by oaks on a low ridge running through
the swamp behind us. Wood ducks followed the river for navigation. They
often flew up this oxbow on their way to the oak ridge.
The woodies always flew fast at treetop level. Sometimes, they
zipped through trees, dodging trunks as if radar-controlled. In limited open
pockets between the trees, wood ducks only offered quick hunters long,
passing shots. In seconds, we needed to see, identify and fire, all under
low-light conditions.
We seldom used decoys or calls, although I sometimes whistled at
flying birds. Occasionally, a duck flew low down the channel between the
trees, but they never landed in decoys or even slowed their momentum.
They knew where they wanted to go and nothing, except a well-placed shot,
could deter them from their preferred destination deep in the swamp.
Expecting long shots, I switched the old adjustable choke on my dad’
s Remington 870, already ancient even back then, to extra full. For high,
fast ducks, I needed maximum range and knockdown power.
On this frosty Christmas Eve, temperatures hovered just above
freezing. A hint of pale gray barely lightened the eastern sky as we
shivered in the aluminum boat. In the gloom, whistling black specters
already rocketed down the oxbow channel. As shooting hours arrived,
several loose clusters of weaving objects burst through the fog. We
opened fire, unsuccessfully. For the next 15 minutes, we couldn’t load our
shotguns fast enough as birds suddenly materialized and vanished
between the trees.
When action died down, we warmed our hands on the heated
barrels. A fleet of spent shell hulls bobbed in the frigid wispy water. Others
clattered and rolls around the bottom of the metal boat. The morning wave
seemed over. We had enjoyed an exciting, although brief, hunt. Still, we
had nothing to show for it.
“Felsh, we’ve been hunting and fishing a lot of times, but we never
been skunked,” Eric said. “So far, we’ve shot more than a box of shells and
didn’t touch a feather.”
“Day’s not over yet,” I replied. “Maybe we’ll get a Christmas present.”
As the morning become much brighter, diurnal denizens of the swamp
began to awaken with chirps, screeches and chatters. Nocturnal creatures
sought places to sleep.
With nothing flying, I poured myself a cup of Community coffee and
chicory. I hardly had time to enjoy the strong, rich chicory flavor before a
lone wood duck appeared. Flying below the treetops, much lower than the
others, it flew straight up the channel. As I pulled the trigger on Ol’
Reliable, the bird splashed into the water. A single pellet of the 12-gauge
magnum load found the mark.
“That’s a beautiful bird,” Eric said. “Look at all the colors. Incredible!
We still haven’t been skunked yet!”
“Yep! This one is almost undamaged. I’ve always wanted to mount a
drake wood duck. This one’s going on the wall, a little Christmas present to
myself.”
Cold morning
duck hunt
produces
colorful
Christmas
present
duck hunt
produces
colorful
Christmas
present
A pair of wood ducks and an
1961 model Remington 870
shotgun show evidence of
great memories in the south
Louisiana swamps.
1961 model Remington 870
shotgun show evidence of
great memories in the south
Louisiana swamps.
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