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John N. Felsher's Zany Adventures
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Are you hooked on quack like me?
Hello, my name is John N. Felsher and I’m an addict.
My fellow associates of Ducks Unanimous, I’ve been addicted to Quack
for years. I just can’t get enough of duck hunting.
Although I cannot absolve myself totally from blame, I can claim an
inherited dependency. You see, my father was also a duckaholic. Sure, it
started off innocently enough. I went along with my father when he made
his frequent trips to the marsh, but I was just a kid who wanted to be with his
dad. When I first started hunting with my father, I wasn’t even old enough
to carry a gun. I sometimes carried a BB gun.
At the time, I didn’t know what terrible consequences my future
addiction would bring. I should have seen the signs in Dad’s life. He often
disappeared for days at a time into the vast south Louisiana marshes. He
returned from trips reeking of marsh mud and sporting a “thousand-yard
stare.” Frequently, he mumbled incoherently something that sounded like,
“Where are the ducks? I can’t find the ducks. What happened to the
ducks?”
My dad squandered the family fortune and his entire life savings,
rumored to peak as high as $93.27 at one point, on such foolish items as
decoys, ammunition and new guns. Of course, he couldn’t help it. The
addiction made him do it.
Finally, the overwhelming craving for more and bigger duck boats
overtook his life. First, he built small wooden pirogues, Cajun versions of
canoes. Then, he spent three years building an 18-footer to take us
camping on duck hunts. Never able to shake his addiction even when his
strength to build failed, he eventually bought a much larger boat.
After my introduction to duck hunting by my father, I began to
experiment with various other hunts. First, I just hunted socially with my
friends around the neighborhood. Instead of doing homework or studying,
we headed for the marshes as soon as school dismissed. We would stare
blankly into an empty sky for elusive gadwalls, mallards and teal while
swatting swarming mosquitoes. Don’t mosquitoes ever experience a bad
breeding season or poor fall flight?
We didn’t think much of it at the time, but real problems eventually
manifested. Soon, I started hunting at every opportunity I could find. Not
satisfied with ducks around the neighborhood, I began taking long trips.
Occasionally, I even headed to Mexico to make a really big score, but even
that didn’t allow me to kick the habit.
Big scores only further whetted my uncontrollable craving for Quack.
Like my father before me, I began buying camo and ammo, lots of ammo. I
gazed glassy-eyed at outdoors catalogs brimming with fine duck hunting
paraphernalia. I couldn’t resist calling those toll-free numbers and ordering
what I knew I could not afford.
I started hanging out with shady characters who always wore
camouflage while loitering in the backs of sporting goods stores. Did they
really think they could pose as trees? Groups of hopelessly addicted
Quack junkies like me drooled over auction items at banquets. We
obsessed at the fine steel of commemorative guns and works of art
depicting mallards, teal, wigeons, pintails and wood ducks. Oh, those
beautiful wood ducks!
For a time, I took control of my life. I entered the Air Force, knowing
that they would send me far way from the marshes. Perhaps, my tortured
mind could heal if only removed from temptation. I begged them to send
me away from the South where duck hunting rules. No! Uncle Sam sent
me to Arkansas, Texas, Alabama and South Carolina where I met more
Quack addicts.
When I couldn’t get a flight fix, I experimented with hunting squirrels,
doves, rabbits, quail and even an occasional deer. These outlets partially
soothed my soul, but my fevered mind always raced back to chilling days
spent in a blind waiting for more Quack.
In my dreams, I saw broad outstretched wings locked on final
approach. Big orange feet spread out to make landing gear. Every sound
reminded me of the whizzing of unseen teal rocketing low over grass before
crash-landing into dark decoy spreads.
During the summer, I watched as mottled ducks lifted from marsh
ponds. I counted the days until I could again send explosive non-toxic shot
loads down cold steel. Before a big hunt, I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do
chores around the house, couldn’t pick up my clothes off the floor, couldn’t
pick up dishes after supper ...
“What’s different about that?” asked my wife, Sweetums. “That’s how
you live 365 days a year.”
“Hey, what are you doing in here? I’m in the middle of a fantasy driven
by a delusional stupor. Any minute now, Shania Twain and Faith Hill will
walk in wearing wetland camouflage bikinis and give me a new shotgun and
a sack of decoys before they massage my back.”
“Stupor! Oh, I didn’t notice anything different about you. I’ve got a
loaded shotgun for you ..., but I’ll let you get back to your feathered fantasy
while I dream about Alan Jackson.”
“Yeah, what does he have that I don’t have except for height, a slim
build, incredible talent, great looks and enormous wealth?”
I guess I told her. I bet Mr. Jackson didn’t even kill as many ducks as I
did this season. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Oh
yes, I finally gave up on seeking a cure and decided to simply live with my
addition. (If I can live with my wife, I can live with anything. Just kidding,
Sweetums!)
Sweetums lovingly helped me through my addiction with strong, yet
encouraging shoves off the bed as the alarm sounded on cold mornings. I
could always count on her for gentle advice.
“If you must wake up at some gosh-awful hour, sleep on the sofa and
keep it quiet. You might want to sit in a stinking wet mud pit in freezing
temperatures, but don’t wake me.”
She even issued sound financial advice. I can’t recall how many times
she said things like, “How much hunting stuff do you need? When are you
going to sell all this junk cluttering up the house?"
Fortunately, you can diagnose your addiction through the Ducks
Unanimous 12-step recognition program, six steps in years with low fall
flights. You may need help if you do any of the following:
1. You can’t afford repairs on the house, but you buy a new shotgun
every year.
2. You buy lots of ammunition, even though you shot less than a box
during the dismal season last year.
3. You buy the latest camouflaged pattern hunting clothes, even
though you already have piles of hunting clothes heaped in a closet.
4. You hunt often, even on special family days, but can’t find the
energy to go to school or work. (Why do you think they call it “ducking”
work?)
5. You forget birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas, but remember
the duck season dates and limits from years ago.
6. You can’t wait to leave a warm, comfortable bed to sit in a miserable
pit on a freezing, rainy morning.
7. You stick cold, wooden or plastic tubes in your mouth and think you
can talk like a duck better than anyone else can.
8. You get excited about going out in a boat during icy, rainy weather,
but call in sick to work if the temperature drops below 60 degrees with a
partly cloudy sky.
9. You won’t walk 30 feet to take out the garbage, but you walk a half-
mile across a dark, impassable marsh carrying 100 pounds of equipment to
reach a blind.
10. You won’t drive around the corner to visit relatives, but you drive
eight hours down winding country roads, often unpaved, in the middle of
the night because you heard about a concentration of greenheads in a
pond.
11. You look longingly into the sky, even in the summer, and can’t wait
for next season even after swearing off duck hunting following the last
miserable season.
OK, it’s not 12 steps, but whoever said duck hunters — or duck
biologists — could count? That’s why they scrapped the point system
decades ago.
If you exhibit at least half of these symptoms, you too might already be
addicted to Quack. If you live in south Louisiana below Interstate 10 or
eastern Arkansas, you don’t even have to count, so put your shoes back
on. You were born addicted.
While there’s no cure, except perhaps a couple dozen greenheads
back-flapping to land in a spread of decoys, you can find help. We Quack
addicts must help each other through tough times. In fact, if you show any
of these symptoms, I’ll personally help you through your crisis — if you
have a good duck lease or a productive blind!
When you get the overwhelming urge to sit in a duck blind surrounded
by spent ammunition hulls, call me. I’ll meet you in the wee hours of the
morning at a place of your choosing under any weather conditions.
To prove my help, I’ll share your blind and shoot at every duck that flies
within range before you can fire so you can beat your addiction. I’m too far
gone to help, but perhaps I can save another unfortunate person from
going down the wayward path of duckaholism. It’s the least I can do for my
fellow Quack addicts!
My fellow associates of Ducks Unanimous, I’ve been addicted to Quack
for years. I just can’t get enough of duck hunting.
Although I cannot absolve myself totally from blame, I can claim an
inherited dependency. You see, my father was also a duckaholic. Sure, it
started off innocently enough. I went along with my father when he made
his frequent trips to the marsh, but I was just a kid who wanted to be with his
dad. When I first started hunting with my father, I wasn’t even old enough
to carry a gun. I sometimes carried a BB gun.
At the time, I didn’t know what terrible consequences my future
addiction would bring. I should have seen the signs in Dad’s life. He often
disappeared for days at a time into the vast south Louisiana marshes. He
returned from trips reeking of marsh mud and sporting a “thousand-yard
stare.” Frequently, he mumbled incoherently something that sounded like,
“Where are the ducks? I can’t find the ducks. What happened to the
ducks?”
My dad squandered the family fortune and his entire life savings,
rumored to peak as high as $93.27 at one point, on such foolish items as
decoys, ammunition and new guns. Of course, he couldn’t help it. The
addiction made him do it.
Finally, the overwhelming craving for more and bigger duck boats
overtook his life. First, he built small wooden pirogues, Cajun versions of
canoes. Then, he spent three years building an 18-footer to take us
camping on duck hunts. Never able to shake his addiction even when his
strength to build failed, he eventually bought a much larger boat.
After my introduction to duck hunting by my father, I began to
experiment with various other hunts. First, I just hunted socially with my
friends around the neighborhood. Instead of doing homework or studying,
we headed for the marshes as soon as school dismissed. We would stare
blankly into an empty sky for elusive gadwalls, mallards and teal while
swatting swarming mosquitoes. Don’t mosquitoes ever experience a bad
breeding season or poor fall flight?
We didn’t think much of it at the time, but real problems eventually
manifested. Soon, I started hunting at every opportunity I could find. Not
satisfied with ducks around the neighborhood, I began taking long trips.
Occasionally, I even headed to Mexico to make a really big score, but even
that didn’t allow me to kick the habit.
Big scores only further whetted my uncontrollable craving for Quack.
Like my father before me, I began buying camo and ammo, lots of ammo. I
gazed glassy-eyed at outdoors catalogs brimming with fine duck hunting
paraphernalia. I couldn’t resist calling those toll-free numbers and ordering
what I knew I could not afford.
I started hanging out with shady characters who always wore
camouflage while loitering in the backs of sporting goods stores. Did they
really think they could pose as trees? Groups of hopelessly addicted
Quack junkies like me drooled over auction items at banquets. We
obsessed at the fine steel of commemorative guns and works of art
depicting mallards, teal, wigeons, pintails and wood ducks. Oh, those
beautiful wood ducks!
For a time, I took control of my life. I entered the Air Force, knowing
that they would send me far way from the marshes. Perhaps, my tortured
mind could heal if only removed from temptation. I begged them to send
me away from the South where duck hunting rules. No! Uncle Sam sent
me to Arkansas, Texas, Alabama and South Carolina where I met more
Quack addicts.
When I couldn’t get a flight fix, I experimented with hunting squirrels,
doves, rabbits, quail and even an occasional deer. These outlets partially
soothed my soul, but my fevered mind always raced back to chilling days
spent in a blind waiting for more Quack.
In my dreams, I saw broad outstretched wings locked on final
approach. Big orange feet spread out to make landing gear. Every sound
reminded me of the whizzing of unseen teal rocketing low over grass before
crash-landing into dark decoy spreads.
During the summer, I watched as mottled ducks lifted from marsh
ponds. I counted the days until I could again send explosive non-toxic shot
loads down cold steel. Before a big hunt, I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t do
chores around the house, couldn’t pick up my clothes off the floor, couldn’t
pick up dishes after supper ...
“What’s different about that?” asked my wife, Sweetums. “That’s how
you live 365 days a year.”
“Hey, what are you doing in here? I’m in the middle of a fantasy driven
by a delusional stupor. Any minute now, Shania Twain and Faith Hill will
walk in wearing wetland camouflage bikinis and give me a new shotgun and
a sack of decoys before they massage my back.”
“Stupor! Oh, I didn’t notice anything different about you. I’ve got a
loaded shotgun for you ..., but I’ll let you get back to your feathered fantasy
while I dream about Alan Jackson.”
“Yeah, what does he have that I don’t have except for height, a slim
build, incredible talent, great looks and enormous wealth?”
I guess I told her. I bet Mr. Jackson didn’t even kill as many ducks as I
did this season. Now, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Oh
yes, I finally gave up on seeking a cure and decided to simply live with my
addition. (If I can live with my wife, I can live with anything. Just kidding,
Sweetums!)
Sweetums lovingly helped me through my addiction with strong, yet
encouraging shoves off the bed as the alarm sounded on cold mornings. I
could always count on her for gentle advice.
“If you must wake up at some gosh-awful hour, sleep on the sofa and
keep it quiet. You might want to sit in a stinking wet mud pit in freezing
temperatures, but don’t wake me.”
She even issued sound financial advice. I can’t recall how many times
she said things like, “How much hunting stuff do you need? When are you
going to sell all this junk cluttering up the house?"
Fortunately, you can diagnose your addiction through the Ducks
Unanimous 12-step recognition program, six steps in years with low fall
flights. You may need help if you do any of the following:
1. You can’t afford repairs on the house, but you buy a new shotgun
every year.
2. You buy lots of ammunition, even though you shot less than a box
during the dismal season last year.
3. You buy the latest camouflaged pattern hunting clothes, even
though you already have piles of hunting clothes heaped in a closet.
4. You hunt often, even on special family days, but can’t find the
energy to go to school or work. (Why do you think they call it “ducking”
work?)
5. You forget birthdays, anniversaries and Christmas, but remember
the duck season dates and limits from years ago.
6. You can’t wait to leave a warm, comfortable bed to sit in a miserable
pit on a freezing, rainy morning.
7. You stick cold, wooden or plastic tubes in your mouth and think you
can talk like a duck better than anyone else can.
8. You get excited about going out in a boat during icy, rainy weather,
but call in sick to work if the temperature drops below 60 degrees with a
partly cloudy sky.
9. You won’t walk 30 feet to take out the garbage, but you walk a half-
mile across a dark, impassable marsh carrying 100 pounds of equipment to
reach a blind.
10. You won’t drive around the corner to visit relatives, but you drive
eight hours down winding country roads, often unpaved, in the middle of
the night because you heard about a concentration of greenheads in a
pond.
11. You look longingly into the sky, even in the summer, and can’t wait
for next season even after swearing off duck hunting following the last
miserable season.
OK, it’s not 12 steps, but whoever said duck hunters — or duck
biologists — could count? That’s why they scrapped the point system
decades ago.
If you exhibit at least half of these symptoms, you too might already be
addicted to Quack. If you live in south Louisiana below Interstate 10 or
eastern Arkansas, you don’t even have to count, so put your shoes back
on. You were born addicted.
While there’s no cure, except perhaps a couple dozen greenheads
back-flapping to land in a spread of decoys, you can find help. We Quack
addicts must help each other through tough times. In fact, if you show any
of these symptoms, I’ll personally help you through your crisis — if you
have a good duck lease or a productive blind!
When you get the overwhelming urge to sit in a duck blind surrounded
by spent ammunition hulls, call me. I’ll meet you in the wee hours of the
morning at a place of your choosing under any weather conditions.
To prove my help, I’ll share your blind and shoot at every duck that flies
within range before you can fire so you can beat your addiction. I’m too far
gone to help, but perhaps I can save another unfortunate person from
going down the wayward path of duckaholism. It’s the least I can do for my
fellow Quack addicts!