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John N. Felsher's Waterfowl Hunting Adventures
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Rather than hunt alone, the Old Duck Hunter said he needed “a good
pair of eyes” to share his blind on this cold, gray December day.
Almost as if by feel, he maneuvered the ancient, battered aluminum
boat through dark winding channels. His mind’s eye remembered these
familiar twists, snags and channels after 70 years of running this
backwater. These eyes dodged trees that weren’t even growing when he
hunted this swamp as a child. Ahead, something lifted from the water with
whistling squeals.
“Wood ducks roost over yonder,” he said nodding his head in the
direction of the unseen sounds. “Probably what you heard. “They always
get up early in the morning.”
A good pair of eyes! He didn’t need eyes; he “feels” ducks.
Through the moonlight, a dark shape sputtered across the water, jumped
by the antiquated whining outboard. It kicked spray with its feet as it ran for
safety.
“Coots. They’s plenty around here,” the Old Duck Hunter said.
“Always flock up around this bend. Don’t nobody really fool with them
much.”
With a twinge of scarlet showing in the east, we entered the blind. The
Old Duck Hunter nimbly docked his battered flatboat under the floating
blind. We climbed into a blockhouse surrounded by about 100 decoys and
painted black bleach bottles, which also fool fast-flying ducks into believing
more of their kind sit safely here. From across the swampy lake, a stout
breeze nipped our faces, causing a slight shiver.
“They call this the Pothole Blind,” he said. “It don’t look like much now,
but it’s huge compared to years ago. Years ago, it weren’t nothin’ but a
wide spot between trees in the swamp. I kilt my first duck here with a
borried old side-by-side shotgun. See ‘em stumps? They was green and
alive back then. Now, all the trees are dead and it’s a main creek channel.”
The Old Duck Hunter built this blind, a shooting platform floating on
pontoons, about 40 years ago. A plywood roof partially covered it,
providing some shelter from the elements if necessary. Two benches
offered some comfort. A small heater almost held the biting cold at bay.
Brown pine branches covered the blind to the height of a man’s eyes.
“My daddy used to hunt this spot,” he said. “He used to take me when I
was just a child. I played in the bottom of the blind whilse he shot ducks.
Back then, he and my uncle drove an old Ford through the swamp. They
didn’t control the water level back then and it was more dry ‘cept durin’
spring floods when water on the Mississippi River backed up. You couldn’t
get down there with a four-wheel drive truck now. They rowed a wooden
rowboat out c’here and shot sacks full o’ ducks. Nobody much cared ‘bout
no limits back then. In was The Depression and we were hungry, but we
always had ducks to eat.”
To the East, the rising sun backlighted woody skeletons of gnarled old
cypress trees. Wood ducks whistled down the treeline well out of range.
They weren’t interested in our decoys. They had places to go.
Down the oxbow lake, every so often, another similar pine blockhouse
anchored another decoy spread like the head of a floating octopus.
Several sat empty this misty morning. Shots and faux quacks erupted from
others, telegraphing to fowl and human, the appearance or disappearance
of ducks.
Beneath a rumbled, faded camouflaged hat, two slate gray eyes, now
hidden behind thick bifocals, scanned the fog of today and penetrated the
fog of time. What were they seeing? Were they reaching across the
decades to long ago hunts and other misty mornings? Mediocre hunts tend
to grow into great hunts after more than seven decades.
“Back when my daddy hunted this bottomland, he used lead shot and
black power,” he remembered. “Today, the federal gubment makes us use
steel shot. I never much cared for steel shot, but it’s the law. We don’t
have no excuse for shooting over the limit like we did back in The
Depression. Here come two; keep down,” he barked.
Where? I didn’t know. I couldn’t see them. A good pair of eyes! Two
ducks shot past the blind well out of range until the Old Duck Hunter pulled
out a battered wooden mallard call and began playing a tune only a duck
can comprehend. Two dots over the trees made a wide sweeping arc and
headed directly for us.
“Keep still; they’s comin’ this a way,” he said.
As the ducks flared over the decoys, we shot. I missed three times. Next to
me, the Old Duck Hunter’s pockmarked shotgun belched once, bringing
down a greenhead, the first of several it claimed this morning. We would
have fresh duck to eat tonight at the houseboat.
A good pair of eyes indeed! I didn’t even see them until they flashed in
front of the blind. Sometimes, the old magic still beats a good pair of eyes.
pair of eyes” to share his blind on this cold, gray December day.
Almost as if by feel, he maneuvered the ancient, battered aluminum
boat through dark winding channels. His mind’s eye remembered these
familiar twists, snags and channels after 70 years of running this
backwater. These eyes dodged trees that weren’t even growing when he
hunted this swamp as a child. Ahead, something lifted from the water with
whistling squeals.
“Wood ducks roost over yonder,” he said nodding his head in the
direction of the unseen sounds. “Probably what you heard. “They always
get up early in the morning.”
A good pair of eyes! He didn’t need eyes; he “feels” ducks.
Through the moonlight, a dark shape sputtered across the water, jumped
by the antiquated whining outboard. It kicked spray with its feet as it ran for
safety.
“Coots. They’s plenty around here,” the Old Duck Hunter said.
“Always flock up around this bend. Don’t nobody really fool with them
much.”
With a twinge of scarlet showing in the east, we entered the blind. The
Old Duck Hunter nimbly docked his battered flatboat under the floating
blind. We climbed into a blockhouse surrounded by about 100 decoys and
painted black bleach bottles, which also fool fast-flying ducks into believing
more of their kind sit safely here. From across the swampy lake, a stout
breeze nipped our faces, causing a slight shiver.
“They call this the Pothole Blind,” he said. “It don’t look like much now,
but it’s huge compared to years ago. Years ago, it weren’t nothin’ but a
wide spot between trees in the swamp. I kilt my first duck here with a
borried old side-by-side shotgun. See ‘em stumps? They was green and
alive back then. Now, all the trees are dead and it’s a main creek channel.”
The Old Duck Hunter built this blind, a shooting platform floating on
pontoons, about 40 years ago. A plywood roof partially covered it,
providing some shelter from the elements if necessary. Two benches
offered some comfort. A small heater almost held the biting cold at bay.
Brown pine branches covered the blind to the height of a man’s eyes.
“My daddy used to hunt this spot,” he said. “He used to take me when I
was just a child. I played in the bottom of the blind whilse he shot ducks.
Back then, he and my uncle drove an old Ford through the swamp. They
didn’t control the water level back then and it was more dry ‘cept durin’
spring floods when water on the Mississippi River backed up. You couldn’t
get down there with a four-wheel drive truck now. They rowed a wooden
rowboat out c’here and shot sacks full o’ ducks. Nobody much cared ‘bout
no limits back then. In was The Depression and we were hungry, but we
always had ducks to eat.”
To the East, the rising sun backlighted woody skeletons of gnarled old
cypress trees. Wood ducks whistled down the treeline well out of range.
They weren’t interested in our decoys. They had places to go.
Down the oxbow lake, every so often, another similar pine blockhouse
anchored another decoy spread like the head of a floating octopus.
Several sat empty this misty morning. Shots and faux quacks erupted from
others, telegraphing to fowl and human, the appearance or disappearance
of ducks.
Beneath a rumbled, faded camouflaged hat, two slate gray eyes, now
hidden behind thick bifocals, scanned the fog of today and penetrated the
fog of time. What were they seeing? Were they reaching across the
decades to long ago hunts and other misty mornings? Mediocre hunts tend
to grow into great hunts after more than seven decades.
“Back when my daddy hunted this bottomland, he used lead shot and
black power,” he remembered. “Today, the federal gubment makes us use
steel shot. I never much cared for steel shot, but it’s the law. We don’t
have no excuse for shooting over the limit like we did back in The
Depression. Here come two; keep down,” he barked.
Where? I didn’t know. I couldn’t see them. A good pair of eyes! Two
ducks shot past the blind well out of range until the Old Duck Hunter pulled
out a battered wooden mallard call and began playing a tune only a duck
can comprehend. Two dots over the trees made a wide sweeping arc and
headed directly for us.
“Keep still; they’s comin’ this a way,” he said.
As the ducks flared over the decoys, we shot. I missed three times. Next to
me, the Old Duck Hunter’s pockmarked shotgun belched once, bringing
down a greenhead, the first of several it claimed this morning. We would
have fresh duck to eat tonight at the houseboat.
A good pair of eyes indeed! I didn’t even see them until they flashed in
front of the blind. Sometimes, the old magic still beats a good pair of eyes.
All he needed was a good pair
of eyes to complete a great hunt
of eyes to complete a great hunt
A drake mallard waits for the roasting pot after a successful hunt.
