My heart sank as we crested a hill en route to our duck opener spot; in the glare of the high beams, the undeniable reflection of tail lights from a truck parked in the approach. The clock showed 5 AM, a full hour and 50 minutes before shooting time. In six years of hunting this location for duck opener, is was the first time we'd ever seen another vehicle. Most years, there's rarely shooting within earshot.
If this was the first bite of a shit sandwich, the rest of the day would force me to choke down the rest. We drove around checking other backup locations, only to be greeted by pickup trucks and headlamp-adorned hunters waiting to head out. I would learn later that a good friend made it to his opener spot at 4:30, only to find 10 guys in layout blinds ringing the pond.
My hunting partner was on his phone, looking at aerial maps for something, anything, that looked ducky. His 12-year-old son was asleep in the back seat, no doubt dreaming about his first real hunt with "the big guys." I'd like to say we pulled out the Hail Mary as time expired, but it would not be the case. Decoys weren't set until 8 am, and the pond we put our entire stack of chips toward was hell to access. The 75 yards of cattails weren't a straight shot -- you had to cross openings of waist-deep water, and then crawl out onto the cattails and keep slugging. My buddy said he'd carry his boy if needed, but just as he was reaching the edge, his foot caught and he dropped him in the water. Hip waders full of water and the 50-degree temps meant our time would be limited to his son's ability to stay warm. We killed three ducks and decided to head back.
I concluded we could scratch a few more by jump shooting, and off we went. In our travels, I weaved back to the A spot and saw the blue truck that beat us there was gone. It was 10 am. Figuring it was worth a look, we grabbed guns and dogs and walked the half mile in to see what was up. The pond was absolutely full of ducks. My gut told me the other group limited early and boogied, leaving these birds plenty of time to settle down again. We pitched out a dozen decoys and quietly flushed the ducks off, hoping they'd filter back and somehow turn this day around.
A few unlucky gaddies made their final error, and we dropped two that the dogs made quick work of. The next group did the same, however one winged duck quickly uprighted itself and started swimming out to sea.
Both my dogs took chase, and had I time to get off a finishing shot, the next events may never have occurred. Instead, I watched helplessly as both dogs chased the cripple. After 100 yards and no ground gained, I started whistling and calling for the dogs to come back. But my dogs never give up a chase, which is both a gift and a curse. Two years ago, my youngest GWP Blitz suffered a seizure after a day in the duck blind. Seeing the amount of effort he was putting in today on that duck made my heart sink, and I quickly sloshed down the edge of the shore, calling and beeping his collar to get off the duck.
I got out of the cattails and hit dry ground to try cutting the distance, then broke in again after a length and slogged toward my dogs. At first I thought both had turned, with Blitz heading back toward the decoys (now more than 200 yards away) and Remy lagging. But it was the other way around, with my 7-year-old Remy slowly and steadily working into the wind to another duck that was down back in the decoys. Blitz, on the other hand, was barely keeping his head above water. I could hear his taxed whines and laborous efforts, and ushered him back to shore. On land, he collapsed. His eyes were wide and his gums pale. The hair on the back of his neck was standing stiff, and his balance was wobbly. It was deja vu, and I wasn't about to see him seize. In a panic, I grabbed the 45-pound dog in my arms, and walked the entire way back to my truck without stopping. There, he got a sugar-packed granola bar as a snack, and rest in his kennel.
He seemed fine, but my mood to hunt was gone. I began taking off gear to lighten the return trip -- then noticed my e-collar remote was missing.
That was the final bite of the shit sandwich, and I was sick. We picked up decoys and I made a half-hearted effort to find the remote, but knew locating a brown-and-black cylindrical object in a sea of browning stalks was futile.
"You should go out again in the morning with a metal detector," my wife said on the phone as we cruised back to Fargo. She was home with both our kids (ages 1 and 4) and the fact she encouraged me to hunt was a pleasant surprise. I still wasn't sure I wanted to sit in the forecasted rain, but another hunting buddy said he was going no matter what, so we hatched a plan. I'd pick him up at 3:30 and we'd be in the approach parked an hour later. Unless that blue truck was even more paranoid than we were about being beat, we should get the spot.
Sure enough, we found the approach vacated, and the decision to leave extra early was validated a half hour later when the same blue truck pulled in behind us. The young guys in there asked if they could hunt on the same end as us. I said it was a free country, however we'd be competing for ducks and shooting over each other. They might find it more enjoyable on the south side, where I knew ducks always wanted to be even with a "wrong" wind.
They luckily agreed, and hunted the south side, which turned out to be a great choice all around. While we limited out with our 16 ducks (including the two bonus blue-winged teal and a smattering of mallards, gadwall, wigeon and a lone Hollywood), they were shooting all morning on whatever came by. It helped keep the birds moving, and they got plenty of action without screwing up our hunt in the process.
With the day's take, and dogs and decoys stored, it was now time for the last piece of the puzzle. My buddy landed his eyesight and I broke out a cheap metal detector. I had little hope for finding my remote, but we worked slowly through the reeds and along the field edge, looking for sign where I'd walked and to see where I'd entered and exited the cattails.
About 20 feet further than I quit during the previous day's search, my buddy found a boot print at the same time I found my entrance location. As I was bending down to search the cattails, he pointed out another boot print.
"Hey Tyler, look!"
I spun and saw my buddy, with a wide grin and a very wet remote in his hand.
I was on Cloud 9. We high fived and walked back to the truck, both agreeing this was quite the turnaround from an opening day that ranks down there as the worst we could remember.
In Tower City, I bought him breakfast and we both promised to get out at least one more time together before the season was up.
Although after that whirlwind experience, I may need some time off just to get my emotions in check!!
If this was the first bite of a shit sandwich, the rest of the day would force me to choke down the rest. We drove around checking other backup locations, only to be greeted by pickup trucks and headlamp-adorned hunters waiting to head out. I would learn later that a good friend made it to his opener spot at 4:30, only to find 10 guys in layout blinds ringing the pond.
My hunting partner was on his phone, looking at aerial maps for something, anything, that looked ducky. His 12-year-old son was asleep in the back seat, no doubt dreaming about his first real hunt with "the big guys." I'd like to say we pulled out the Hail Mary as time expired, but it would not be the case. Decoys weren't set until 8 am, and the pond we put our entire stack of chips toward was hell to access. The 75 yards of cattails weren't a straight shot -- you had to cross openings of waist-deep water, and then crawl out onto the cattails and keep slugging. My buddy said he'd carry his boy if needed, but just as he was reaching the edge, his foot caught and he dropped him in the water. Hip waders full of water and the 50-degree temps meant our time would be limited to his son's ability to stay warm. We killed three ducks and decided to head back.
I concluded we could scratch a few more by jump shooting, and off we went. In our travels, I weaved back to the A spot and saw the blue truck that beat us there was gone. It was 10 am. Figuring it was worth a look, we grabbed guns and dogs and walked the half mile in to see what was up. The pond was absolutely full of ducks. My gut told me the other group limited early and boogied, leaving these birds plenty of time to settle down again. We pitched out a dozen decoys and quietly flushed the ducks off, hoping they'd filter back and somehow turn this day around.
A few unlucky gaddies made their final error, and we dropped two that the dogs made quick work of. The next group did the same, however one winged duck quickly uprighted itself and started swimming out to sea.
Both my dogs took chase, and had I time to get off a finishing shot, the next events may never have occurred. Instead, I watched helplessly as both dogs chased the cripple. After 100 yards and no ground gained, I started whistling and calling for the dogs to come back. But my dogs never give up a chase, which is both a gift and a curse. Two years ago, my youngest GWP Blitz suffered a seizure after a day in the duck blind. Seeing the amount of effort he was putting in today on that duck made my heart sink, and I quickly sloshed down the edge of the shore, calling and beeping his collar to get off the duck.
I got out of the cattails and hit dry ground to try cutting the distance, then broke in again after a length and slogged toward my dogs. At first I thought both had turned, with Blitz heading back toward the decoys (now more than 200 yards away) and Remy lagging. But it was the other way around, with my 7-year-old Remy slowly and steadily working into the wind to another duck that was down back in the decoys. Blitz, on the other hand, was barely keeping his head above water. I could hear his taxed whines and laborous efforts, and ushered him back to shore. On land, he collapsed. His eyes were wide and his gums pale. The hair on the back of his neck was standing stiff, and his balance was wobbly. It was deja vu, and I wasn't about to see him seize. In a panic, I grabbed the 45-pound dog in my arms, and walked the entire way back to my truck without stopping. There, he got a sugar-packed granola bar as a snack, and rest in his kennel.
He seemed fine, but my mood to hunt was gone. I began taking off gear to lighten the return trip -- then noticed my e-collar remote was missing.
That was the final bite of the shit sandwich, and I was sick. We picked up decoys and I made a half-hearted effort to find the remote, but knew locating a brown-and-black cylindrical object in a sea of browning stalks was futile.
"You should go out again in the morning with a metal detector," my wife said on the phone as we cruised back to Fargo. She was home with both our kids (ages 1 and 4) and the fact she encouraged me to hunt was a pleasant surprise. I still wasn't sure I wanted to sit in the forecasted rain, but another hunting buddy said he was going no matter what, so we hatched a plan. I'd pick him up at 3:30 and we'd be in the approach parked an hour later. Unless that blue truck was even more paranoid than we were about being beat, we should get the spot.
Sure enough, we found the approach vacated, and the decision to leave extra early was validated a half hour later when the same blue truck pulled in behind us. The young guys in there asked if they could hunt on the same end as us. I said it was a free country, however we'd be competing for ducks and shooting over each other. They might find it more enjoyable on the south side, where I knew ducks always wanted to be even with a "wrong" wind.
They luckily agreed, and hunted the south side, which turned out to be a great choice all around. While we limited out with our 16 ducks (including the two bonus blue-winged teal and a smattering of mallards, gadwall, wigeon and a lone Hollywood), they were shooting all morning on whatever came by. It helped keep the birds moving, and they got plenty of action without screwing up our hunt in the process.
With the day's take, and dogs and decoys stored, it was now time for the last piece of the puzzle. My buddy landed his eyesight and I broke out a cheap metal detector. I had little hope for finding my remote, but we worked slowly through the reeds and along the field edge, looking for sign where I'd walked and to see where I'd entered and exited the cattails.
About 20 feet further than I quit during the previous day's search, my buddy found a boot print at the same time I found my entrance location. As I was bending down to search the cattails, he pointed out another boot print.
"Hey Tyler, look!"
I spun and saw my buddy, with a wide grin and a very wet remote in his hand.
I was on Cloud 9. We high fived and walked back to the truck, both agreeing this was quite the turnaround from an opening day that ranks down there as the worst we could remember.
In Tower City, I bought him breakfast and we both promised to get out at least one more time together before the season was up.
Although after that whirlwind experience, I may need some time off just to get my emotions in check!!
