The Best Hunting Stories Ever Told by Jay Cassell

Author:Jay Cassell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
Published: 2011-02-10T16:00:00+00:00

From Stories of the Old Duck Hunters. Reprinted with permission of Willow Creek Press. Readers interested in books by Gordon MacQuarrie should go to www.willowcreekpress.com.

The Wings of Dawn

GEORGE REIGER

Outsiders call us sadists or masochists; sometimes both. Others—mostly ourselves—describe our activities in romantic, even heroic, terms. We take ourselves very seriously and tend to forget that much of duck and goose hunting is fun and sometimes ridiculous.

For two days last season, I scouted a piece of salt marsh where several black ducks and mallards appeared to be in residence. I decided to go in the next day at dawn with my layout boat to try to decoy a limit. All night long, a northeast wind pushed the ocean through the inlets and over sod islands so that by first light, with my retriever tucked between my knees and myself tucked horizontally into the 9-foot punt, the tide began to float the boat off the point where I had hidden her.

I worried lest the boat’s rocking would alarm ducks and wondered whether the brisk breeze wouldn’t blow the punt completely clear of the reeds. I sat up, took one of the oars, shoved it hard down into the mud, and tied the painter to it. Now let her blow!

A half hour passed with no ducks to the decoys. Geese were fly high overhead, and ducks were trading in the distance. But the storm tide had lifted the boat well above the grass, and little white-capped waves slapped the hull and rocked my half-dozen decoys.

I was on the verge of packing it in when a pair of black ducks appeared low over the marsh obviously looking for company. I squiggled lower, hissed at my dog to stay down, and watched the birds approach from under the brim of my cap. My face was blackened, my pale hands were gloved, and only the stark bar of blued metal and wood resting across my camouflaged chest would spark the birds’ suspicions.

Ordinarily they should have come straight in. But with all the marsh under water, they were wary of the curious “log” bumping near their rock-and-rolling buddies. Something wasn’t right. They decided to swing by, look the situation over, and think about it.

“Just one,” I pleaded. “Just one would make a perfect day. But, Lord, wouldn’t a double be sweet!”

The ducks were gone half a minute. Then I noticed them to my right, flying wide of the decoys, but lower. When they turned upwind, no more than ten feet off the water, I knew they were coming—100 yards, 90, 80, 70 . . .

When the birds were less than 60 yards away, the oar suddenly pulled from the mud, surged into the air, slammed down on my head, startled the dog into jumping overboard, and the boat shipped a barrel of icy water that poured in like electricity around my crotch. I watched the black ducks blow away: 150 yards, 200, 300 . . . Then the sky broke loose and sleet obliterated the scene.

With the

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