Charlie was scanning the stars above, not the easiest of tasks with a heavy coat, thick hood, and bulky life jacket. As we motored our little boat through the narrows he strained his head upward for another look, knowingly I asked, "Looking for Orion?” Over the whine of our outboard he replied, “Yeah, but I can’t find him.” I peered over my shoulder, confirming years of early autumn hunts spent under the watchful eye of our ancient hunter and replied, “He’s over here buddy, just to the right of the Moon.”
Orion has been my guide in the sky for years, when the weather was testy or the journey to the bog was long, I could always find my place when I knew I could find his. This unofficial open to the 2019 duck season was no different. The heat and storms of the day before had abated overnight with Summers sultry last gasp transforming into a crisp Fall chill that permeated the pre-dawn darkness making our breath visible on exhalation.
Exiting the smaller of the two lakes, I took a moment to clear vegetation from the prop. The motor sputtered dead, but with little effort she roared back to life and we made our across the lake. The stars twinkled brightly overhead and the sliver of moon that danced across the water, silhouetted the tree line before us, the contours of which I used to navigate through the blackness.
Reaching the rice, I cut the motor and made my way to the front of the boat with push pole in hand. The chill of the morning, the warmth of his gear, and the vibration of the boat, had all but lulled Charlie back to sleep. I slipped the push pole into the water, a pair of Swans and a small flock of Geese broke the silence, clearly distraught by our intrusion, taking to the air a short distance from our bow.
Our movement was slow but steady, I pushed from the left, and then from the right, finding my rhythm as we slipped deeper into the rice. Every once in a while the boat would gently clunk against a long fallen and forgotten timber, lost to time but forever apart of this place. We made our way to an open pocket of lily pads a stones through away from shore. The birds had been hugging this part of the bog the morning before and I hoped they would follow a similar path today.
With the decoys set in no particular order, I eased us into a taller patch of rice. The wind had died down a bit, still I opted to drop anchor, to keep us steady and maybe, just maybe, to claim this spot as my own. With an hour to legal shoot there was time for Charlie to keep sleeping, and there was time for me to listen. The random whistle of a wood duck, the familiar quack of a mama Mallard, and the distant clunk of decoys from other hunting parties added to the tranquility of the lake and reminded me of what I love most about this place.
As the hour drew to a close, the early morning light erased our starry vestige revealing a patchwork view of our decoys and the bog beyond. The few clucks and quacks that had welcomed us in the dark, had grown in intensity with the growing light. Early defectors took to the air, Mallards and Wood Ducks zigzagging to the sky with a rustle of wings.
It took a little coaxing but Charlie was awake and ready to go, I hadn’t needed any coaxing. A distant barrage of shotgun blasts from a different lake not unlike our own served as the starting bell for the days excitement! Only moments had passed before a single Woodie strayed to close to our spread, I shouldered “The Fudd” and with a single blast from its cartoonishly long barrels, dropped my quarry squarely in our decoys. With a resounding splash, Charlie leaned back and enthusiastically proclaimed, “nice shot!”
A short time later, a second Woodie crossed from my left and befell the same fate as the the first. “The Fudd”, a boorish side by side with thirty inch barrels, was proving herself to be potent ally in the bog!
With two Woodies in the bag of a 3 Woodie limit, I turned my attention to Charlie, anxious for him to connect. Charlie missed his first volley, but it didn’t take him long to find the kill zone. With a bevy of birds coming in from the right, I felt the pull of his gun and watched as his first duck of the season crumpled in the air and plummeted to the water below.
The next half hour was a wild ride of shooting and laughter for both the boy and I. The majority of our targets were flybys, fortunately for us, a Summer spent trap shooting from lawn chairs proved the perfect recipe for success! With seven birds down, one of which was a Mallard we pushed out to collect and tally our birds. Pushing the boat through the rice, Charlie and I managed to collect them all. That rarely happens, the bog almost always claims one as penance!
With all birds accounted for, we found that Charlie had taken a single Woodie and a pair of Mallards, giving us a little breathing room to keep the hunt alive. We had taken seven before seven, an opening day we had not experienced in years! I was typing a quick note to Karen, when a lone Woodie quartered in from my left. Charlie whispered, “Daddy, get it!”. I dropped my phone to the deck, raised “The Fudd”, and dropped our last duck of the day with a single resolute blast that echoed across the lake.
It was a good day. The boat and voyage to the rice was effortless, the birds were plentiful and in hand, and my boy was with me for all of it. For a hunter, and a father, there are no better days than this.
