In fact , I ’ d love it if he did . So , bring on fall . •
but instead of bowing up and funneling into the flooded pasture , the birds completely bypassed my spread of decoys . Flock after flock of ducks flew directly overhead without missing a wingbeat . The birds weren ’ t flaring , having spied me in the short grass . Instead , they simply wanted to do something different . They were following different cues . And if I wanted the chance to hang one of those nice greenheads on my leather game strap , I had to get on the same page . There ’ s a fine line between duck hunting and bird watching , and I was on the wrong side of that line .
With my pride bruised , I picked up my meager spread of decoys and made my way to a hill on the edge of the pasture . From there , I could see mallards piling into a stock pond several hundred yards away , and through my binoculars , I watched as dozens of mallards splashed away on the water while dozens more dozed away the morning on the edge of the stock pond . The puzzle was starting to come together , so I abandoned the hunt without firing a shot , threw my gear in the truck , called the landowner , and made a plan to come back the next morning , when I hoped to have a front-row seat to the show . As it turned out , I did , and what a show it was .
The steam was still rising from my first cup of coffee the next morning when I saw the mallards returning from the field . My head slightly lifted out of my lay-out blind , I could see the ducks fly directly over the flooded pasture and begin to make their descent upon the stock pond . After one swing out in front of my decoy spread , a lone drake dropped from the group and centered on the pocket directly in front of me . With one shot I folded the big greenhead and my yellow Lab barely had time to retrieve the duck before the next group of mallards emerged from the skies . And so it went until I had a limit of 5 drake mallards lined up behind my blind . Change can be good . I can feel the winds of change blowing again
this morning as I type this column , but I ’ m nowhere near a stock dam full of greenheads , nor am I watching the first blue-winged teal of the season arrive on a shallow wetland . Instead , my son , Miles , is asking me about our plans for fall .
“ How many times do you think we ’ re going to go hunting ? We should set a goal to go twice as much as last year ,” he asked . “ And we should make a bet on who shoots more ducks this year , too .”
Those words are music to the ears of this father . Miles may or may not grow up to be a duck nut like his dad , but he is building an appreciation for decoys and waders and early mornings on the marsh and in the field . He ’ s beginning
to look at the outdoors through the lens of a hunter , paying attention to details that used to fly by unnoticed . Recently , he spied a rooster pheasant walking along the edge of a field before I did . I would have been disappointed in myself if I wasn ’ t so proud .
As it almost always does , life will get in the way of some of our plans to get out hunting this season . There will be Boy Scout outings , and domestic and civic responsibilities will arise that demand my attention more than his . But I ’ m committed to meeting his goal , and I ’ d happily hand Miles the trophy at the end of the year if the lad puts more ducks on the strap than his old man .
In fact , I ’ d love it if he did . So , bring on fall . •
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