Western Hunting Journal, Premiere Issue whj001_premiere | Page 89

TRAIL’S END
Continued from page 88
The weather may be colder,
but the arrival of big northern
flights can compensate for a lot
of chill in the air.
What remains offers the
season’s most challenging and
least appreciated segment
of all. The weather can turn
downright brutal on Montana’s
high plains, but foot stomping
cold seems a small price to
pay for seeing the waterfowl
season through to the end. Ev-
ery duck that’s going to reach
the area will have arrived. The
birds may be wary, but their
condition—plump and meaty,
with scarcely a pinfeather to
pluck—will be at its best. That
wariness ultimately translates
into challenge. This is when the
birds let you find out how good
you really are.
Over the years I’ve ended my
waterfowl season in settings
as diverse as Kodiak Island
and the Texas Gulf Coast, but
the area around our current
Montana home remains my
favorite. As shooting light ap-
proached that January morn-
ing, we shivered in a patch
of snow-laden willows while
steam from the slough wove
a silver veil across the glow
from the eastern horizon. Our
dozen decoys looked positive-
ly crowded on the little pocket
of open water in front of us.
While setting out the spread,
I’d noticed fresh duck tracks on
the rim of ice surrounding the
slough. The birds had depart-
ed before our arrival to feed
by moonlight in stubble fields
nearby, and they would return.
Could we last long enough to
be there when they did?
Rosy seemed to think so,
but I wasn’t worried about her.
Somehow, the performance
specs on my best Labs always
seem to improve when the
temperature plummets. Peo-
My toes were already wriggling involuntarily against
the lining of my boots, and I knew that Lori was
approaching the limit of her tolerance. The minute
hand on my watch seemed to be moving in compound
low as it crept toward legal shooting light, a recurrent
impression on frigid mornings.
ple are different. My toes were
already wriggling involuntarily
against the lining of my boots,
and I knew that Lori was ap-
proaching the limit of her tol-
erance. The minute hand on
my watch seemed to be moving
in compound low as it crept
toward legal shooting light, a
recurrent impression on frigid
mornings.
Somehow though, the magi-
cal moment always arrives. Just
before it did that day, the sound
of whistling wings brought us
to attention as a single mallard
dropped into the blocks, but
I couldn’t confirm its gender.
Rosy stared but never broke,
while ripples from the swim-
ming duck added a welcome
breath of life to the spread.
The first flock arrived just
as our natural decoy—a hen,
as daylight revealed—recog-
nized something amiss and
departed loudly. Its warning
came moments too late for the
dozen new arrivals, which had
already committed to land. I
ceded the first drake to Lori
and then began isolating green
heads from brown. The sight of
a lot of ducks clawing their way
into the sky at close range often
makes friends ask why I insist
on carrying one of my doubles
when I’m duck hunting. I just
find that two shots are plenty.
After the second, I’m ready to
turn my attention to the dog.
The three fallen drakes—
someone missed once, but my
lips remain sealed—provided
little challenge, for all lay stone
dead within a thirty-yard circle.
Save for some icebreaking on
the final retrieve, Rosy had an
easy time of it. Then the sound
of new wings rent the air, and
Act Two began.
By this time I could see
multiple flocks of mallards
working the fields around us—
black dots silhouetted against
the sky ahead to the east, wings
flashing in the sunlight behind
us to the west. The individu-
al flocks looked small—eight,
ten, a dozen birds—but there
were plenty of them. I could see
the rest of the morning spread
out in front of us as clearly as
the details of the winter land-
scape.
Sometimes the Big Finish
plays out best in excitement
mode, with dogs breaking and
fingers fumbling through vest
pockets for shells as the end of
another season tries to com-
press itself into a few furious
minutes of birds and shooting.
I have been there and loved it.
But other winter days seem
to be asking me to slow down,
take my time, and derive as
much as possible from the fi-
nal hours of the season. This
was one of them. As the second
flock made a wide turn to give
us another look, I quietly un-
loaded my shotgun.
Our “blind” was nothing
more than a patch of barren
willow, two sets of white over-
alls, and the patience to hold
still when it counted, but that
was enough. The birds started
to cup their wings a hundred
yards out, and they dropped
into the hole in the brush like
basketballs falling through a
hoop. For an instant orange
feet were dangling in front of
our faces, and then the birds
flared in a loud, unanimous
frenzy. The one unforgivable
error in such circumstances is
to shoot a hen by mistake. Lori
wisely let the birds separate
before she isolated two drakes
and sent them tumbling into
the snow across the slough.
Since I could already see
another flock starting to lose
altitude over the far end of the
field, I kept Rosy planted by my
side. This was a stern test for
a young dog. She didn’t seem
particularly happy about it
but she didn’t break, and soon
the next flock was on final ap-
proach. “Here,” I heard Lori
whisper as she handed me her
reloaded twenty. “Your turn.”
My shooting wasn’t as clean as
hers had been, and the second
drake fluttered down in a line
of frozen cattails sixty yards
away. At least I’d provided Rosy
an opportunity to show us
what she had learned over the
course of her second season.
That retrieve provided
the morning’s only real chal-
lenge, for us or the dog. The
ten greenheads we carried out
of the field had been a given
at first light. Limits were not
the point. Long months were
due to pass before we hunted
ducks again, and we needed as
many memories as possible.
Nothing makes memories like
a Big Finish, no matter where
it takes place. All you have to
do is be there. WHJ
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