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Over the years I’ve shot a lot of ducks, having mentioned that I can say I’ve also never shot enough ducks. Plenty of days with ducks limits, some seasons far better than others, but I still crave ducks and the hunting of ducks.
I even have some special duck memories, a bird and birds for some reason that won’t fly out of my mind, and I’m so thankful for those birds, truly thankful.
My pal and I in a northern Minnesota bog, the rain was coming sideways, daylight was oozing in on us, in each of our hands, a roasted redhead duck breast slabbed between English muffin toast slathered with cranberry sauce leftover from the previous night’s duck feast.
A corn field stubbled, wind ripped for several weeks by the time we got to it, mallards had been pitching into it for days. What they were gleaning off the almost bare field of tattered stalks must have been sufficient for they just kept coming and one beautiful tripe curl leading yet another flock, just as I rose up, it literally spiraled midair before I connected. I play that one over and over and over.
And of course, my very first duck, a wood duck, one of my luckiest shots ever as I reached skyward at the lone treetop flyer with a single shot 20 gauge, I was stunned when it fell. I looked at that duck all morning, such a magnificent bird, as they all are to me.
- The Trout Whisperer
