A Boys First Duck Hunt

Reports from opening weekend of the California waterfowl season were about as exciting as a Twitter feed from the Pope. Most accounts from friends and fellow hunters reported slow shooting action on this most anticipated weekend of the year. Most reported a smattering of local birds being harvested, but with sunny days and warm temperatures upward of 80 degrees, the birds were fat and happy loafing in their favorite watering hole. Fellow blogger Holly and her boyfriend had about the best report I had read after a nice afternoon at Delevan National Wildlife Refuge. Other than that, all was quiet on the western front.

I don’t know what it is about this year, but maybe there is something to this whole global warming thing. You’ll recall we experienced similarly warm weather while waterfowling in Canada last month. Now this? Go figure.

The poor report didn’t completely matter however because, as it turns out I had to work on opening weekend. Damn strategic planning meetings anyway. I hated the thought of my buddies out in the marsh taking spectacular shots at ducks on the wing and finishing with limits of fowl in two hours during a glorious morning. All the while I am listening to a “facilitator” drone on about being a 21^st century company. Ugggg. My sweet revenge was that the opener stunk. Neeener neeener.

By Wednesday I was chomping at the bit to get out and sit my butt in some swamp water in an attempt to harvest the first birds of the season. Luckily I had sent in reservation applications for both myself and The Boy at several of the California public refuges and had drawn a reservation for Wednesday morning.

The California refuge reservation system is a fairly competitive process wherein hunters from around the state pay $1.25 per application entry, per hunt day, for each refuge that they want to hunt. Thousands upon thousands of applications are turned in each year for a coveted refuge reservation card to show up in the mail. The odds at some of the best refuges can be upwards of a 60:1 chance of getting drawn. Other less productive refuges range from 10 to 20:1 odds.

I was excited to receive a reservation card for Wednesday in that it would only be the third shoot day of the season (refuges only shoot on Saturday, Sunday, and Wednesday) so there would be a good chance that many of those local birds that didn’t move around and get shot over the weekend would be susceptible on Wednesday morning.

The more pressing reason for my excitement was that I planned to take The Boy for his first-ever duck hunt. To me this was the culmination of all the hunting that I had imprinted on him as a youngster. It was his very own opportunity to harvest his first meal.

Our reservation was for the Yolo Wildlife Area, a relatively new refuge that is literally 15 minutes from downtown Sacramento. The refuge manager has been working hard over the last 10 years to improve the habitat and provide a quality hunting program. Part of these enhancements included the installation of island blinds several years ago.

With reservation #6 I knew that The Boy and I would have a chance at a good blind. Having done my research and talked to a few people who hunt the area often, I knew which blinds generally produce better and which produce worse.

***

The alarm clock sounded at a much-too-early 3am and after getting to my feet, I padded my way down to The Boys room where he woke without much resistance. We pulled our things together and made the one hour drive to the wildlife area check station where we waited for the check station staff to begin calling the reservation numbers.

When our number was called we selected the best blind available then made the one mile journey on foot to the small posted sign that signified where we were to enter the pond. After transferring all of our gear from the decoy cart to our backs, we slogged our way across a 200 yard section of pond to the island that housed our concrete pit blind.

As the boy fixated on stomping out the 500 crickets that had found comfort in our blind overnight, I went to work on setting out the decoys in a string that would position any decoying ducks right in front of The Boy’s side of the blind. Today was all about him.

Unlike opening weekend, a mid-week cold front had swept in from the north and a wonderful 15mph wind blew constantly across our cheeks. The temperature was a brisk 43 degrees without considering the wind chill. Not exactly frigid, but certainly cold enough to keep the birds moving around.

As shooting time drew near, I took extra care to pause and enjoy every minute that The Boy and I shared together in that blind. As a father, I knew that there is only one ‘first’ and I wanted to make sure that I made the most of it for both of us. It wasn’t about how many birds we would shoot or whether we got our limits, it was all about being in the moment. One of those keystone events that is etched into both of your memories for a lifetime. I wanted to get this just right. You only get this opportunity once, so I wanted to make the most of it.

With five minutes remaining until the opening bell, I shook my son’s hand, we wished each other luck, and loaded our shotguns.

Boom, boom went the first report of the morning several fields across the way. “Game on”, I thought.

For the next several minutes we witnessed flocks of birds moving head-strong into the wind; a bunch of teal here, a half dozen mallards there, and a flight of specklebelly geese fighting to make horizontal progress. Several more guns reported in the early morning air, but I could tell that the birds were not looking like they were in a decoying mood. Although it was cold and windy, the sky was crystal clear so most of the flocks we saw were ‘on a mission to somewhere’, as we like to say. Meaning that they lift off from where they were roosting and immediately head up to about 100+ yards and head out of the refuge, ignoring calls and decoy spreads all around.

It was exciting to see all of the birds flitting about. I pointed out the different groups to The Boy and did my very best to try and call lower groups into our blocks; but nothing wanted to work into the decoys.

Finally, after 20 minutes I notice a pair of teal low on the water heading squarely our direction at roughly 150 yards. I whispered to The Boy that there were two coming in, and after pointing out their direction, he indicated that he had the visual on them as well.

This was it, these birds were coming in and I knew The Boy was going to have his first chance. The birds were continuing to come straight toward us when I noticed that the lead bird started to slip to our left, which was a good sign since The Boy was on the left side of the blind. If I’ve seen it once I’ve seen it a thousand times, I knew that this pair was going to slide out to the left and bank around the blind. Ducks don’t like to fly over land masses so they were either going right or left. The lead birds’ twitch to the left had me whispering under my breath, “This is going to happen.”

With the aerodynamics in the bird’s favor, these ducks were coming in fast. So at 30 yards I told The Boy to stand up and get his gun ready. By the time he was set, they had closed the gap to 15 yards and, as predicted, were skirting the left edge of the blind. I hollered, “shoot ‘em”, and in what seemed like an eternity later, I finally heard POW.

I saw the lead teal crumble and splash to the water below. We both squealed like a couple of school girls and my first reaction was to state what was now clearly obvious, “You got it son, you stoned that duck!” Woo hoo!

He and I leapt out of the blind and I gave him a great big bear hug. I grabbed his hand and we walked out into the pond where I picked up the lifeless bird and handed it to him.

He paused for a minute admiring his harvest, then muttered, “I did it, I got one.” You sure did son, you certainly did.

With ducks still filling the air we gathered our senses and made our way back into the blind. Unfortunately no other ducks wanted to work, which was fine because it gave us time to talk about the events that had unfolded earlier; embellishing on the spectacular nature of it over and over again.

After two hours of little activity we agreed that we would pick up and head back to the truck in 30 minutes. Just as I finished uttering those words, a duck flew in from the north but landed far outside the decoys, about 80 yards from our location. I told The Boy to keep an eye on that bird just in case it got up and came our way.

Sure enough, ten minutes later hunters in one of the other blinds blasted away at a duck and the noise rousted the duck near us from her loafing spot. Because she was to the north I knew there was a chance that she would get up and make a turn to begin heading south with the wind. Almost on cue she did just that and as she gained altitude she banked left and was heading right toward us!

I told The Boy to get ready, but this duck was beginning to catch some serious tail wind. She was also swinging to the right side of our setup meaning that she would cross on my side of the blind. I told The Boy that after she crossed over the top and got out in front that I wanted him to shoot her while I stayed seated.

Just as I instructed, the bird cleared over the top of us and as I sat facing him, he rose from his seat and took aim. I was less confident about him hitting this duck because of the difficult shot. She was gaining both altitude and speed as she bank around our position. A difficult shot for even the most seasoned waterfowler.

I watched the boy take aim and heard the gun report. I immediately looked over my right shoulder just in time to see this duck crumble and fall like a stone into the pond below. Holy cow, he did it again!

This time it was his turn to state the obvious and after checking his safety, he set down his gun and we both jumped from the blind once again. We waded out to see the lifeless bird floating just beyond some tule reeds. This time I stopped a few steps short and encouraged him to go and pick up his quarry, which he did with a youthful exuberance.

To say I was proud of my boy is an understatement. I was not only happy for his success, but also for how he had carried himself the entire day; from getting up at 3am, to making the one mile walk, to sitting in a blind without any action for two hours. All without even the hint of a 9-year old complaint or gripe.

We decided to end the day on that high note and began packing up our things. As we picked up the decoys we recounted all of the days’ events as if they were tales from long ago. After walking the mile back to our truck, we checked in his birds with the check station staff and began the drive home.

As The Boy settled into his seat and I steered the truck onto the freeway, the late morning sun filled his passenger window. The warmth of the sun was a nice break from the constant morning wind, and before long, The Boy nestled down for a much-deserved nap. As his eyes grew heavy he turned his head and caught my attention with that youthful innocence that I love so much. I glanced his way and he simply said, “Thank you dad. I love you.”

This is why I live to hunt.

Duck & Goose Hunting - Canada Style!

Last week marked the return of a pilgrimage that had been on hiatus for the past couple of years. It was the return to a remarkable land, full of wonderful people and an amazing bounty of wildlife. We began this annual migration in 2004 when I decided to put together the ‘hunt of a lifetime’ for my father, brother and good friend of mine.

The kind of hunt that you save for all year and only plan to do once. That was five years and three trips ago and we were back at it again this year.

Along with the original four, this year we invited two additional fellas to experience this journey to the north – my hunting partner and my good friend’s 12-year-old son. We had been absent from this Canadian adventure for a few years because of my mother’s illness, which kept dad close to home. So to say that we were anxious and excited to return to these northern roots with new friends in tow, is an understatement.

Four of us would fly from California, the other two drive from Colorado, with the predetermined rendezvous spot in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan. There, like the years before, we would join together and drive the rest of the way to the small, rural town of Radisson where our friend, Jim, from Wild Goose Outfitters would await our arrival.

***

The flight from Sacramento was early, which meant leaving the house at 4am to ensure we arrived in plenty of time to check our baggage. The early morning didn’t bother us as we were like kids at Christmas waiting to open our presents. With no traffic we made quick time to the airport, which allowed ample time to go through the additional layers of paperwork required to bring along our shooting sticks. It’s a fairly straightforward process for US residents to take firearms into Canada, so long as you’ve done your homework in advance and allow for a little additional time at the airline check-in.

Little did we know that, with the bags safely in the hands of the airline, the first excitement of the trip would occur at the airport itself. My hunting partner and I navigated the TSA security screening gauntlet just fine and waited at the exit for my friend and his 12-year-old son. As we watched his son’s bags move along the x-ray belt, we suddenly noted that there was a bit of a stir with the TSA agents who all began pointing at the x-ray screen and whispering amongst one another. Suddenly, one of the agents grabbed the son’s bag and instructed him and his father to go to the TSA security desk. The screener handed the son’s bag to the agent behind the desk and said, “We have a live round in here”.

My friend shot a look at his son that would have pierced steel, and asked his son, “You checked your bag for shells, right?” His son sheepishly nodded in the affirmative, at about the same time as the TSA agent pulled a 20-gauge shotgun shell from the front pocket of the son’s bag.

My friend’s face turned from, ‘I could kill you kid’ to ‘oh crap, we’re going to jail’ in about two nanoseconds. My friend inquired with the TSA agent as to what was going to happen, but the stone-faced agent promptly ignored him and made six, yes SIX, calls from the ‘red telephone’ making the same somber statement each time– “We have a live round.” My friend asked again what might happen and the agent responded tersely, “I’ll tell you when the sheriff arrives.” – Gulp.

My hunting partner and I hovered anxiously just outside the screening area and shortly thereafter a sheriff’s deputy arrived. The deputy pulled out an evidence bag and asked my friend’s son a few questions about how the shell ended up in his carryon bag going through airport security on an international flight (that just doesn’t sound good, does it). Seeing that the 12-year old didn’t appear to have any terrorist tendencies, he said, “Don’t worry son, it’s Fall and this happens all the time. Besides I don’t have any handcuffs that will fit you. Go ahead and take off.” Whewwww. I’m not sure, but I think the boy pee’d a little in his pants. From that point forward my friend’s son inherited the nickname ‘Shotgun’. [In the interest of a great blog story I almost asked the sheriff for a picture with him and the kid holding the shotgun shell – but I resisted not wanting to push our good fortune!]

So, 30 minutes into our trip we hadn’t even made it to the gate and we already had quite the adventure.

The flight to Denver was uneventful and we arrived in time to grab a little breakfast before catching the second leg of the flight to Saskatoon. Little did we know that our little morning law enforcement run-in would not be our last hiccup.

We boarded our little missile-with-wings regional jet and sat growing more excited at being one step closer to the waterfowl holy land. At the scheduled departure time the captain announced that we would be pushing back shortly as soon as the ground grew finished loading the remaining bags. We peered out the window of the airplane to survey the scene just in time to see the two ground crew agents picking up and tossing, yes tossing, all of the gun cases (of which there were about 15 or so) into a neat little row onto the tarmac next to the plane. We bitched to each other about how disrespectful these ding-dongs were and wondered if they even had a clue that they were tossing cases containing $1500 dollar shotguns around like some old lady’s overnight bag. We concluded that these thugs weren’t paid enough to care. All I will say about the airline is that we were United in our contempt for these idiots.

To our shock, a mere minutes later the plane jolted backwards and we were being pushed back from the gate. Problem was that the gun cases were still sitting on the tarmac. This can’t be good.

We rolled our eyes and immediately started buzzing with the other hunters on the plane about what the Canadian customs and border agents were going to think about these camo-clad foreigners - who they were expecting to show up with registered firearms - instead showing up with papers and nothing else. Conversely, we wondered what the U.S. TSA would think about a bunch of Americans who had checked firearms on an international flight and were being sent along their merry way sans guns. What floored us most is the consideration that we couldn’t take a 3.5 ounce bottle of shaving gel through the security checkpoint, but the airline can separate 15 guys from their firearms on an international flight and leave those guns sitting on the tarmac of Denver International Airport. This was going to be interesting.

***

Sure enough, as we land in Saskatoon and filter our way down to customs and immigration, the first few guys relay our collective story to the Canadian border protection agents. The agents rolled their eyes in familiarity. Clearly this was not the first time they had encountered this problem.

Over to the airline counter for two rounds of ‘lost baggage’ forms (which I don’t understand, we knew exactly where our gun cases were – sitting on the tarmac at DIA!), and then over to pay for the Canadian firearms entry fee, for which we of course had no firearms to produce. Next to customs where another form is completed and gun serial numbers documented with instructions that the airline will deliver the guns to the hotel where we were staying as soon as they arrived on the next flight… if they arrive on the next flight.

WHAT! You mean there was no guarantee the guns would be here on the next (and last ) flight of the night? That’s right, no promises. I thought to myself, ‘Well even if they do show up what are the chances they will actually deliver them to the hotel. Not.’

Needless to say, we go to the hotel, eat dinner, have a cocktail then head back to the airport to survey the scene at the time the second flight is scheduled to arrive. Standing outside the baggage claim area, we wait and wait, peering our noses through the frosted glass doors to see if we can get one of the border agents to tell us what is happening. Twenty minutes later someone finally comes out, escorts us into the customs baggage claim area and tells us to go get our cases off the baggage carousel. Luckily, all our cases arrived and after another form and quick ID check, they let us leave with shotguns in hand.

Finally, everything was coming together.

***

Jim Bartrop and Kevin Wright, owners of Wild Goose Outfitters, are the kind of guys you just want to have a beer with the first time you meet them. They are completely focused on making sure you are comfortable, well fed, having a good time, and ultimately get you on the birds. The guide assigned to us, Dave, is the same one we’ve requested each year and is one of the best waterfowl hunters I know. He treats you more like a friend than a client while in the field.

I’ve been on some crappy guided hunts with local guys who treat you like an idiot and are clearly doing the minimum to get through your hunt. The fellas at Wild Goose Outfitters are just the opposite, they are never satisfied and work hard for you every day. We also enjoy the way they run their outfit, only inviting repeat groups that they know and trust aren’t going to bring drunken idiots into camp. They run a professional, low-key operation, just like we like it. (Disclaimer: I received nothing for this reference, Jim doesn’t even know I’m writing this yet).

We planned to hunt our standard three-day package targeting waterfowl exclusively. You can only hunt geese until noon in Saskatchewan this time of year, so the hunting setup entails geese at sunrise and ducks at sunset.

Arriving in camp, we found Jim to be anxious and aggravated. After a brief discussion we learned that he was concerned about the very warm weather they had been experiencing, which was keeping all the geese far north and no ducks to speak of yet. We assured Jim that we were going to have a great trip anyway, but it is his nature to be uptight – even with Mother Nature – to satisfy his guests.

Indeed the weather was in the upper 70’s when we arrived on Sunday, a good 15 degrees above normal for this time of year. Unfortunately, the forecast was not promising with a steady rise in temperature predicted during our hunting days of Monday-Wednesday. As it turns out, by mid-week the temperature would soar to 94 degrees, a record broken dating back to 1917.

Hunting in the hot weather definitely provided its challenges. Having watched the extended forecast, we were prepared for warm weather, but not 94 degrees so we were baking in our long sleeve T-shirts and waterfowl jackets! Without a frost, the mosquitoes, better known as giant pterodactyls, were thick and hungry warranting repeated bathing in DEET repellant.

Thanks to Jim and his relentless scouting to find the birds, we were put on successful land near water that held some local fowl. It was up to us to make the most of each flight that set its mark for the decoys knowing that we may not have many chances. The birds were skittish and didn’t work into the decoys as usual (probably because the sweat was in their eyes). But those flocks that did work felt the steel wrath from our six barrels pointed in their direction. We took our shooting task a bit more serious this year, which paid off with some great marksmanship. We had many doubles and triples to celebrate after each volley. Of course we had a few ‘how did I miss that one!’ moments as well, which were quickly and painfully recounted back at camp during dinner.

***

The bag of geese was predictably mixed, with lesser and greater Canadas, cackling, Aleutian, snows, ross, specks, and a few blue-phase snows thrown in for color. The ducks were exclusively mallard with only a dozen pintails to show for the entire trip. We were fortunate to have harvested a good number of drakes in the duck flocks, although it is impossible to target them this early in the season. Everything has a brown head, brown body and orange or grey feet. Once in a while you’ll see a little color but mostly it is picking the bird you can make a good, clean kill shot on and taking that shot. Unlike the US, the Canadian system does not restrict the take of hens or species except for pintail.

In the end we harvested 143 waterfowl over three days, which averages out to eight birds per person per day. That may sound like a pile of birds (which it is), but surprisingly it is below average for what we’ve experienced in Canada in previous years. Typically there are more birds than you can effectively focus on. The kind of swarms that allow guys to make the kinds of videos that Holly hates. But its not about the numbers, it was about a fun, relaxing, safe trip with family and friends. We are thankful for the bounty; had a heck-of-a-lot of fun doing it, and managed to bring back meat for our freezers. That is why we live to hunt!

The First of Many Hunts

The dawning of September 1^st is always an exciting time of year for hunters. It signals the changing of seasons – literally and figuratively – as we anxiously anticipate the first bird hunting opportunity of the year. Most states throughout the U.S. have a dove hunting season and those seasons traditionally begin on September 1^st. The Fish & Wildlife Service says that doves are most-harvested of all game animals in the U.S., a testament to the ceremonial beginning of the hunting season.

Dove hunting camps are legendary with stories of large groups of hunters gathering for early mornings filled with fast and furious wing shooting and afternoons full of food, family, and fun. Those tales are typically associated with large plantations in the south, but around here we have a similar annual tradition that has become quite special. I wrote about it here.

But this year was gearing up to be even more special because it would be The Boy’s opportunity to participate in his first real hunt. I’ve written previously about The Boy’s journey in obtaining his hunter safety certificate and all the practice time we have spent at the Sporting Clay course, but this would be the real deal – his first game hunt.

For a dad, this opportunity was equally special. In fact, I’m not sure who was more excited, me or The Boy, about the prospect of heading out for his first hunting weekend at the invitation of Dave, my good friend. Dave is a third-generation land owner of 450 acres of beautiful oak-studded foothills in northern California. He has created an amazing place where the guys retreat a few times of year for the opening of dove and quail season.

This year The Boy would carry his firearm, with starry eyes filled with the hope of harvesting his first game. Since September 1^st was in the middle of the week, we had the advantage of receiving early reports from others who were able to ditch work and head out for the opener. Unfortunately, the early reports were spotty, with some early-season cool weather likely pushing these migratory birds toward the heat of Las Vegas or Mexico.

Keeping the sultry 100 degree northern California heat is critical for good dove hunting, which isn’t normally a problem for us through mid-September. But it seems that every few years we get a freak cool spell around the end of August that sends a memo to the doves that its time to pack your bags and head for the desert.

Arriving in camp Friday evening confirmed the early reports we’d received. At 5:30pm it was only 85 degrees, which is a good 15 degrees below what we’d hoped for. Driving into the property didn’t reveal the usual groups of doves bouncing between the fields, just a couple of mockingbirds and a grey squirrel, an early indication of what was in store for us over the weekend.

After exchanging greetings, we headed out on the ATVs into the upper meadow where, if the doves were around, we were sure to find them. As The Boy and I set up our stools and loaded our guns, a gun reported from the opposite end of the meadow from one of our camp-mates. Good news!

As daylight began to fade into the last 30 minutes of shoot time, our hopes increased for a final flurry of grey ghosts to pile into the field for their supper. Unfortunately, the dinner bell never rang and there were just a couple of birds that skirted the end of the field, too far out of reach.

As we arrived back in camp, the evening began filling with stories, laughter and plenty of food and wine. The perfect end to our first day at dove camp.

We accidentally overslept by an hour the next morning (darn kids – we counted on them to wake us up!), which I believe has a direct correlation to the amount of wine consumed the night prior. After a quick guzzle of roughneck coffee, we were blazing down the dusty road back to the upper meadow where we knew any doves in the area would be using this corridor as their personal super highway between the roost and breakfast in the meadow. We set up and waited for the birds to arrive, but unfortunately, like the evening before, they were nowhere to be found. It was official, the birds had boogied south at some point in the previous weeks. The few local resident birds that flittered about were too wise to fall for our usual tricks and always kept a towering oak tree between us and them.

As you can imagine, with this being his first trip, The Boy was a classic example of the first phase of a new hunter – “I just want to shoot something!” Knowing he would be getting anxious, and that the action was not likely to turn to hot-barrel shooting this trip, I turned my attention to talking with him about all the other reasons we hunt. We talked about all the fun he had driving the ATV, hanging out with dad and the other fellas in camp, and the beautiful place that we were experiencing. He still begged the hunting Gods to send hoards of doves, but I was pretty impressed that he seemed to ‘get it’, that there were many other benefits to doing what we were doing other than pulling the trigger. I think The Boy put it best when I asked him if he was having fun. He said, “I am having a great time, I’m just disappointed there aren’t any birds.” For a nine-year-old on his first hunting trip, I think that is a pretty amazing perspective.

The rest of the weekend we spent time running the ATVs, inspecting Dave’s newly-built ponds, and helping do some repairs around camp. Oh, and also eating way too much. Unfortunately there weren’t any doves to be harvested, but we all had a wonderful, relaxing time in fellowship together. In the end I think this trip will serve as a great introduction for The Boy as the best lessons in why we live to hunt!