Well, I suppose the suspense of the wigeon hole has grown unbearable for the past 8 months. Sorry. I've been super busy, but as I plan to return to North Dakota in the next few weeks, reliving my notes from last year has me wanting to continue my work here.
So yes, as you last read, I crashed out in the cabin, sleeping easily from a day in the rain and the muck and the exhaustion. I woke up early enough to believe that it was too early, even for duck hunting. I left the heat on that night and sweltered in the covers. I awoke, brewed my coffee, and opened the cabin door to let in some frigid cold air. The wind whistled around the corners of the cabin - it was a full on gale...the kind that we love in North Carolina for shooting blackheads! I completed my morning routine and headed north from Grahams Island to the wigeon hole.
My drive once again consisted of the morning farm report. Corn was down, canola, whatever that is, was up. Either way, I also encountered two very large deer on the highway. They weren't the type that I expected to find in any patch of woods back east. Both were does, and both looked like they weighed 200 pounds. I eased off the gas and on to the brakes. Those fat ladies had the right-of-way. Still, I honked the horn to let them know I noticed them, and to speed them on their way.
I reached the PLOTS land that only the day before had me in the wigeons. I snuck in, certain I would be eaten by a cougar or something. If I have failed to mention it earlier, I hate walking alone in the dark. Either way, I snuggled into some cattails and listened to the wigeons whistle away the stars. I timed my decoy set-up for about 20 minutes til shooting time, because I knew I'd rattle the birds. And rattle them I did. I quickly threw out the dozen or so wigeon and teal decoys. The wind had little problem right-siding them for me. The whole ordeal took less than 30 seconds. Texas-rigging your fakes is the way to go.
Watching the pothole for returners and the sky for observers, I grew a little bored. All I could hear was the wind and all I could see were the waves on the water. It was especially black that morning. Still, shooting time arrived and there I sat at the corner of two large potholes, one brimming with birds, the other with alkali foam. A nearby hunting party, upwind of me I suppose, fired away at their pothole and the birds that were subsequently scattered found my decoy spread only a few minutes later. I quickly picked out two birds and returned them to the water. The brisk wind blew them out over the deeper water of the pothole. It's always a desperate feeling when that happens...but I knew that the opposite bank was only 100 yards away. I was certain they were both wigeons. They both turned out to be gadwalls in very early plumage. Late nesters?
I sat still for the next couple of minutes as birds passed over way too high to shoot at. I figured that in time, they'd all come back and settle in to the same section of water that they sat in yesterday. A bluewing was the only visitor over the next hour. Once I shot the teal, I gathered my decoys and gear, then embarked on the walk around the pothole to pick up the gadwalls. I was done for the day, and just too tired to care if I killed a limit, or not. I collected the birds, and everything else, and made the walk back to the vehicle. The wind and rain had become a little icy. I stopped by another pothole on the way back to the cabin, just to check to see if the big flock of blackheads I spotted earlier had been busted up. They were still content, only this time with another team of hunters watching the action. It's there that I learned to hunt the birds the next day - don't count on someone else not finding "your" birds. I continued to the cabin for a well-deserved nap and had lunch by noon. My neighbors in the adjoining cabin stopped by...they wanted help with a photograph, so I did the honor, and exchanged information. This was the first time I was made privy to information and since the group was headed out that night, they had no qualms about me sneaking in to the newest honeyhole that they had discovered.
I quickly suited up and followed their terrible directions. I was to drive straight across from the entrance to the park, and take the first left, then drive to a burned down barn and take a left there. From there, I could walk or drive the remaining half mile. I got the part where I was to drive "straight"...it was an underwater road. I had been warned about these and had dealt with one already. It was 1 in the afternoon, with 4 hours left of shooting light. I took a walk, instead of my chances, to check out the submerged road for deep holes. Nothing was found, so I trekked back and cruised across. The submerged road would be the easiest of my travels that afternoon. The hilltops were fairly dry, but the rain had made conditions sloppy, especially in the low spots. I swerved and slid the next few miles. I was absolutely thrilled to see the burned barn, but disappointed to hear the gunshots coming from the gigantic marsh that lay before me. A look at the remaining half mile of road suggested a walk would be best. I made the walk, with 2 decoys. If there were that many birds in there, then just a few decoys would be enough, right? Well, I made it into the marsh. I found a place where the 10 foot high cattails met the water's edge. I loaded the double barrel and in less than 15 seconds, I had two shovelers on the water. In one more minute, or less, I shot a drake redhead. I was done, but elected to unload the gun and watch the action. For the rest of the afternoon, I suppose I decoyed 300 birds, all in singles or pairs. It was the best kind of fun. I packed my stuff, walked out, then cleaned the birds. I made the drive back to the cabin and ate leftovers from the night before, which were leftovers from two nights prior to that night. I decided that I would take the next morning to go after the blackheads I found on the pothole - the one that was also spied by another party. After dinner and a thaw-out, I fell asleep, reading a Sporting Classics article about a wife who watched her husband be eaten by a tiger. Why do I do these things to myself?
Tuesday, October 8, 2013
Monday, February 4, 2013
Part 6, Hunt #2
I returned to the location near Pelican Lake that I mentioned earlier on Monday morning. I had about a 45 minute drive from my location at Grahams Island State Park, which by the way, is a pretty nice place to stay, despite the tiny cabins. It's 20 minutes from anywhere, but it's still a good, centrally located place. Anyway, I drove north, down the muddy county roads to the parking location. I was pretty certain I was going to be stuck in the mud when I returned because the mud out there is a little like snot. It's sticky and gross, and only a hot bath will get it out of your fingerprints. Anyway, I was fairly nervos about heading into the potholeI had discovered. I had 1/4 mile of shelterbelt to walk through on the dike. The rabbit I had seen earlier was certain to be back, and this time with his posse. And while mountain liions haven't been spotted in this area of North Dakota in a hundred years or more, I was certain that I would be the one to spot him. I get spooked easily, when I'm on foot.
Still, I got there 30 minutes early, so I sat in the confines of the Jeep, which by the way, did not have a working heater or air conditioner. I warmed myself with the coffee in my thermos, and when twenty minutes until legal light was to arrive, I departed. I took 5 mallard field shells, and 7 floating shoveler and pintail decoys, my gun, my coat, and my courage. Walking in and following my GPS coordinates, I stayed on the right path and turned up exactly where I had hoped. There was little cover to hide in and the mud leading to the waters edge was again, treacherous. I tossed out the decoys, and settled in with a few minutes to go. Birds were everywhere. And then the wind changed. A couple of hunting parties on the adjacent lake must have had their watches wound a little early. They shot early and often. Good for them. The wind actually turned to blow directly in my face. I shot at several ducks the first 5 minutes, but they couldn't and wouldn't decoy into the brisk wind. The first northern cold front of the year was coming through, and I got there just in time for the Grand Passage, only to have it blow into my face and not at my back.
Still, I collected my only teal, a bluewing, and my first ever. The thrill of shooting a bluewing teal swept over me enough for me to discard the disappointment I had held 5 minutes earlier. Still, I was observant enough to watch an nearby slough fill with ducks as Pelican Lake's nasty waves pushed them away. I figured I would try this jump shooting thing that I had heard was employed by locals to fill their limits. I had 5 birds to go, though. I collected my decoys and headed into the cattails. A cattail slough is an easy place to get lost forever. Ducks exploded from feet away. Some even terrified me when they flew at my face. I was covered in ducks, and was angry about it. Imagine that? Nevertheless, I located the opening, shot a hen shoveler as she flushed, collected her, and continued to wade about the maze of cattails and eventually found my way to Pelican Lake after a 1/4 mile of walking. I'll never forget that I saw that day on that gray, churlish lake. Where it wasn't gray, it was black with blackheads. I've seen the big rafts on the Albemarle and the Pamlico. But these blackheads were the ones that once they split up, make the big rafts elsewhere. I swear to God, if there was a blackhead anywhere else in the world, it was the one I shot the day prior. Andin true to form fashion, they were a full three iron away from shore. However, I noticed the puddle ducks entering the cattails along the shoreline at a regular pace. I had a good vantage point and could see the area that I had just walked through. I backtracked and shot 3 gadwalls as I marched through that maze of cattails. When I made it back to the clearing where I had taken the hen shoveler, I posted up and waited. In short order, a hen wigeon dropped in and I dropped her. I was done and in about 2 hours.
See, I thought my hunts would be simple and easy and lightning fast. I was to employ all of my skills and to reap the rewards of hours and hours of research, hunting trials and errors, and prayer. But it didn't work out that way on that cold and gusty morning. I had to persevere a little bit and I had to try new things. To grow as people, we do those things in our everyday life. As a duck hunter, one must also try new things and not be afraid to fail. After hauling out my take and decoys, I iced the birds, then scouted some WPA's north of the location I hunted. Scouting is an arduous ordeal. I used my PLOTS guide to meander about the country side, but the only motherlodes I found were on POSTED property. That's my luck though. Still, seeing a two acre pound, filled with canvasbacks and mallards exclusively, was worth the trip alone. The weather had seemed to remove stale birds for southern waters and bring in the larger flocks. I changed my tactics and began looking for larger potholes that would require a decent walk - hopefully they had not been hunted because of the effort that would have been required. Soon enough, I found a motherlode. Apparently some of the blackheads I saw tha morning had relocated. However, a Minnesota party had beat me to the punch. They didn't seem interested, but I think they had been having a tough go at it and were gonna give it a go. Heading north more, north of Cando, North Dakota, I found my heaven on earth. Tucked away from the road, behind a scope of woods that stretched a mile square, was the faint glow of an emerald pothole. I took out the binoculars and put on my hippers and headed towards the pothole. Sure enough, when I arrived, it was marked as Public Access. As I topped the knoll, I gave away my presence to the one thousand - no more, no less - wigeons that sat contented on the pond. I backed away into the woods only to see them return, all at once, within 15 minutes. Other ducks, too, joined the party. Lots of bluewing teal and ringnecks accepted the invitations of whistles and began feedin on the grasses in the pothole. I had found my next hunting location - 90 minutes from my cabin. That's a long way, it seems, but I was here, and I had struck gold. I ran, sprinted even, back to the car in hopes that the other traveling duck hunters would not see my location. I rode into the town of Devils Lake and ate an exceptional steak - not the sagey-grassy tasting stuff, but fatty. I enjoyed myself and made a few phone calls to express my successes and returned to the cabin. I cleaned my ducks in the dark that night. My fingers froze, and the foxes watched, but I finished. I hadn't bathed in two days. I found my sleeping bag in the cabin and buried myself there. I clawed at the cell phone and set the alarm clock for way too early. I fell asleep with the lights on that night...
Still, I got there 30 minutes early, so I sat in the confines of the Jeep, which by the way, did not have a working heater or air conditioner. I warmed myself with the coffee in my thermos, and when twenty minutes until legal light was to arrive, I departed. I took 5 mallard field shells, and 7 floating shoveler and pintail decoys, my gun, my coat, and my courage. Walking in and following my GPS coordinates, I stayed on the right path and turned up exactly where I had hoped. There was little cover to hide in and the mud leading to the waters edge was again, treacherous. I tossed out the decoys, and settled in with a few minutes to go. Birds were everywhere. And then the wind changed. A couple of hunting parties on the adjacent lake must have had their watches wound a little early. They shot early and often. Good for them. The wind actually turned to blow directly in my face. I shot at several ducks the first 5 minutes, but they couldn't and wouldn't decoy into the brisk wind. The first northern cold front of the year was coming through, and I got there just in time for the Grand Passage, only to have it blow into my face and not at my back.
Still, I collected my only teal, a bluewing, and my first ever. The thrill of shooting a bluewing teal swept over me enough for me to discard the disappointment I had held 5 minutes earlier. Still, I was observant enough to watch an nearby slough fill with ducks as Pelican Lake's nasty waves pushed them away. I figured I would try this jump shooting thing that I had heard was employed by locals to fill their limits. I had 5 birds to go, though. I collected my decoys and headed into the cattails. A cattail slough is an easy place to get lost forever. Ducks exploded from feet away. Some even terrified me when they flew at my face. I was covered in ducks, and was angry about it. Imagine that? Nevertheless, I located the opening, shot a hen shoveler as she flushed, collected her, and continued to wade about the maze of cattails and eventually found my way to Pelican Lake after a 1/4 mile of walking. I'll never forget that I saw that day on that gray, churlish lake. Where it wasn't gray, it was black with blackheads. I've seen the big rafts on the Albemarle and the Pamlico. But these blackheads were the ones that once they split up, make the big rafts elsewhere. I swear to God, if there was a blackhead anywhere else in the world, it was the one I shot the day prior. Andin true to form fashion, they were a full three iron away from shore. However, I noticed the puddle ducks entering the cattails along the shoreline at a regular pace. I had a good vantage point and could see the area that I had just walked through. I backtracked and shot 3 gadwalls as I marched through that maze of cattails. When I made it back to the clearing where I had taken the hen shoveler, I posted up and waited. In short order, a hen wigeon dropped in and I dropped her. I was done and in about 2 hours.
See, I thought my hunts would be simple and easy and lightning fast. I was to employ all of my skills and to reap the rewards of hours and hours of research, hunting trials and errors, and prayer. But it didn't work out that way on that cold and gusty morning. I had to persevere a little bit and I had to try new things. To grow as people, we do those things in our everyday life. As a duck hunter, one must also try new things and not be afraid to fail. After hauling out my take and decoys, I iced the birds, then scouted some WPA's north of the location I hunted. Scouting is an arduous ordeal. I used my PLOTS guide to meander about the country side, but the only motherlodes I found were on POSTED property. That's my luck though. Still, seeing a two acre pound, filled with canvasbacks and mallards exclusively, was worth the trip alone. The weather had seemed to remove stale birds for southern waters and bring in the larger flocks. I changed my tactics and began looking for larger potholes that would require a decent walk - hopefully they had not been hunted because of the effort that would have been required. Soon enough, I found a motherlode. Apparently some of the blackheads I saw tha morning had relocated. However, a Minnesota party had beat me to the punch. They didn't seem interested, but I think they had been having a tough go at it and were gonna give it a go. Heading north more, north of Cando, North Dakota, I found my heaven on earth. Tucked away from the road, behind a scope of woods that stretched a mile square, was the faint glow of an emerald pothole. I took out the binoculars and put on my hippers and headed towards the pothole. Sure enough, when I arrived, it was marked as Public Access. As I topped the knoll, I gave away my presence to the one thousand - no more, no less - wigeons that sat contented on the pond. I backed away into the woods only to see them return, all at once, within 15 minutes. Other ducks, too, joined the party. Lots of bluewing teal and ringnecks accepted the invitations of whistles and began feedin on the grasses in the pothole. I had found my next hunting location - 90 minutes from my cabin. That's a long way, it seems, but I was here, and I had struck gold. I ran, sprinted even, back to the car in hopes that the other traveling duck hunters would not see my location. I rode into the town of Devils Lake and ate an exceptional steak - not the sagey-grassy tasting stuff, but fatty. I enjoyed myself and made a few phone calls to express my successes and returned to the cabin. I cleaned my ducks in the dark that night. My fingers froze, and the foxes watched, but I finished. I hadn't bathed in two days. I found my sleeping bag in the cabin and buried myself there. I clawed at the cell phone and set the alarm clock for way too early. I fell asleep with the lights on that night...
Friday, February 1, 2013
Part 5, North Dakota, First Hunt
I guess this is where it gets good for those readers who enjoy some duck killing. The day is Sunday, October 21, 2012. The day prior was my first full day in North Dakota. I spent it scouting for ducks, which didn't take long to do. My plans after my Sunday morning hut was to travel north and west in the hill country of North Dakota to look for ducks and water. Afterwards, I was to drive north and east, to the Devils Lake area to my cabin rental that I would now share with only myself. The plan involved a least 6 hours of driving on Sunday afternoon, with little time to look for ducks. But first, I had the matter of interrpting the motherlode as it came to feed on the 10 acre pothole I had discovered no les than three miles from any evidence of modern civilization. North Dakota freelancing is truly a wilderness experience and doing it alone is for the strong of mind and not the weak of heart.
The Saturday night before, I busied myself for a second night at the Jamestown Inn. I ate supper at McDonalds, which in itself is a rare-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I toko advantage of the free wi-fi to do a last minute check of the weather and to put my newly recorded GPS units on my Google Earth and GPS programs. I also wanted to see an aerial view of the pothole. When scouting ducks, it's best not to get to close when you find a wad of them. Earlier on that Saturday, the motherlode I discovered was primarily teal and blackheads, but there was the scant mallard, wigeon, gadwall, and ringneck spotting. The pond was privately owned, but not posted, and was surrounded by federally owned and legal-to-hunt Waterfowl Production Areas. Scaring these birds away would give them plenty of options. And the earlier potholes I had glassed, sent ducks scattering. I suppose they had been jumpshot a lot the prior week, even though the prior week was the state pheasant opener - a state holiday, it seems. Nevertheless, after locating the motherlode, I went to a local greasy spoon restaurant, at a hamburger steak in honor of my father, and then hit the road back to the Jamestown Inn. A nap, McDonald's, and a fuel fill-up left me with a strong headache and nothing to do other than to watch the Alabama-Tennessee game on television. I set my alarm for 5 am and drowsed off. On no less than three occassions, I woke up in the night because of my headache. I finally got out of bed, did my obligatory push-ups, swallowed coffee, and took a hot shower. I guess that's what produced the vomiting that ensued. At roughly 5:45, 2 hours before legal shooting light, I wondered if the motherlode was meant to be. I took a 30 minute nap and woke up as if nothing had ever been the matter. God works things out if you trust more and try less, I guess.
I swiftly loaded my car, checked out of the hotel, stopped for a donut and drove the hour I needed to arrive at my motherlode. The morning sky was beginning to blister in the east, but the buzz of waterfowl wings was the most noteworthy of the entire ocassion. I parked my Jeep, crested the hill, and spied the pothole. Even in the twilight, the pond was clearly alive, as was the sky. I'll never forget the walk up that hill. It was a corn field two weeks prior. Two eons prior, it was covered in a glacier, because the dirt was littered with 200 pound boulders, just like my driveway is littered with chert gravel. Upon cresting the hill, I began the slow descent to the area I had elected to hunt. I soon found out what a badger hole was, as I fell into it, banged my 2 dozen decoys to the ground, and muddied my gun. Slightly confused and highly agitated I put myself upright, and walked much more cautiously. The 1/4 mile walk to the pothole left me slightly sweaty, but the frosty air moderated me. As I reached the pothole, I began looking for a place to hide in the cattails. The drought had left a 20 foot moat of marsh mud between open water and cattails. This presented an interesting conundrum, as I had immediately added a great level of difficulty to both walking to set out decoys and shooting. And I still had no idea how deep these potholes were. The marsh mud crossing was an arduous ordeal, but the mud succumbed before I did. Light slowly crept towards the eastern hilltop, and I was in a hurry. I cast my decoys out in the best pattern I could before scrambling mack to the cattails. I had set up my decoys with 30 seconds prior to shooting light. And since none of the decoys floated away in the deliberate breeze, I assumed the water was less than three feet deep. Retrieving the ducks I was about to shoot would be a cinch, even if the wind was at my back.
As the legal shooting time threshold crossed, two teal joined my spread. I elected to let them swim, because I wanted to shoot the big ducks I had seen in the magazines. That's when a ringneck crossed my line of sight. I don't know about you, but a ringneck seems to me that when he swoops over your rig, he's daring you and your skill to take him down. Big ducks be damned, I shot him. The right barrel of my side by side put him on the water and the left barrel ended his thrashing. The teal, unphased, remained. Doing Darwinism a favor, I flushed them both, and ended them both. In 15 seconds, I was halfway to my limit, and then I realized I had zero "trophy" ducks to call my own.
For the next 5 to 6 minutes, I passed on the ringnecks and teal. A blackhead decoyed, and I shot him. I love blackheads. They aren't intimidated by hunters or guns. They carry the mail when they fly, and in a hurry. I had two ducks to go, and I wanted, I mean WANTED, one of the pintails that had chirped all morning over head. Thinking of the pintails, I just-beyond-eclipse greenheaded mallarded dropped from the 10th story and into my decoys. Postcard perfect, I promise. I sent him up with a couple of four letter words about his lineage, and then returned him to the water with the left barrel after the right barrel failed to apparently cut a feather. I had 5 ducks on the water, one a big North Dakota mallard, and the rest were birds that I commonly shot in North Carolina. I shot very little, but when I did, it scared birds. They would always return but became much warier with each shot. And finally, it happened.
I had chirped way on my Allen Bliven Calls whistle all morning, pleading to the pintails. They were hesitant to commit, but the quiet lull between the last shot and official sunrise was enough to secure the setting for them. Four drakes dropped in. Backlit by the sun, I was easy to pick out the boy in the group with the longest sprig. Two shots later he was mine, and I was done. Six ducks on the water, that I picked and chose from were dead without spending 10 shells.
For a little bit, I just sat there and reflected on the accomplishment. I had come to North Dakota, all alone other than supplies, prayer, and a dream, and did it. I found my own ducks to shoot, way off in God's country. I shot them and killed them and now they were mine. The mystery of migration swept over me and I tried to imagine were these ducks on their way somewhere, or were they gifts from above, solely intended for me. Then the geese started honking.
What was sublime turned to silly as I shot at specklebellies, snows, and Canadas, but it was all for naught. They were close, but fast. I stopped after 10 rounds. I didn't come here to shoot geese. I wanted to be a part of my surroundings, not an intruder in it. The erratic shooting cleared those potholes and the ducks that left them went to no-telling where. Some left in such a hurry, I can only assume Mexico would be their next stop.
I waded out to pick up my birds. Several had drifted out a great distance. Water lapped at the top of my waders, and some water entered. All retrieves were easy, save for the big pintail drake. I pulled out my decoy retrieving device, which is merely a lead ball with 200 feet of string on it and cast it over his back. After several attempts, I was able to drag him to hand. He was the most beautiful of all. I put them on a leather gamestrap I made the month prior. I loaded the ducks, the decoys, and gun on my shoulders. It was the happiest heavy I had ever felt. And it was barely sun-up. The heft of the ducks actually caused one of the wet leather straps to break. Undeterred, I put the duck in my mouth and traveled on. It was my day.
Afte the hunt I loaded up and left town. I headed west into what was a constant bombardment for the waterfowler's senses. Geese, ducks, swans, and cranes were everywhere along the interestate. I found my next exit and headed north towards White Horse Lake. I drove 30 miles of wide open dirt roads and saw beautiful lands, beautiful potholes, but nary a duck. The geese, though, were crowding the fields by thousands. Only the "Posted" signs seemed more numerous.
According to my highway map, the bridge over White Horse Lake would lead me into the Couteau area, and from there only about 100 miles until Devils Lake. Unfortunately, the map was wrong and the bridge was underwater. The "Road Closed" sign even looked like it had been flooded on several occasssions. Long story short, I backtracked for two hours before getting on the right path to Devils Lake. Once I got withing 50 miles of Devils Lake, ducks started appearing with regularity. I walked into 3 different Waterfowl Production areas, a grand total of 15 miles walk/jogged, to find them empty, though. Daylight was fading, but my cabin was reportedly unlocked and ready - so I could scout until dark. I went through Minnewauken and scouted the fields north of Devils Lake. I scouted the ponds. No Motherlode. Despair had become my traveling partner. I finally walked 2 miles into what is called Pelican Lake, or something right next to it. After surviving the jack rabbit attack, I fond a hidden pocket that held shovelers and pintails. I love shovelers. I elected to return here in the morning, and did very little other scouting of the area. I just new that there were few areas to hide, but shooting quick and early would be no trouble and being perfectly hidden wasn't necessary. I finally made it to my cabin, and after introductions, I immediately knew that I wouldn't like my cabin so much. It was much tinier than advertised. Even the door was small. Nevertheless, I filled the cabin with supplies, went to clean my ducks, and ate 6 donuts for supper. I set my alarm, read several pages of an Albert Hochbaum book, and fell asleep.
The Saturday night before, I busied myself for a second night at the Jamestown Inn. I ate supper at McDonalds, which in itself is a rare-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me. I toko advantage of the free wi-fi to do a last minute check of the weather and to put my newly recorded GPS units on my Google Earth and GPS programs. I also wanted to see an aerial view of the pothole. When scouting ducks, it's best not to get to close when you find a wad of them. Earlier on that Saturday, the motherlode I discovered was primarily teal and blackheads, but there was the scant mallard, wigeon, gadwall, and ringneck spotting. The pond was privately owned, but not posted, and was surrounded by federally owned and legal-to-hunt Waterfowl Production Areas. Scaring these birds away would give them plenty of options. And the earlier potholes I had glassed, sent ducks scattering. I suppose they had been jumpshot a lot the prior week, even though the prior week was the state pheasant opener - a state holiday, it seems. Nevertheless, after locating the motherlode, I went to a local greasy spoon restaurant, at a hamburger steak in honor of my father, and then hit the road back to the Jamestown Inn. A nap, McDonald's, and a fuel fill-up left me with a strong headache and nothing to do other than to watch the Alabama-Tennessee game on television. I set my alarm for 5 am and drowsed off. On no less than three occassions, I woke up in the night because of my headache. I finally got out of bed, did my obligatory push-ups, swallowed coffee, and took a hot shower. I guess that's what produced the vomiting that ensued. At roughly 5:45, 2 hours before legal shooting light, I wondered if the motherlode was meant to be. I took a 30 minute nap and woke up as if nothing had ever been the matter. God works things out if you trust more and try less, I guess.
I swiftly loaded my car, checked out of the hotel, stopped for a donut and drove the hour I needed to arrive at my motherlode. The morning sky was beginning to blister in the east, but the buzz of waterfowl wings was the most noteworthy of the entire ocassion. I parked my Jeep, crested the hill, and spied the pothole. Even in the twilight, the pond was clearly alive, as was the sky. I'll never forget the walk up that hill. It was a corn field two weeks prior. Two eons prior, it was covered in a glacier, because the dirt was littered with 200 pound boulders, just like my driveway is littered with chert gravel. Upon cresting the hill, I began the slow descent to the area I had elected to hunt. I soon found out what a badger hole was, as I fell into it, banged my 2 dozen decoys to the ground, and muddied my gun. Slightly confused and highly agitated I put myself upright, and walked much more cautiously. The 1/4 mile walk to the pothole left me slightly sweaty, but the frosty air moderated me. As I reached the pothole, I began looking for a place to hide in the cattails. The drought had left a 20 foot moat of marsh mud between open water and cattails. This presented an interesting conundrum, as I had immediately added a great level of difficulty to both walking to set out decoys and shooting. And I still had no idea how deep these potholes were. The marsh mud crossing was an arduous ordeal, but the mud succumbed before I did. Light slowly crept towards the eastern hilltop, and I was in a hurry. I cast my decoys out in the best pattern I could before scrambling mack to the cattails. I had set up my decoys with 30 seconds prior to shooting light. And since none of the decoys floated away in the deliberate breeze, I assumed the water was less than three feet deep. Retrieving the ducks I was about to shoot would be a cinch, even if the wind was at my back.
As the legal shooting time threshold crossed, two teal joined my spread. I elected to let them swim, because I wanted to shoot the big ducks I had seen in the magazines. That's when a ringneck crossed my line of sight. I don't know about you, but a ringneck seems to me that when he swoops over your rig, he's daring you and your skill to take him down. Big ducks be damned, I shot him. The right barrel of my side by side put him on the water and the left barrel ended his thrashing. The teal, unphased, remained. Doing Darwinism a favor, I flushed them both, and ended them both. In 15 seconds, I was halfway to my limit, and then I realized I had zero "trophy" ducks to call my own.
For the next 5 to 6 minutes, I passed on the ringnecks and teal. A blackhead decoyed, and I shot him. I love blackheads. They aren't intimidated by hunters or guns. They carry the mail when they fly, and in a hurry. I had two ducks to go, and I wanted, I mean WANTED, one of the pintails that had chirped all morning over head. Thinking of the pintails, I just-beyond-eclipse greenheaded mallarded dropped from the 10th story and into my decoys. Postcard perfect, I promise. I sent him up with a couple of four letter words about his lineage, and then returned him to the water with the left barrel after the right barrel failed to apparently cut a feather. I had 5 ducks on the water, one a big North Dakota mallard, and the rest were birds that I commonly shot in North Carolina. I shot very little, but when I did, it scared birds. They would always return but became much warier with each shot. And finally, it happened.
I had chirped way on my Allen Bliven Calls whistle all morning, pleading to the pintails. They were hesitant to commit, but the quiet lull between the last shot and official sunrise was enough to secure the setting for them. Four drakes dropped in. Backlit by the sun, I was easy to pick out the boy in the group with the longest sprig. Two shots later he was mine, and I was done. Six ducks on the water, that I picked and chose from were dead without spending 10 shells.
For a little bit, I just sat there and reflected on the accomplishment. I had come to North Dakota, all alone other than supplies, prayer, and a dream, and did it. I found my own ducks to shoot, way off in God's country. I shot them and killed them and now they were mine. The mystery of migration swept over me and I tried to imagine were these ducks on their way somewhere, or were they gifts from above, solely intended for me. Then the geese started honking.
What was sublime turned to silly as I shot at specklebellies, snows, and Canadas, but it was all for naught. They were close, but fast. I stopped after 10 rounds. I didn't come here to shoot geese. I wanted to be a part of my surroundings, not an intruder in it. The erratic shooting cleared those potholes and the ducks that left them went to no-telling where. Some left in such a hurry, I can only assume Mexico would be their next stop.
I waded out to pick up my birds. Several had drifted out a great distance. Water lapped at the top of my waders, and some water entered. All retrieves were easy, save for the big pintail drake. I pulled out my decoy retrieving device, which is merely a lead ball with 200 feet of string on it and cast it over his back. After several attempts, I was able to drag him to hand. He was the most beautiful of all. I put them on a leather gamestrap I made the month prior. I loaded the ducks, the decoys, and gun on my shoulders. It was the happiest heavy I had ever felt. And it was barely sun-up. The heft of the ducks actually caused one of the wet leather straps to break. Undeterred, I put the duck in my mouth and traveled on. It was my day.
Afte the hunt I loaded up and left town. I headed west into what was a constant bombardment for the waterfowler's senses. Geese, ducks, swans, and cranes were everywhere along the interestate. I found my next exit and headed north towards White Horse Lake. I drove 30 miles of wide open dirt roads and saw beautiful lands, beautiful potholes, but nary a duck. The geese, though, were crowding the fields by thousands. Only the "Posted" signs seemed more numerous.
According to my highway map, the bridge over White Horse Lake would lead me into the Couteau area, and from there only about 100 miles until Devils Lake. Unfortunately, the map was wrong and the bridge was underwater. The "Road Closed" sign even looked like it had been flooded on several occasssions. Long story short, I backtracked for two hours before getting on the right path to Devils Lake. Once I got withing 50 miles of Devils Lake, ducks started appearing with regularity. I walked into 3 different Waterfowl Production areas, a grand total of 15 miles walk/jogged, to find them empty, though. Daylight was fading, but my cabin was reportedly unlocked and ready - so I could scout until dark. I went through Minnewauken and scouted the fields north of Devils Lake. I scouted the ponds. No Motherlode. Despair had become my traveling partner. I finally walked 2 miles into what is called Pelican Lake, or something right next to it. After surviving the jack rabbit attack, I fond a hidden pocket that held shovelers and pintails. I love shovelers. I elected to return here in the morning, and did very little other scouting of the area. I just new that there were few areas to hide, but shooting quick and early would be no trouble and being perfectly hidden wasn't necessary. I finally made it to my cabin, and after introductions, I immediately knew that I wouldn't like my cabin so much. It was much tinier than advertised. Even the door was small. Nevertheless, I filled the cabin with supplies, went to clean my ducks, and ate 6 donuts for supper. I set my alarm, read several pages of an Albert Hochbaum book, and fell asleep.
Thursday, January 31, 2013
Part 4, North Dakota, Traveling
After a 3 month hiatus, I'm back by semi-popular demand. But during my off-time away from this blog, I passed the time dealing a few decoys, making a few decoys, enjoying the trip of a lifetime to New Jersey (which turned into more than a hunting trip), and shooting an awful lot of ducks in North Carolina. Those of you who know me well, know where my "spot" is. After 5 years of hunting this location, among others, it turned out to be the most productive, by far. I elected to hunt only this blind for the entire season, and to sample it on days that I thought might be good, bad, crowded, and boring. From this location, and on 21 hunting trips to the location, 219 birds were harvested from this location. Of course, it wasn't only me. And I was finally checked by a federal game warden, who by the way, is obviously in need of some type of affection from a woman. Anyway, we'll discuss patterning ducks AND hunters later on in the month.
Part 4 of my North Dakota essay will delve in to the day-to-day grind of making the trip up there. I think I tried to soon to write about this experience. Now that it has soaked in, I realize that North Dakota is an easy trip to make, and from now on, I'll never do like I did the first time. With that said, and through a lot of reflection, my first experience was one that I'll retain for eternity. Certainly, it was about killing ducks, but it became a trip about being a little resilient, lonesome, bored, slightly spiritual, and certainly accomplishment. I did it alone. Sight unseen. And I loved it and still love it. I'll attempt to write it just as I remember, so it won't be orderly or neat. It's was one experience at a time.
I drove non-stop to North Dakota from Columbia, North Carolina. It took about 27 hours, and I tried to sleep along the interstates in Ohio. It didn't work. I was a little frightened, and I tried to do this at dawn. Well, Ohio is known for big deer, and since it was dawn, I could only think about maybe seeing the buck of a lifetime. I saw several that would have totaled my car and face, should both of us decided to cross the white line simultaneously. And sure, I was a little bit worried about getting robbed and raped at a rest stop, but I igured that if I stopped in the rain, then my chances of sleeping without interruption were higher. No one ever knocked on my car for the 15 minutes I closed my eyes. Someone may have stared in, but my trusty side-by-side lay open, with two high brass 12 gauge shells, lying next to it. Smart plan? Doubt it.
Anyway, the drive. I faintly remember Indiana, as I drove through it for only about 200 miles or so. There was corn, white trash, and geese. Geese everywhere, I tell ya'. Since Indiana was the first place I had seen in daylight (and I had driven for 12 hours previously, all in the dark), the geese were a pleasant surprise. In fact, it was the first time in the first 12 hours I had actually thought that driving solo to North Dakota in a high mileage vehicle packed to the gills was a favorable idea. Nevertheless, Indiana passed through my rearview mirror, then Illinois. I hated Illinois. First off, Chicago was a horror. It took two hours in traffic packed tighter than intestines to travel two miles. And of course, I had to get to the far lane on three occassions. The tolls to pass through this place exceeded $40 and I found that to not be an excellent bargain. I would have paid triple to avoid the traffic, and felt as if I should have paid none to endure it. Either way, clearing Chicago offered no reprieve, as the interstate leading into Wisconsin was under construction. I traveled 200 miles at 45 miles per hour. It was awful and bumper to bumper. Nevertheless, I cleared Wisconsin and evteredMinnesota, which is actually the gateway to the famd Prairie Pothole Region. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in Minnesota. The air was clear, the roads were clean, the homes were tidy and conservative. The only eyesore were the rusty fenderwells on virtually all vehicles from the prodigious salting of the roads, which apparently occurs everyday from September 1 to July 1 the following year. By the time I crossed through Minnesota, I had driven 25 hours - one full revelation of the planet Earth, and had done so with 11 urination breaks, 3 meals, and one solitary bout of road rage.
To stay awake throughout this trip, I called my girlfriend, every hour, on the hour. We'd talk 5 minutes, and it was precious to hear her. I had never missed her in 7 years of dating until the 5th hour of this trip. She answered the phone at 3am while sleeping and noon while she was teaching. I talked to my friend Jerry on three different occassions. Jerry and I can talk about old decoys for hours or years. I was on a trip that everyone thought I was crazy for doing alone...I think Jerry admired me a little bit, but Jerry is also the kind of gentleman who can enjoy the company of no one, just as I am. Anyway, we discussed the old Maryland decoys, Portsmouth Island decoys, and the next old shorebird decoy he had his eye on. I also talked to my friend Tyler, who had abandoned me on this trip just shortly before it became a solo endeavor. There's no hard feelings, and he had the opportunity of his lifetime, just as I did - they just weren't the same thing, but they were at the same time.
At the 25th hour, approximately 10pm Eastern, I crossed the border in to North Dakota. Fargo was the gateway town. The only sign better than the "Welcome to North Dakota" sign, was the posted speed limit sign of 75 miles per hour. I had 100 miles or so before I got to Jamestown, the headquarters for my first two days of the trip. Day 1 was set for scouting, while Day 2 was hunting, I hoped. North Dakota is sparsely populated. There are Native Americans, and whites, that's it. And they're both pretty boring along the interstate. I ate 2, TWO, footlong subs from a Subway which I believed to be the only one in the state about halfway to Jamestown. The college kids inside were dressed unlike me. I was in my bespoke, gentleman's hunting woolens and tweeds. They had elected to see me for the first time in NDSU collegeiate apparel. The girls they were with were barely a 5, but were treated as if they were a 10 by North Dakota standards. They wore hiking boots with their dresses. Their car was muddy, too. Mine would follow suit, and on the very next day.
I finally arrived at the hotel in Jamestown. It was an Indian Casino. It was awful to find it. Jamestown is home to the White Buffalo - I never saw it, but it could have been hidden just like my hotel was. I did see an honest-to-goodness Wells Fargo bank, though. There were drunks parading through the street, too, as the casino was also playing host to a wedding reception. There were as many out of state vehicle tags as there were North Dakota tags, and my worries and suspicions grew. However, this was the only hotel for miles, and there are an awful lot of open miles for duck hunting. This worry was put to bed the next day. Anyway, I checked into my hotel room around midnight, Eastern time. I could barely sleep. My legs were happy to be stretched. I washed myself in the shower for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I fell asleep, only to wake up 6 hours later, at 7am Central time, to begin my scouting. I woke up the next morning to 25 degree temperatures. I drank weak coffee, took a jog, and did my daily routine of pushups and situps. I was ready to scout - this would be the first time I would truly glass for ducks. Icovered 200 miles that first day. I couldn't hunt, as my license wouldn't begin until the next day. Scouting there isn't like scouting here. There, it's muddy roads, millions of ponds, billions of hidden ponds, and skunks. There as many skunks as ponds, it seemed. Do yourself a favor and don't hit them with your car. the Jamestown area was a great place to being my hunting. It's really the first true outpost into the pothole region. One hundred miles in any direction, one can find lots of ducks. It took me two minutes to see ducks when I left town. They flew like bees in the sky. Geese were everywhere. Posted signs were, too. I was immediately let down, but I learned a lot about what's posted and where. The roadsides are posted. The stuff well down the secondary dirt road - it ain't. and that's where I found the first of my "motherlodes" in in only two hours of scouting. I will absolutely not disclose the nearest town, but the woman who lived in the house was named Candy. Good luck finding her. After finding the motherlode, I looked for more motherlodes. I couldn't find many more. If you the reader ever meet me in person, ask me about the underwater bridge I almost didnt come out of. North Dakota is a beautiful place, but it is deslosolate. The only people that live there are those who can occupy themselves with their imagination or a tractor. Remote places have their dangers. And getting trapped, lost, or stuck out there, especially right before winter, could have you missing until the spring thaw.
Alright, that sums up the drive and initial scout. The actual hunting will come in the next entry...
Part 4 of my North Dakota essay will delve in to the day-to-day grind of making the trip up there. I think I tried to soon to write about this experience. Now that it has soaked in, I realize that North Dakota is an easy trip to make, and from now on, I'll never do like I did the first time. With that said, and through a lot of reflection, my first experience was one that I'll retain for eternity. Certainly, it was about killing ducks, but it became a trip about being a little resilient, lonesome, bored, slightly spiritual, and certainly accomplishment. I did it alone. Sight unseen. And I loved it and still love it. I'll attempt to write it just as I remember, so it won't be orderly or neat. It's was one experience at a time.
I drove non-stop to North Dakota from Columbia, North Carolina. It took about 27 hours, and I tried to sleep along the interstates in Ohio. It didn't work. I was a little frightened, and I tried to do this at dawn. Well, Ohio is known for big deer, and since it was dawn, I could only think about maybe seeing the buck of a lifetime. I saw several that would have totaled my car and face, should both of us decided to cross the white line simultaneously. And sure, I was a little bit worried about getting robbed and raped at a rest stop, but I igured that if I stopped in the rain, then my chances of sleeping without interruption were higher. No one ever knocked on my car for the 15 minutes I closed my eyes. Someone may have stared in, but my trusty side-by-side lay open, with two high brass 12 gauge shells, lying next to it. Smart plan? Doubt it.
Anyway, the drive. I faintly remember Indiana, as I drove through it for only about 200 miles or so. There was corn, white trash, and geese. Geese everywhere, I tell ya'. Since Indiana was the first place I had seen in daylight (and I had driven for 12 hours previously, all in the dark), the geese were a pleasant surprise. In fact, it was the first time in the first 12 hours I had actually thought that driving solo to North Dakota in a high mileage vehicle packed to the gills was a favorable idea. Nevertheless, Indiana passed through my rearview mirror, then Illinois. I hated Illinois. First off, Chicago was a horror. It took two hours in traffic packed tighter than intestines to travel two miles. And of course, I had to get to the far lane on three occassions. The tolls to pass through this place exceeded $40 and I found that to not be an excellent bargain. I would have paid triple to avoid the traffic, and felt as if I should have paid none to endure it. Either way, clearing Chicago offered no reprieve, as the interstate leading into Wisconsin was under construction. I traveled 200 miles at 45 miles per hour. It was awful and bumper to bumper. Nevertheless, I cleared Wisconsin and evteredMinnesota, which is actually the gateway to the famd Prairie Pothole Region. I thoroughly enjoyed my time in Minnesota. The air was clear, the roads were clean, the homes were tidy and conservative. The only eyesore were the rusty fenderwells on virtually all vehicles from the prodigious salting of the roads, which apparently occurs everyday from September 1 to July 1 the following year. By the time I crossed through Minnesota, I had driven 25 hours - one full revelation of the planet Earth, and had done so with 11 urination breaks, 3 meals, and one solitary bout of road rage.
To stay awake throughout this trip, I called my girlfriend, every hour, on the hour. We'd talk 5 minutes, and it was precious to hear her. I had never missed her in 7 years of dating until the 5th hour of this trip. She answered the phone at 3am while sleeping and noon while she was teaching. I talked to my friend Jerry on three different occassions. Jerry and I can talk about old decoys for hours or years. I was on a trip that everyone thought I was crazy for doing alone...I think Jerry admired me a little bit, but Jerry is also the kind of gentleman who can enjoy the company of no one, just as I am. Anyway, we discussed the old Maryland decoys, Portsmouth Island decoys, and the next old shorebird decoy he had his eye on. I also talked to my friend Tyler, who had abandoned me on this trip just shortly before it became a solo endeavor. There's no hard feelings, and he had the opportunity of his lifetime, just as I did - they just weren't the same thing, but they were at the same time.
At the 25th hour, approximately 10pm Eastern, I crossed the border in to North Dakota. Fargo was the gateway town. The only sign better than the "Welcome to North Dakota" sign, was the posted speed limit sign of 75 miles per hour. I had 100 miles or so before I got to Jamestown, the headquarters for my first two days of the trip. Day 1 was set for scouting, while Day 2 was hunting, I hoped. North Dakota is sparsely populated. There are Native Americans, and whites, that's it. And they're both pretty boring along the interstate. I ate 2, TWO, footlong subs from a Subway which I believed to be the only one in the state about halfway to Jamestown. The college kids inside were dressed unlike me. I was in my bespoke, gentleman's hunting woolens and tweeds. They had elected to see me for the first time in NDSU collegeiate apparel. The girls they were with were barely a 5, but were treated as if they were a 10 by North Dakota standards. They wore hiking boots with their dresses. Their car was muddy, too. Mine would follow suit, and on the very next day.
I finally arrived at the hotel in Jamestown. It was an Indian Casino. It was awful to find it. Jamestown is home to the White Buffalo - I never saw it, but it could have been hidden just like my hotel was. I did see an honest-to-goodness Wells Fargo bank, though. There were drunks parading through the street, too, as the casino was also playing host to a wedding reception. There were as many out of state vehicle tags as there were North Dakota tags, and my worries and suspicions grew. However, this was the only hotel for miles, and there are an awful lot of open miles for duck hunting. This worry was put to bed the next day. Anyway, I checked into my hotel room around midnight, Eastern time. I could barely sleep. My legs were happy to be stretched. I washed myself in the shower for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, I fell asleep, only to wake up 6 hours later, at 7am Central time, to begin my scouting. I woke up the next morning to 25 degree temperatures. I drank weak coffee, took a jog, and did my daily routine of pushups and situps. I was ready to scout - this would be the first time I would truly glass for ducks. Icovered 200 miles that first day. I couldn't hunt, as my license wouldn't begin until the next day. Scouting there isn't like scouting here. There, it's muddy roads, millions of ponds, billions of hidden ponds, and skunks. There as many skunks as ponds, it seemed. Do yourself a favor and don't hit them with your car. the Jamestown area was a great place to being my hunting. It's really the first true outpost into the pothole region. One hundred miles in any direction, one can find lots of ducks. It took me two minutes to see ducks when I left town. They flew like bees in the sky. Geese were everywhere. Posted signs were, too. I was immediately let down, but I learned a lot about what's posted and where. The roadsides are posted. The stuff well down the secondary dirt road - it ain't. and that's where I found the first of my "motherlodes" in in only two hours of scouting. I will absolutely not disclose the nearest town, but the woman who lived in the house was named Candy. Good luck finding her. After finding the motherlode, I looked for more motherlodes. I couldn't find many more. If you the reader ever meet me in person, ask me about the underwater bridge I almost didnt come out of. North Dakota is a beautiful place, but it is deslosolate. The only people that live there are those who can occupy themselves with their imagination or a tractor. Remote places have their dangers. And getting trapped, lost, or stuck out there, especially right before winter, could have you missing until the spring thaw.
Alright, that sums up the drive and initial scout. The actual hunting will come in the next entry...
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