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...
Monday, February 4, 2013
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.
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