Get Ducks or Die Trying

Originally Posted at Good Hunt.

I’m not sure if I should blame Obama or Phil Robertson for the difficulty in finding duck hunting ammunition this year. Last year – almost to the day – I moaned about the shortage of waterfowl rounds in local stores, begging them to stock up for 2013-14. I said then not to blame Obama, but the beginning of 2013 witnessed an ammo grab unlike anything we’d witnessed since the ’90′s. Folks were literally snatching whatever they could off of shelves as panic spread that the President was going to restrict firearm ownership, a threat no one should have taken too seriously, in hindsight, since he actually put VP Biden in charge of the duty.

So while my plea may have been heard, it’s possible there was little retailers could do as manufacturers simply could not keep up with the demand. While the factories have been churning out the goods as fast as possible, supplies stretched pretty thin into this season. Even the big online stores were bare come mid-December. Unless a 10-gauge was your idea of a teal gun, options were slim.

All of this has coincided with an upturn in duck hunter numbers. I’d have to see Duck Stamp sales to be certain, but there’s been a palpable increase in people banging away at birds this year. Three years ago I argued that the popularity of duck hunting was about to explode. It wasn’t my best post – I mean, I quote Britney Spears; who does this? – but my theory has largely been correct, and that was without anticipating the arrival of Duck Dynasty, a phenomenon unlike any other to hit the hunting world, Swamp People included.

Assuming you’ve not been in a coma over the last 18 months, I’ll go ahead and skip over the rise and potential fall of that show, but will say that you’d think a major corporation like Wal-Mart could help out actual sportsmen and stock their shelves with whatever steel shot they could get their hands on given the program’s popularity and, presumably, studying hunting market trends. The Robertsons are so featured in your local Wally-World, it’s entirely conceivable that they constitute a branch of the Walton Family Tree. For Rudolph’s sake, cashiers wore Santa hats with duck bills on them throughout the holidays…but try finding a box of 12-gauge #4 steel anywhere in a Central Florida store location. The irony is not lost on me.

But some people have had them stockpiled – there’s been a lot of blasting this year on public waters.

My first inkling that we might be in trouble was for the September Teal STA draws in late-summer. These used to be a cinch to pull. When our group produced one permit out of a dozen of us applying, we surmised something was up. But, hey, it’s hot September in South Florida and online applications are easy to fill out. When rubber hits the road and skeeters, surely more than a few folks would pull up lame and leave available spots open for the few walk-in hunters willing to sacrifice a pint of blood and sweat for four teal.

Fast forward to Harris and I sprinting down a line of two dozen vehicles all there to register for a teaspoon of open spots. We entered our names at the last second and watched those openings fill with fellows sporting the Uncle Si beards and DD shirts. A whole horde of luckless hunters wheeled back home in the dark that morning.

It’s also possible I’m suffering the early onset of post-traumatic stress disorder after a hunt down at STA 1-W a few weekends ago. We got surrounded – as in we would have been the bulls-eye on a dart board – by other hunters taking it to the plug on ducks near and high, but mostly high. Anything slower than a teal had no chance of making it to us within AA-Gun range. I watched a hen shoveler tightly circle far overhead several times and had hopes she’d decoy. She finally circled too far and went totally vertical amid the shower of steel coming off the barrels of a group who was incapable of docking the duck calls in their shirt pockets and whose shot rained on us every time they pulled the trigger. They had pulled such shenanigans all morning. The shoveler was the lucky one.

But the STA’s have become well-known over the last five years as word has spread about their productivity. What really caught me off-guard has been the hunter activity along the West Coast this fall. What was once a lonely, often unproductive, game of merganser and diver hunting for those crazy enough to brave the salt spray, extreme tides and oyster bars has become a little crowded. Not, of course, by public lake standards, but never have I seen so many frond blinds on the tips of mangrove islands. And twice this year we’ve been cut off by newbies wailing on mallard calls hoping to turn passing mergies. Fun times.

This is all a double-edged sword. It’s wonderful that so many people have taken up this sport. Allies are being recruited even as we duel for the same hunting spots and curse over skyblasting. I don’t watch Duck Dynasty nor purchase their shirts, hats, band-aids, or board games, but I will confess to being overjoyed to see young people at ramps and check-in stations so intrigued with that crew that they’re willing to plunge into a duck blind on a cold morning, Jack.

For our group, the increase in hunters has caused us to spread out and try new places this year with a great deal of success, I might add. The duck hunting bubble will burst for a number of people as they spread their wings into other outdoor pursuits. For our group, not much slows us down when it comes to ducks. Except, of course, a lack of shotgun shells.

Duck Hunting on the Straight and Narrow

With duck hunting it is not too difficult to spill the banks of the written laws. Now, if you’re unlicensed and make a hobby out of shooting lead from unplugged shotguns on someone else’s property while piling up birds to the point it threatens a flyway, you’re nothing more than a wanton criminal bent by your own sadistic whims and concepts of sporthunting. There’s really no place for you here. But there are plenty of other occasions when well-intentioned, law-abiding hunters cross the line into the realm of lawbreaker.

Let’s be clear before we move forward – there’s no gray area. The USFWS and other governing bodies have laid bare the laws. How they enforce them is often a matter of discretion, but ignorance is not an excuse, though we all know plenty of folks where you could at least make a strong case out of it. The rules that bind the sport are so varied that accidents do happen.

We can always start with motorized boats. It’s a cinch to have running lights fail or forget to slap a current registration sticker on the side. Flares can be out of date. Maybe a cushion or life vest blew out on the ride to the ramp. Or whatever is absent on that long list of safety gear and equipment Florida boaters, at least, must carry on their vessels.

Last year’s Early Teal Season was a prime example. We’d run out of Lake Toho before dawn when the bow lights quit and the spotlight failed. The captain used a flashlight to navigate and alert others to our presence. With few boats around us and the moonlight illuminating the lake, it wasn’t a dangerous matter. The Man got us the second that flashlight was quelled for the slightest moment, descending on us like a hawk on a field mouse. It happened quickly. Granted, they had no running lights and their boat was solid black…but you can’t argue with The Man.

I’ve seen this sort of thing happen too many times, and, I mean, they are right, it’s the law. But, frustratingly, there is almost no circumstance in this world where a game officer will show mercy and not cite you for a vessel violation. Furthermore, if they want to find something wrong, they most certainly will. I’m convinced some would look past large bales of grass tucked under the bow and focus more on the mold content of your throw-cushion thus fining you for it being out of code, probably because it’s a simple ticket and they won’t have to appear in court.

Speaking of having to go to court, that reminds me of a very recent situation. Of course, I would not be party to such things, so let’s think of this as a secondhand story instead. There was this group of guys who hunted STA 5 one Sunday afternoon back in September for the Early Teal Season. These guys shot one duck shy of their limit and were quickly stowing their gear to return to the check-in station. This being South Florida, their bare flesh was being flayed by the various ground based and aerial combat insects that reside here. They did what anyone who still has nerve endings would do, namely, toss all their gear and ducks into the bed of a truck and haul butt out of there.

Upon arrival at the check station and staring at the mound of ducks behind the tailgate, the FWC officer informed these folks that it was against the law to store ducks in that manner, even though the group was under their limit. All the birds must be separated and/or kept on a stringer of some fashion to designate who they belonged to.

She said this was a federal offense, and they should be lucky federal officers were not there or the group would be cited and have to return to Hendry County to go to court. Kindly, this group of ne’er-do-wells was allowed a pass. She let these guys know – several times – how nice she was being, and there were plenty of thank-you’s to go around because no one wants to go to court in Hendry County where the judicial system is already bogged down with meth possession trials and cockfighting arraignments.

Naturally, I knew all of this because I read all the federal rules and clearly understand their meaning…OK, I’m lying. I’ve been duck hunting off and on for over ten years now and have neither heard anything about this nor seen it done despite the fact I hunt with experienced waterfowlers. Hell, I’ve left other STA’s with similar piles of ducks that were checked by game officers and nothing was ever said. Having looked it over a second time, it is there in the guidelines in typical legal jargon, easy enough to browse over without fully understanding its purpose while seeking the current bag limits.

Did you realize that until you get to your primary residence – or abode as the feds call it - that all dressed birds must have their head or one wing attached for positive ID? So make sure you keep a wing on that breast after you’re done plucking it in the hotel room sink. Furthermore, if you transfer a bird to another person, including a game processor, taxidermist, or buddy who has freezer space, it must have a tag attached with your name, signature, harvest date and address of the hunter who shot the bird. If you drop off several dressed birds to anyone, you must also include the species and total number of birds killed on that day. You can clip this info to the wing, I suppose.

Well, let’s finish this off with a positive note and not get into those hunts when a bag limit is exceeded or a bird misidentified. Do your best to read the rules and keep an eye out for changes. Quite honestly, though I do read the rulebooks, I’ve mostly learned this sport by following the crowd. But just like trying to argue your way out of a speeding ticket by saying you’re just going with the flow of the traffic, no game officer worth his salt is gonna buy that excuse.

When you do mess up, just hope you’re not caught; if you are pray for the kindness of that game officer and hope he or she is not a federal agent.

Imagine the looks you’ll get in the Hendry County courthouse when you tell the resident hardened felons that you’re in for failing to keep your ducks in a row.

2012 Sea Duck Tournament

“Well, that’s about enough of this BS,” I said as I wrapped the magnum bluebill decoys and shot-put them towards the shore.

It’s not like I’ve not been skunked before. Even the recurring headaches from the rowdy night before and a pair of waders that let saltwater flow in and out like a bait bucket didn’t damper my spirits. Hell, it was a fun morning drawing into a beautiful evening, standing near a mangrove island staring out into the Gulf.

And we saw ducks – bluebills, mergansers, buffleheads, redheads, and scores of Distant Black Dot Ducks, but none wanted to work the decoys, and none happened by on accident. With sea duck hunting, it’s not all that much of a surprise. It’s often a crapshoot in every sense of the term.

No, what was more troubling were the boats to the South blasting away that led to the head-shaking. For the third straight year I was on the losing end of our Annual Sea Duck Tournament, the Booze & Blast. Got half of it right - other half pretty lame. I had visions of cupping redheads and the other boys high-fiving while my BPS gathered rust, cold barreled and fully shelved with ammo. It was too much to bear.

Cole’s party dusted the hooded mergansers in some secluded area he pointed us far away from. Sawyer’s team had a pretty stout lead after the morning hunt, and it sounded like he was padding his lead, as well. It’s the luck of the draw and all of that, but God is it frustrating to hear the reports echo across the bay while you try to will even one duck to err on the side of a trigger.

We gather every year off the Nature Coast for this event. Silly as it sounds, we were in far more productive locations earlier in the season hunting serious ducks and talking about this late-season gamut that leads to a bag heavy with mergansers. The lure of redheads is enticing, and a few died this trip - just not by my hand. The friends, the wives, partying the night before, the uniqueness of the hunt – it’s an annual draw.

The morning started well, though not without its share of difficulties. Drew captained his mudboat out the mouth of the Little Homosassa River. The tide was terribly low, even for the winter. If you’ve never launched out of this area, I wouldn’t in the dark. It’s treacherous, with oyster and limestone islands and their arms of bars and rocks ready to claim their next lower unit, prop or skeg even without the extreme winter tides. We scraped and banged, luckily without totally chewing up the vessel, out to Fun Island, a location eat up last year with waterfowl.

One redbreasted merganser quickly complied with the setup, PJ dumping him in the spread. And then the guns fell silent. As the morning wore on and dreams of country-fried steaks started taking hold, we lifted our gear and proceeded back to port. Unfortunately, there was not enough water to return that way. We pointed towards the Gulf to circle back into the Big River.

That ride was revealing. One, not a whole lot of ducks were rafted in the open water per usual for this time of year. With a mild, mild winter, it just didn’t seem many ducks got down here, or perhaps kept pushing farther south, as we’d heard good reports of bluebills towards Tampa. But, we’d also heard tales of non-mergie divers towards Crystal River.

That afternoon we towed the boats north. A man at the ramp said there were a few redheads around but not in any large groups. But I didn’t pay much attention to him – I was more focused on the two chaps wanting to launch their 24-foot wooden outboard into this maze of rocks and crags. They reminded me of the two fellows from “Jaws” who used a wife’s roast to try and catch the shark – they had an inkling of a plan, but no solid idea of what they were getting into, and just may have to swim back to safety if things went wrong.

So Cole and Sawyer hunted south, and we elected to hunt near Crystal River. If there’s one tip I can offer about this style of hunting it is this: Don’t sea duck hunt with me. I am an albatross. White pelicans hooted and grunted behind our island, and cormorants were steadily pouring over. But the ducks gave us nothing to work with. With about an 1 ½ of daylight remaining, we picked up to try another island, scattering a couple healthy flocks of bluebills and mergansers.

I expected the bluebills to return, as they are wont to do. But, a fishing boat rode in and whooped and hollered as the sounds of distant gun blasts tore at my nerves. Enough was enough. And we couldn't wait out last shooting light with the tide now steadily rushing west. Sawyer’s team gathered the championship for the weekend, actually getting out of bed to hunt Sunday while the rest of us slept in. And duck season was over for me.

As always, we’re planning for next year. We were late with a logo for the tournament shirts but should have that ready for 2013. And we’ve commissioned a trophy to be fashioned with a redbreasted merganser standing on an Evan Williams bottle to pass around to the winner in the years to come like the Stanley Cup. It’s gonna be cool. Hope to win it one year and cover myself in glory.

If anyone lets me board their boat again.

Walk-In Duck Hunting

As I wrote in my last post, Travis and I had set up in a little slime pond hoping to bust a few beaks the morning after Christmas. We’d known of the spot, as we knew mottled ducks and whistlers knew of the spot. Our hope was a few teal would swing through, as well.

It didn’t happen. We spooked the whistling ducks early and had a few woodies fly overhead but it was pretty lame - which made it all that much better that I was able to bust a gorgeous mottled drake. I guess you could say I limited out since the bag for mottleds is one, but it wasn’t the duck hunt we’d hoped for. But, if you did read my last post, a little additional scouting remedied this problem as that evening a pile of whistling ducks and a few teal met their demise. For the record, my personal bag for the day was the one mottled duck, a bluewing teal, and 4 whistlers - awesome for this style of hunting.

Over the last three weeks I’ve about run gamut of Florida ducking hunting opportunities. Hunted the bigger lakes of central Florida for ringers and teal. Per usual, there were plenty of ducks and a few have died, but as also typical of a mid-December hunt for these birds on public waters, they were rather shore-shy from being blasted at for a few weeks especially having had no recent cold fronts blow down fresh birds. I hunted Lake Okeechobee one afternoon and was perplexed by the lack of birds I saw there, though a party did well the next morning, blasting ringers and teal.

From there, I hunted STA ¾ and had an exciting shoot, again increasing my bag of ringers and teal. December 26th will go down as a memorable day for all the whistling ducks, but a few days later, I hunted up by Cedar Key for sea ducks – bluebills and bufflehead. What a neat place to give waterfowling a go! I scratched down one hen bluebill – my first - and a common merganser, but the action was limited. That’s a lot of water out there, and it didn’t seem a lot of these ducks had arrived south yet. When you don’t have many sea ducks in that expanse, the shooting is typically limited.

It’s been fun, though, my limited knowledge of duck hunting increasing with each venture. I don’t want to disparage hunting from a boat with a large spread of decoys, mostly because I really, really enjoy a boat full of buddies emptying to their plugs on passing ringers. And I really, really want to continue to be invited on these hunts. With all the rivers, lakes and shorelines in the state, the ease of opportunity is there, but the most successful hunts I’ve been on have involved no motorized boats and far less hunting pressure. And that’s what I want to focus on today: increasing duck hunting opportunities through walk-in hunts on private and public lands, not only in Florida, but really anywhere you may want to pop a duck or three away from the crowds. These places are shallow water venues that require merely a pair of waders to retrieve birds and are fine spots to innoculate that Duck Hunting Disease

So, let’s delve through this spectrum of possibilities. The whistling ducks and mottled duck died on private land. The land is largely South Florida prairie pockmarked with sloughs, wet-weather ponds, flag lily ponds, and cattle ponds. All of these features are attractive to puddle ducks including the aforementioned mottled, but also whistlers, wood ducks and teal. The duck hunting has been fickle over the last several years due to drought that allowed tall dog fennels and other weeds to thrive in these depressions, choking out the ducks. The main trick to success has been finding where the ducks want to be and adjusting accordingly, as my opening tale related.

To take it out of the state of Florida, we did something similar in Montana last year. We hunted flooded shallows on the edges of wheat fields. Ducks rafted on the nearby river would shuffle over in the mornings and evenings to feed. 2010 was sort of a down year for our trip, but a group this year pounded mallards and other puddlers that came into water barely ankle deep.

I mentioned wood ducks earlier; they are extremely conducive to walk-in hunting. Here, they’ll settle in cypress swamps and creeks surrounded by oaks. In Georgia, I’ve blasted them in beaver ponds and probably could when I visit North Carolina each year if I weren’t so fixated on deer. It’s quite an experience to have a flock of woodies whistle down through the treetops first thing in the morning. Like above, the trick is figuring out where they want to be. I believe woodies - even more so than other waterfowl - wake up in the morning knowing exactly where they’re headed and little will sway the stubborn buggers, so not each puddle will hold them.

This all translates on public land, as well. You know, mottled and whistlers are largely unique to Florida, and many WMA’s share the same features of the private ranch I’ve hunted. And duck hunting is allowed on most WMA's during open seasons for deer, hogs, or small game hunts. Many more WMA's have an abundance of cypress swamp land that woodies call home. The Green Swamp, Chassahowitzka, and Lake Panasofkee are a trio of public lands where I’ve noticed a plenty of wood ducks recently. And since most folks are concentrating on deer and hogs, the potential is there for great shoots.

For the ultimate walk-in hunts on public land in the state, the STA’s are the cat’s meow. These lands are designed to clean runoff water before it reaches the Everglades and is loaded with a variety of ducks. If you live anywhere outside of South Florida, it is a haul to get down there, but it is worth a trip or two a year if you draw the tags.

The STA’s require a touch more planning than a few of the other options. Last year, we waded through the hydrilla to a line of cattails. We got a limit easily but ached like Hell after slogging through that mess, dragging weeds behind us like wet wedding dresses. This year we toted kayaks down which made it a lot easier to get hunters and gear in and out.

But that’s as complicated as these hunts should go. Typically we’ve hunted with few decoys, if any, in the case of wood ducks. If you’ve done your scouting and know – or reasonably hope – the birds will be there, tons of dekes are burdensome. A couple decoys and a Mojo Duck never hurt mallards or teal, but sea duck-like spreads of them are unreasonable. For blinds, just cut surrounding vegetation (check regulations on WMA’s!) and put those Boy Scout badges to work. In Florida, cutting long palm fronds and planting the stalks in the mush is a popular method of concealment. Of course, care must be taken on where you splash the birds; most of these joints are wader-friendly, but the deep spots may require a retriever - either by canine or by a fishing pole with a snatch of some variety.

Duck hunting, oftentimes, is what you want to make of it. As I said, I certainly enjoy hunting from a boat on the lake with buddies and hoping for a limit of teal and ringers. It does happen, especially early in the season and after cold fronts when new birds wing South. There is something to be said for going beyond this formula, though. Not everyone is gonna get excited about that one bird limit of mottled ducks. Or even three wood ducks.

But it’s reasonable to expect, with a little scouting and luck, to enjoy a day of waterfowling without worry about other hunters or hauling a boat around.

Hunting Black-Bellied Whistling Ducks

The pre-dawn morning after Christmas, Travis and I snuck out to a wet-weather slime pond with a handful of decoys, a teal Mojo, and palm fronds to prepare an assault on the local waterfowl. In Florida this time of year, one could reasonably expect mottled ducks, teal, and black-bellied whistling ducks arriving to feed in the pinky-deep water on duck weed and other aquatic grasses.

The whistlers had beaten us there. After we’d left the truck, we could hear them peeping and chirping and, yes, whistling, in the reeds. Our arrival spooked three separate flocks up and out of the marsh, each group consisting of a couple dozen birds. We hurriedly fashioned the palm fronds into a makeshift blind in a swath of reeds and awaited daylight, convinced the birds would return.

They did not.

As the morning lengthened, T and I listened to the chorus of birds that had settled in another wet area to the north. We backed out of our set-up and crept up to the other pond. There, a flock of 30-40 whistlers were in a holding pattern over the wetland. As they dropped down, another flock of 20 popped up, those bold white bands on their wings flashing brightly in blue of the morning. This continued for 20 minutes as we watched mesmerized as flock after flock of black-bellies would rise and fall into the marsh. Hundreds of birds. I’d never witnessed anything quite like it in Florida - the afternoon would be a great hunt.

Black-bellied whistling ducks, also known as black-bellied tree ducks, are odd birds. Taxonomists categorize them closer kin to geese than true ducks. They don’t dabble. They don’t dive. They wade in shallow water with their spindly legs and use their long necks to bend over to graze on grasses and aquatic vegetation. Beautiful in flight, these dark chestnut-brown birds have bright-white wing patches with a pinkish-orange bill and feet that hang behind them. Hens and drakes share similar patterns with a slight deeper contrast in color for the drakes. While flying, they can not be confused with the buff-colored fulvous whistling duck also found in the same regions – or any other duck, for that matter.

Whistlers don’t migrate, in the true sense of waterfowl, but they flock up in oftentimes huge groups to travel back and forth across their range. As the moniker “tree duck” implies, they nest in holes of trees, and their webbed feet have needle-sharp talons to help them perch on branches. There’s also a reason they are known as whistling ducks. They are very vocal; their peeping whistling while in flight betrays their approach (listen here).

These birds are found in great numbers across Central and South America where, in some locales, they are referred to as “Cornfield Ducks” as they plague grain fields and are treated as such. In the US, their range is limited to Florida and the southern limits of the Gulf Coast states, though wayward birds have been found in northern states. Their population is actually increasing in these areas and bag limits of six represent their availability. In Florida, they’ve become rather commonplace on golf courses and around cattle pastures with a little bit of freshwater and year-round availability of fresh-growth grasses.

From a hunter’s standpoint, whistling ducks are user-friendly. Since they do not migrate and endure the salvoes of gunfire from Canada south, they aren’t particularly hunter-savvy. Also, they don’t get a lot of hunting pressure locally because they prefer environs that differ from the standard-issue ringneck or teal. While I'm sure several are splashed each year in such places, whistlers aren’t likely to decoy for a ringneck spread on the bigger, hydrilla-covered public lakes and rivers popular to state duck hunters.

To purposely hunt them, waterfowlers should focus on areas where whistlers can wade for their food. The STA’s in South Florida hold their share of birds. I’ve witnessed flocks of thousands flying around Lake Okeechobee where they’ll settle down in the shallow marshes. Wet-weather ponds, flooded cow pastures, dug ponds, and flag lily ponds surrounded by trees will attract their share of birds.

As these birds expand, more will be learned about hunting them in the future. I’ve seen them decoy, but suspect we were just where they wanted to be more than them being attracted to teal dekes. If you can get their calling pattern down, I’ve watched folks mouth-call birds around to investigate, but no commercial calls are available that I’m aware of. Whistlers aren’t all that tough to bring down, either. Number 2’s or 4’s is more than enough from a 12 gauge, 3-inch chambering. And their meat is very good, indicative of their diet grasses and grains and avoiding long-distance travel that’ll make migratory birds a touch gamey by the time they hit the Sunshine State.

Travis, Don, and I gave them the full nine yards that evening. As we scrambled to set up a Mojo and a handful of Big Duck decoys, the whistlers were still there doing their thing, circling and rising out of the marsh like a busy airport. After the first shot, hundreds of birds flapped their way out of the flag pond like something you’d see on a wildlife documentary about Africa. Between the constant whistling, the passing flocks of so many birds, and the frantic re-loading, it’s tough to honestly detail the flurry of action. We splashed our limit – and a couple bluewing teal – in short order.

I badly wanted one for the wall, but none I could claim that afternoon were worthy. They lacked the deep roseate pink bills of a trophy. That drake came, though, the next morning. We returned with a few other hunters and added to the weekend bag, though the action was not as steady as many of the birds retreated for happier grounds after the first few blasts. I’d put one on the ground, and as I walked to retrieve it, a lone drake cupped into range and the BPS folded him without so much as a ruffled feather when it hit dry land. Sadly, my Nikon took a swim that morning which prevented me from getting a picture. But he’s in the freezer now awaiting a taxidermy trip.

It is beyond me why so many birds were congregated in that small marsh. No one who had hunted this ranch had seen anything like it – it was truly a special opportunity that quickly snuffed out any thoughts of deer hunting. I will say, it’s an exciting thought knowing the populations of these birds are healthy and expanding. As I said above, if this trend continues, we’ll know a lot more about hunting whistling ducks in the future.

They are unique waterfowl. It is a unique hunt.

The Gadwall Experience

Duck hunting is a lot like bottom fishing a reef or wreck. You get your spot, toss out some baits – in our case, decoys – and await the action. Most times, you’ll get at least a few nibbles from a variety of species. After a while, you come to expect what’ll show; but once in a while, something special unexpectedly screeches that drag. Those are the days to remember.

Travis and I set sail for Lake Toho Thanksgiving morning. It is a budding ritual. Last year, we shot several ringnecks and bluewing teal – standard fare for the area. Turkey day ’11 was my second outing on Toho this season. The morning before, our crew of four splashed 8 ringers. Not shabby for a public lake that’s hit hard the first week of the season But, we saw plenty of ducks, and I was cranked up for the next day, though I’d have to meet T by 3:45am to beat other hunters to the ramp.

T motored the boat to a floating mass of aquatic plants caught in a massive flotilla of hydrilla, a preferred duck food in these parts, mercifully not yet sprayed by the FWC. We got our decoys - a spread of a couple dozen ringer dekes sprinkled with a few teal fakes and a teal Mojo - deployed an hour before shooting light. We lined the boat with pre-cut palm fronds thrust into a PVC tubular rail along the gunnels of the boat, fashioning an effective blind. The time then came to sit back and await shooting light, enjoy the crisp November morning of coots and assorted water heints, with the occasional shooting star or airliner coming or going from Orlando International for the full sensory overload.

About 10 minutes before legal light, a flock of a dozen teal wheeled over the decoys, flipping and flopping in the air as they are trained to do. Soon, a lone ringer swam across the channel, scooching through the decoys like a wind-up toy. It was just about Go-Time.

I promptly missed my first duck, a passing ringer that barely cleared the horizon. When ducks of that fighter class zip out of the gloaming, shots are all too often fleeting and desperately late – which made the circling flock of big ducks all that more exciting.

Big ducks, in these parts, are typically mottled or whistling ducks. Whistling ducks are gorgeous, but slow as snot, loud as Hell, and prefer soggy ground to open water. So, it was evident this flock circling the decoys to Travis’ hail calls weren’t whistlers. Mottled ducks are very common, and that was the thought when they locked up on the decoys as we stood to shoot.

In two blasts, we had four of ten birds splashed. Which sounds great until you realize the limit on mottled ducks is one per person. With an over-abundance of law on Toho, we were in a bit of a pickle. No biggie, though. Friends were close by, and if they didn’t have any mottled ducks, we could swap out with ringers or something.

It was an honest mistake. And not the only one we made during that assault. The morning progressed with the ringers, clearly shore-shy from a week of hunting, keeping to open waters. Travis pounded a beautiful drake wood duck. But as the sun rose, our encounter with the mottled ducks took on new light as well.

For one thing, mottled ducks are pretty vocal. They quack and chuckle like your standard-issue mallard. These ducks were stone silent, I thought. These birds floated smaller in the water. Then Travis said something that really stuck – “Hey, mottled ducks don’t have white on their wings, do they?”

“Nope, blue or green.”

We decided to call the morning early to satiate our new-found curiosity. Wigeon were possible.

By Gadfrey, they’re Gadwall.

For those not in the know, such as me prior to Thanksgiving morning, gadwall, or gray ducks, are medium-sized ducks more common to the Mississippi and Central flyways. They are drab in color, but with striking white speculums and reddish wing plummage. Of course, I'd seen pictures of them in books and read about them in the Hunting Literature, but they are much more pretty birds than either describes.

I’ve heard of hunters harvesting them in Florida, notably along the East Coast where you find more pintail and wigeon, but these were the first I’d laid my eyes on. And coupled with my lack of overall waterfowling experience, the low-light, and being similarly colored birds I’d never figured they were not mottled ducks. We were relieved to keep things legal, but disappointed by the missed chance to shoot to the plug on a lucky draw of birds.

Of four, we retrieved only three – one was lost to the hydrilla or turtle or gator or something. We’d been keeping our eyes on it for the morning, yet it all but vanished when the time came to retrieve it despite searching for half-an-hour in every reed bed and grass patch nearby. So we were forced to settle with two drakes, one with almost-full plumage, and a hen, the female as pretty as the males, in my opinion. For sure, I’ve had more spectacular shoots, but this hunt was for the memory bank.

Now I have a drake gadwall in the freezer awaiting a trip to the taxidermy man. It may not be a big deal to those in other time zones who see them regularly. Odds are I’ll catch up with more before the grave. But on this lake, on Thanksgiving, and the surprise of learning their identities…events like these makes duck hunting worth the early mornings.

Learning to Call All Ducks

At age 31, I’ve decided to call ducks. Never owned a call. Never had much desire to. But I feel - as an outdoorsman of the highest esteem - something has been missing from my skill set.

Plus, I had a Cabela’s Gift Card to blow.

Calling ducks isn’t a requisite talent for killing waterfowl here in Florida. One is much better off paying attention to set-ups and camouflage. Numerous hunters more experienced than me claim birds just don’t respond with the same gusto as ducks do up north. Perhaps because we are largely mallard-poor in this state.

Or maybe because numerous hunters as experienced as me blow wildly on mallard chuckles and teal whistles at passing ringnecks and hooded mergansers winging it across public lakes and marshes to the point every avian creature in the state is call-shy.

I have attempted to make duck-like noises – on the safety of a patio or around a campfire – with others’ calls. The results and insults were predictable. So this, more than actually caring about quacking a duck to the decoys, is what has lit my fire.

But what calls to buy? For answers I went straight to the Cabelas Bargain Cave website. Lo and behold, they had a solution – a combo package with a Buck Gardner Mallard Magic Call and Buck’s Teal Call for about fifteen dollars. Then I got really crazy and decided to purchase a Primos Classic Wood Duck call.

Out of the package, the best I can do with the Gardner calls resembles my doe bleat. The Primos is higher pitched, but basically the same bleating noise. The Mallard Call claims to “easily produce rolling feeding calls, a full vocabulary of quacks up to, and including, mid-range hail calls, snappy come-back calls, and that awesome nasal whine of a contented hen mallard.”

I’m not familiar with a nasally whine from a hen being all that awesome.

Which brings us to practice time. When I was twelve or thirteen and first learning to call turkey, I had endless time to practice after school. If Mom got upset with the noise in the house, I could just tell her to shut up. I can’t do that with my wife. (kidding – about the first thing; not the second.) And when I went into the woods – any time of the year – I could call to turkey and get feedback from my efforts.

These duck calls are very loud and unwelcome in the homestead. I could travel to the local marsh in the spring and summer and call to mottled ducks. The mosquitoes would appreciate that. Teal are non-existent until September. And the mallards around Lakeland would swim up if I wailed on a coyote howl in the full belief my cargo shorts held a reserve of bread.

Soon, though, I will become Duck Caller Commander Numero Uno, and these three calls will hang from a lanyard bejeweled with bands from the waterfowl that cupped and dipped into the decoys at full ease following my irresistible chorus of clucks and chuckles. Or, my hunting comrades will hang me by said lanyard after a couple mornings.

As always, I welcome advice. Below are a few YouTube videos I will be studying.

Provided the house is empty.

The 2011 Sea Duck Tournament

I pity those who have never intentionally hunted mergansers.

The omens were all there for a spectacular weekend of shooting. The wildlife was alive. When we arrived at the river, dolphins were chasing mullet near the dock and through the manatees that fed on floating seaweed. A flock of bluebills milled around in the channel, diving for mussels or something. A flock of wood ducks flew in right before dark.

I sensed a great victory for my team and let everyone know so.

Alas, the 2011 Sea Duck Tournament ended early. Cole, PJ, and Rumph smoked the field with an impressive 15-Duck Display Saturday morning. They didn’t even bother to hunt Sunday. Sawyer and Mitch pulled 1 Saturday and 5 Sunday, not bad for their first event. Travis, Chase and I – the alleged pros of the tourney - splashed one red-breasted merganser late Saturday morning and slept through the 20 degree cold of Sunday, content with humiliating defeat and warm beds.

We hunted the outer islands around St. Martin’s Key off the mouth of the Little Homosassa River. Cole’s and Sawyer’s teams reported the mergies decoyed rather well, unusual for them. Using a mixture of bluebill and puddle duck dekes, combined with a floating bluebill MOJO decoy, Cole said 90% of the ducks they shot had their feet down to land in their spread. Sawyer commented a similar response. 100% of our ducks did – but again, we only shot one.

My team messed up. I had been doing quite a bit of research over the last year about hunting divers. Our decoys were in such shallow water, they practically perched on oyster clumps. Cole and Sawyer hunted deeper water. The theory in the literature and observing their success and remembering my own history with the sport, the divers like to be in water where they can...get ready for it...dive! But Travis had seen a pile of ducks in this spot the night before.

Some of it's strategy; with the tides and vastness of open water, some of it’s a crapshoot, and I was but a lowly deckhand on T's vessel.

PJ popped a trophy hooded merganser that is on its way to the taxidermist. Sawyer – a duck hunting novice – is already discussing what waders and decoys to buy. Another victim of the Duck Hunting Disease.

You want to know about the merganser I shot? Well, OK. After all, it’s not always a numbers game. They can have their silly victory. For me, it’s about trophy hunting these magnificent mergansers. I look for The One that fits the description of a perfect hunt.

Facing the hurricane force gales, and gazing beyond the circling of bull shark fins, I spotted one lone merganser flying in the distance. More like, he was jet-screaming in the distance. Though he didn’t touch water, he still pushed a wake. I contemplated on how to get his attention.

Through my vast knowledge of interspecies waterfowl communication, I knew he wouldn’t respond to a mallard chuckle. Thinking quickly, I pulled a shotgun shell from my bandolier and pried it open with my teeth. I tossed the steel number 2’s high and out into the decoys. The plunking pellets sounded like a school of piddling pilchards, a merganser treat.

The wise old bird changed his course and approached the spread. As he was about to land, those wings - those backpedaling, pterodactyl wings - blew the MOJO into the brine and sprayed a fine salt mist into my face, like the lashing of water from an airboat engine. Wiping my eyes with my right hand and firing from my left shoulder, the mighty bird was felled. I waded quietly through the bull sharks and retrieved my prize.

One day the rest of those guys will learn a thing or two from me. Until then, they’ll have to just be content with high-volume shooting and a year’s worth of bragging rights.

I’m sure they’ll be fine with that...

2009 Sea Duck Tournament

After a year hiatus, the Sea Duck Tournament resumes this weekend. A taste of 2009's event. Posted February 2009.

That old maxim, “don’t count your chickens before they hatch,” is as true for ducks as poultry. After morning one, our team was up six birds to none – a commanding lead - in the 2nd Annual Sea Duck tournament. Obviously with a name like that, this is no sanctioned, sponsored event, rather a group of friends who turned an end of the season Homosassa River duck hunt into a yearly competition for winning or losing twenty bucks.

The rules are simple - one point per duck taken while hunting over decoys or in a blind only, agreed upon to discourage other nefarious, and often illegal, manners of cheating, that none of us would ever consider doing unless being thoroughly embarrassed at the time.

Though I’ve never been paid, my team won the previous year, and after Saturday morning, a repeat title seemed inevitable. Hmm, probably shouldn’t have talked so much trash.

We hunt mergansers - red-breasted and hooded - although from time to time vague recounts detailing flocks of pintail, oldsquaw, and harlequin ducks creep into otherwise civil, honest hunting discussions. Granted, the ol’ mergies don’t attract much love from the waterfowl faithful; they don’t decoy well or respond to calls worth a hoot, are not the highest of table fare, and are uglier than butt. However, they are plentiful, with large flocks swarming from the open waters of the Gulf into the river shortly after daybreak. Even without employing any of the above common duck hunting tactics, the sheer volume of birds is enough to expect an exciting morning.

None the less, successfully filling your bag limit of five is a crap shoot; there’s an awful lot of water for fowl to travel and feed, not to mention places for hunters to set up. Pinpointing a reliable ambush is daunting. Adding to this degree of difficulty is the nature of these waters. Oyster bars jut far out of the seas on a winter low, but hide frighteningly shallow during the highs – in short, it’s treacherous navigation, and there are just some areas you can’t go with a standard outboard.

The targets themselves are tougher than old shoes, especially the red-breasted species that breeds farther north and winters farther south than the other American mergansers. This translates into some serious muscle and very thick down to poke through, asking a lot from wimpy steel loads. A number of birds will brush off a volley of long distance shots and keep on trucking, no worse for the wear, and still more well-hit birds will tumble to the water requiring a quick follow-up shot, or a long slog through the flats to chase them down, which more often than not results in them paddling or flying away. They just aren’t impressed with cheap steel.

So, we’d done well putting six on Merganser Mound, the non-descript oyster shell island where we’d set up shop. We’d tossed out four bags of fakes, bluebills mostly, and a Baby Mojo mallard hen hoping the flashing white wings - which do mimic those of a ganzer scooting off the water - would bring a few into close range. (I do realize that four bags of dekes are but a pittance in comparison to the numbers serious open water duck hunters incorporate in their spreads.)

This approach failed. The birds did not decoy; luckily though, we’d tapped into a diver duck superflyway of sorts. Soon after first light, a low-flying, high-speed flock of hoodies whizzed by without a trigger pull. Alerted, we were ready for the next group. After an hour and a half, after the smoke cleared, the hulls quit ejecting, and the echoing of shotgun blasts ceased freight-training across the Nature Coast, five red-breasted and one hoodie hen rested on the oysters.

We’d heard the other team shoot and only assumed they’d matched our production. Personally, I was disappointed. There were some shooters on that other team, and when you have the number of birds in range like we’d had that morning, six ducks didn’t seem like a whole lot.

Didn’t seem like a whole lot until we returned to the dock and discovered they’d laid a goose egg. All their shots were too far for a reasonable chance at a kill. And a bunch of other excuses. For a while I thought it was a gag. Maybe they’d wait til later to fess up and open a cooler, hoping to embarrass us in the midst of our victorious war whooping. With these boys you never can tell. But no, nothing, nada.

And it’s true, there maaayyyyyy have been a little too much strut in our step after this, doling out professional advice and insults. Too much glide in our stride as we hunted and got skunked ourselves that afternoon in this charming, mucky place I call Misery Pit, joking about smoking those other guys in the morning. Too much bounce in our pounce (OK, these are getting lame) that evening offering to let the other team hunt with us by Merganser Mound instead of whatever crappy location they’d discovered, no matter that they’d closed their deficit to four after bringing in two birds.

As Sunday morning unfolded, we clearly heard our lead, and our chances at a repeat title, evaporate. The ducks, so plentiful the morning before, simply changed course on us. We watched them spill into the Little River, veering far past Merganser Mound, right to the other team. Our few opportunities at saving this tourney flew on the fringes of in-range, safe from the steel. The Hunting Gods simply won’t allow boasting, even in an event this crude.

Rounding up the decoys, some variation of the Kubler-Ross Five Stages of Grief set in.

Denial: “There’s no way THOSE guys killed too many birds; we may still win”

Anger: “I bet that rattling Mojo spooked the ducks away”

Bargaining: “Let’s just give it a little longer, don’t unload the shotguns yet”

Depression: “I can’t believe we’re gonna have this rubbed in our faces for the next year”

Acceptance: “Oh well, I think there’s some bourbon left at the house”

Actually, that last one may be part Depression as well. The final score, 9-6.

Not the end to duck season I’d hoped, but as always, a fun company and good times.

Besides, we’ll re-capture the title at Sea Duck Tournament ’10. I’m sure it’s not too early to guarantee victory.

South Florida Duck Hunting in Pictures

Some of us hunted Lake Okeechobee. Some of us hunted STA 3/4. All of us piled up the ducks. South Florida is really a fantastic destination for waterfowlers.

Instead of writing a long-winded post about this whole trip - most of which words can't totally cover anyhow - I figured we'd do a little picture diary.

So, let's get down with the Git Down.



Riding one of the main airboat paths Friday evening after a fruitful scouting mission on Lake Okeechobee. Pretty, huh?



Cole, PJ, and Drew riding dirty on the edge of the Big O.



Rumph's opening morning wallhanger bluewing teal drake courtesy of STA 3/4.



Handsome ducks, those BWT.



I was there, too! Fine morning on STA 3/4 though I, once more, could not hit a duck if it were sitting on a fence post. Ringers, BWT, mottled ducks, shovelers...all pictured here.



The other part of our rugged group had a productive morning on the Big Lake. They shot mottled ducks, teal, a fulvous, ringers, and...



A wigeon!!!



Our mode of transportation for Okeechobee. I must have one.



Gorgeous weekend. Great hunting. Friends. Always hate to leave, but I shall return.

The Thanksgiving Toho Hunt

I know what I was thankful for Thursday morning – no one was videotaping our shoot. The first four ducks – a pair of ringnecks and a pair of bluewing teal – splashed in proper fashion. After that it got a little dicey.

Actually, it got dicey for Travis earlier. He pulled up on the aforementioned teal and realized he didn’t have a round in the chamber. I collected the double. That was my last speck of professionalism for a while. A wood duck – and I’d like to say he “dodged,” but that wouldn’t be accurate – escaped a three-round salvo from the Browning 3 ½. A mottled duck lazily floated by without even a click of the safety. Can’t explain that one. And numerous ringers passed right on by no rougher for the wear.

I’d peeled through ¾ of a box of Black Clouds in less than 30 minutes. For four ducks. (Head shaking)

Blaming the choke, I swapped out to a full to tag the higher flying ringers. This didn’t matter in the least. I went to switch again when a pair rushed in from the east. I managed to dump one on one shot and felt the sweet kiss of vindication, if only for a moment.

Travis and I were hunting Lake Toho in Central Florida Thanksgiving morning. This is a popular public water duck destination. Fortunately it wasn’t’ too crowded. I guess other hunters wanted to wake up and spend time with family or something. We did have to wave off one boat who thought he was going to set up on our decoy spread, I guess. We suggested he move one bay down. I’m not sure what those guys were shooting, but it sounded like they were lighting off quarter sticks back there.

We planted a Baby Mojo in the ground and surrounded it with a variety of decoys that represented the waterfowl in the area. In the open water we tossed a couple dozen ringer decoys. Closer to the weeds we threw out 5 or 6 wood ducks, four mallards hens, and a smattering of teal. It looked real good.

After pitching the dekes, Travis parked the boat amid a patch of tall lake grass. He had previously clipped palm fronds, and we lined the gunnels of the boat with the broad, waxy fans for concealment, a pretty common tactic in these parts. We called it quits around 9:30 when the action finally slackened.

It worked well. I’m proud to say every duck we did bag decoyed to our spread. Our limitations were strictly bound to pass shooting efforts. In all, we ended up with 9 ducks, not too shabby.

The duck hunting has been fairly slow, from what I understand. It’s been warm for this time of year. The large clouds of ringers that are typical here haven’t settled in yet. The teal are sporadic. I’m sure Opening Day took its toll on a fair number of the resident mottled and wood ducks.

It’s a pretty place, that Lake Toho, though not as remote as Okeechobee. You watch planes lift off and land on a constant basis from Orlando International. Bass fishermen whip their outboards through the channels at high rates of speed, and the din of airboats is near ceaseless. In the horizon, four or five hot air balloons floated up and away. Lots going on around Orlando.

Still with all these people, there was one lone witness to my poor outing. And he couldn’t say much either. We were the real turkeys this Thanksgiving.

Florida's Early Duck Season - STA 3/4

Travis and I had arrived at STA 3/4 just before the 5 am mark when the ranger would start handing unused tags to the throngs of hopefuls lined up with their pickups and canoes at the gates. Since I had drawn a tag for the opening morning of Early Duck season, we were able to ride the VIP line past the huddled masses yearning to duck hunt. A young FWC officer took our information and thrust a map in my hand and asked which spot we would like to hunt. Not knowing anything about the property, I chose Spot 35 since it was the furthest from the majority of the crowds and had easy water access. I asked the female biologist present if there were any teal in the area. She said there were a few...plus ducks you can’t pop this time of year.

Probably noticing our lack of vessel, Lady Biologist warned that water levels were higher than in years gone by. But, we pressed on to Spot 35 gauging the advances of the thunderstorm towards the south. We had no clue what we were doing. We had no canoe, no kayak, no skiff, no kid’s floatie tube, nothing but our waders and determination to avoid being eaten by alligators.

Travis was the first in the waders, and we scoured the cattail-infested banks of the levee for an entrance into the water. T cautiously stepped a few feet into the reeds and began sinking up to his nipples.

“This ain’t gonna work. And I don’t want to be chewed on by a gator.”

I was adamant about staying. The STA’s are popular draws and well-known duck Meccas. I needed to know how things would shake out come daylight. This had turned into an advanced recon scouting trip. Travis agreed to wait out daylight. Official shooting time started 6:42, more than an hour-and-a-half away. We figured we’d just lean back and catch a snooze to fight back that 3:30 wake-up time.

Travis was well into snoring when I heard another truck pull into Spot 34 behind us. They banged and crashed about as the Sandman was about to waylay me. The last thing I heard them say was, “I wonder where these guys went, east or west?” And I fell asleep.

Located in western Palm Beach County and covering nearly 17,000 acres, STA 3/4 is the largest constructed wetland in the world. STA’s (Stormwater Treatment Areas) are manmade marshes designed to trap phosphorus and other excess nutrients from reaching the Everglades (click here for the details). Standing in the middle of the property, all you see for miles are aquatic grasses, cattails, hydrilla and various other plantlife. The avian population – to speak nothing of waterfowl – is quite amazing. Purple gallinules feed along the levees. Doves are everywhere, and raptors sit on perches lording over this unique part of the world. (And, yes, hundreds of gators!)

The hunting program is a co-op between FWC and the South Florida Water Management District. Tags are issued by a random drawing several weeks in advance of the start of the waterfowl seasons. To ensure this opportunity is maxed out, successful applicants must check in and pick their spots before 5 am or risk losing out to walk-in’s.

This was the first season I applied. I had never hunted Early Duck, and Travis and I already had designs to hunt Lake Okeechobee. When I found I was selected for the opening Saturday morning, we agreed to make the trip from Moore Haven then return to Lake O in the evening to fill out our bag or scout.

I did my research, of course. I knew we probably needed a water-based conveyance of some manner. No motors – trolling or otherwise – are allowed here, so Travis’ duck boat was out. I could not secure a canoe of any kind, plus I am typically too lazy to paddle, it is hot, and I figured the two of us could come up with something easier. I polled several veteran STA hunters who agreed, yes, a canoe is probably the best, but the water levels are so low that one could slog across it in a pair of waders.

And that plan was out. As mentioned at the beginning, Lady Biologist warned us of the high water, and it appeared we’d be returning home with nothing more than knowledge of the area - a learning experience, so to speak.

As shooting light neared and the thunderstorm that had been cracking lightning all morning long dissipated, T and I both awoke from our slumber and rolled down the windows. The crew who had come up behind us had clearly paddled across the east marsh leaving a visible trail through the hydrilla. The guys in front of us worked their canoe maybe fifty yards from their truck and were now walking in knee-deep water through the western marsh setting up decoys and settling in for the shoot.

I was concerned. I didn’t want to blow anyone’s hunt by gawking in the truck at passing birds; these boys to the west were pretty close. And cranking up and leaving would disturb the whole property as I’d have to drive back through it all. But Travis noticed something I didn’t – those guys were walking in knee-deep water. The toughest part is just getting through the layer of muck around the cattails; it gets shallower as you walk out.

Not convinced, I resigned myself to sitting in the truck for the next couple hours until my conscience would let us leave. Then we turned and saw the teal appearing out of the black, pouring by the dozens into the eastern marsh.

Travis and I were out of the Dodge in seconds, grabbing our shotguns and shells and scurrying to the bank and into the cattails like children running away from their parents towards the beach with their sandcastle buckets and shovels. He was right. The water along the edges was chest deep, but once you got through that, it only came up to the waist.

The shooting started soon after. The boys to the west shot first and the guys to the east fired a salvo that dumped a couple birds that buzzed them. Travis waded out to a finger of weeds, and I held tight in the reeds near the levee shore, eye open for moccassins or our new-found serpent, the python. Within moments, a pair of blue wings blew past T, and he dumped the first one, and I tagged the second. She would have skipped like a stone across the water had it not been for the hydrilla. Teal sure move fast.

The morning slowed down, as it often does, but we could still hear the shooting around us that kept birds flying. One group to the south was slaying them. You’d hear shots, swing around to look and see little black dots fall from the sky. I had a single come from that direction, and he fell into the weeds behind me.

As the morning wore on, I understood the purpose of the canoes. Birds that were coming into range flared off at the cluster of trucks behind me. Also, we were in such a hurry we forgot the decoys in the truck. Three teal doesn’t sound like a whole lot for this effort, but I assure you it was, especially for how half-cocked it all went down. Watching the teal dip and dive, the mottled ducks quack their way by, and the whistling ducks flocked over in hordes...it was enough to fire up even the most casual waterfowl enthusiast.

Around 8:30, we made the call to return to the truck and head back to Lake O. At the check out station was Lady Biologist shoving cotton swabs up the rectums of teal the party in front of us had tagged - a strange activity for a Saturday morning. That crew had their limit. When it was our ducks’ turn for defilement, Lady Biologist explained she had to test for avian flu. I asked that she notify me if I am in sudden need of inoculation.

We reported what species of ducks we’d seen. She told us that the winter time is when it gets awesome. In addition to teal, other migratory ducks such as pintail, wigeon, and redheads are popular temporary residents. I may have to look into this.

Next time, I’m certainly bringing that canoe.

If You Go

A management area permit is needed. One member of our party who wasn’t me didn’t know this – and I forgot to tell him – and was mercifully let off with a warning since we were under our bag.

The law of the land requires you to pick up all shotgun shell cases. And they do check to see if you have them.

Arrive early if you have a tag. Arrive a lot earlier if you don’t.

Bring a camera. A more unique place to hunt, you will be hard pressed to find.

The Federal Duck Stamp

Why do they make you sign your name across the Federal Duck Stamp? I mean, each year dozens of artists compete for the honor to display their handiwork to millions of hunters, and we are law bound to splash ink across their sweat and labor. It’s like kicking over a child’s sand castle or lighting an effigy of Smokey the Bear – just fundamentally wrong.

This year’s stamp features the wigeon – which sounds like the love-chick of a wren and a pigeon!

Ha! No? OK, whatever, it would have slain in Ornithology 101.

The wigeon is a demure dabbling duck. In the waterfowl world, they’d be the cute math girl who blossoms into a hottie when she’s pulled away from the cheerleaders, let’s her hair out of a bun, and drops the nerd glasses. Without the designer make-up of the wood duck or promiscuity of the mallard, the wigeon is attractive in its own right - unlike that ogre the gadwall.

Wigeon aren’t as common in FL as other ducks, preferring the Western Flyways, probably because they lack the size of the mallard and the maneuverability of teal to defend themselves from the Greater South Floridian Elephant Mosquito. Remember the black globs at the end of Ghost that pulled the bad guy down to Hell for murdering Patrick Swayze? (You just remember the clay molding scene, don’t ya, Sally?) That’s what our skeeters could do to a wigeon.

Of course, wigeon are downright plentiful compared to the winner of last year’s stamp, the long-tailed duck. I’m dreaming of the day when the stamp is dedicated to a waterfowl species that calls Florida home year-round such as the mottled duck, anhinga, or flying fish.

Fifteen dollars for this stamp. I could dream up some financial figure for how much of that actually goes to wetland conservation, but there’s a website out there already that cranks out “facts” like this.

Wikipedia states:

For every $15 stamp sold, the federal government retains $14.70 for wetlands acquisition and conservation, so very little gets lost in the system for overhead.

If they say so, I’m good with it.

In addition to graffiting across the face of the wigeon, I must also affix it to the back of my Florida hunting license which is essentially a receipt. General hunting, WMA permit, muzzleloader, archery, alligator trapping license, migratory bird, deer management, and state waterfowl. I won’t total this all up for you, but it leaves me precious few pennies to actually hunt or upgrade my gear. My camo resembles the rags Nazis used to make torches to set fire to their book piles, and I assume I am getting Punk’d every time I hear of low funds for game departments.

The sad part about this back-of-a-receipt arrangement is by June 30th, the stamp is mashed and destroyed, like a butterfly kept in a sandwich bag and slipped into a jean pocket. I feel far worse for the artist’s effort than any wigeon that splashes this season.

And as I understand it, a certain demographic of folks pays the 15 bones to, what, just collect the stamps? Have I left out any aspect of this exciting process? Needlessly collecting things for the sole sake of having them? My wife may argue I do the same thing with firearms, but she clearly doesn’t understand what she’s saying.

I shouldn’t pick on others’ hobbies. After all, I pay for this stamp for the sole privilege of slipping into leaky waders and humping through swamp bottoms and across tidal flats while battling the aforementioned mosquitoes and the occasional reptilian. Duck hunting is not so much a recreation as it is a severe mental affliction for which there is no cure - waterfowlaphilia.

Still, I am happy to fork over the cash. I admire the work of the winning painter. This year’s winner was Robert Bealle from Waldorf, Maryland. Sorry, Mr. Bealle, for defiling your talents.

But thanks for contributing your labor towards the opportunity to set out again this fall to lay a few decoys and study the horizon in the hopes of a successful shoot.

Dumb Ducks

I’ve been accused of being awfully whiny this hunting season. Things just haven’t gone well thanks to one obstacle or another. Some plans were scrapped and others didn’t go to plan. But it has been pointed out to me that, yes, I’ve been able to get away with regularity, and I did kill a few deer and hogs and quail. Which is all true. I am thankful.

The ducks, though. Honestly, I didn’t spend as much time on it as I’d hoped, and offseason's bar stool plans hit the reality wall a few times. If I have to choose between deer and waterfowl, which I do, deer win every time. It’s terribly difficult to do a combo bowhunt in Pasco County with a ringneck adventure to Toho in one day.

But a few of the opportunities I did have went to pot thanks to weather and other circumstances I have no control over. Cole and I hunted Toho in early January a couple times, but it was freezing cold, the lake had been severely pressured, and the ducks stayed rafted up in the open water far from any concealable vegetation. Had a blast, learned a bit, but no shots were fired.

I enjoy – really, thoroughly enjoy – splashing sea ducks, sawbills, mergansers, whatever you want to call them off Homosassa. A couple days before New Years, Nick and I popped a few. Hunted there this last weekend and didn’t pull the trigger on any in-range birds. Did try to blast some speck of a duck out of the stratosphere Sunday morning in pure desperation.

For whatever reason, there just weren’t as many birds off the Nature Coast this year. No telling how the record cold weather of a few weeks back influenced them. The full moon last weekend pulled a lot of water in on the morning high tides. And it’s rained buckets this winter. My guess is those birds that were present flew to the back bays and creeks protected by the oysters and limestone bars. In years past, there hasn’t been as much water and the ducks are forced to the open bays and accessible side creeks. So, lots of water + fewer birds = limited chances.

Oh well. I prefer to put a lid on this season with some positive thoughts.

1. I have two brand new boxes of shells for next season. With the price of ammo increasing, I’ll save some cash next year.

2. I have a new duck gun, a very stylish Browning BPS in 3 ½ magnum, that promises to be a favorite in the safe, supposing I shake the albatross-like bad luck it has inflicted on me since I acquired it. And not having pulled the trigger, my shoulder doesn’t ache from the mammoth recoil of these loads.

3. I was loaded up with new, good-looking decoys for Christmas that did a great job reeling in cormorants, egrets and sea gulls last weekend.

4. I have a cult of successful duck hunting friends who are more than happy to regale me with tales of their triumphs, and from whom I am able to hunt vicariously through.

5. I did kill the first two ducks I shot at this season, though these incidents occurred almost a month-and-a-half apart.

6. I have almost 9 ½ months before next season starts to forget this season existed.

Hope everyone else had an exciting duck season. Time to look forward to turkey.