At one time, duck hunting was permitted in the old ricefields which make up a part of the 29,000 acre Savannah River Wildlife Refuge. My late duck hunting buddy Bill A. and I stumbled into a conveniently located honey hole, a series of beaver dammed waters formed by a newly installed subterranean gas pipeline through the fields about 200 yards off Highway 17 near the Georgia line. We were in SC. It was an easy walk through the freshwater marsh to the holes. The potholes werent large, maybe the size of a school bus, but were loaded with natural food and drew in the big ducks, mallards and blacks. Woodies were there to fill the limit on slow days.
One morning, Billy C., Clark and I pulled onto the road shoulder and started to trek towards the holes. We heard a gawdawful sound coming down the highway towards us about a mile away and gaining. We couldnt see headlights but saw sparks shooting out from whatever it was heading our way. It turned out to be a hysterical woman driving a beat up car on four rims at low speed. She and her boyfriend had been drinking and fighting. He had slashed her tires and passed out. She was hauling butt to get away from him. She stopped and asked us to take her to the cops. This predated cell phones and any sense of obligation I might have had for a damsel (large damsel) in distress during duck season. We were about 20 minutes from legal shooting and she was about to ruin the dawn flight with all the racket she was making. Once we figured out she wasnt hurt, we told her to get back in the car and continue driving to the nearest town which was a half mile down the road across the river into Georiga with the Mayberryesque police station on the left. Last thing we wanted was for the hunt to be ruined by a hysterical woman to whom we werent related. We killed a few ducks, but that wasnt what stuck in my mind about the hunt. At least on that particular morning.I still think Billy took her phone number.
