We had a local ricefield leased for ducks back in the late 1970s when ducks were abundant here. Part of the field in a corner had been overtaken by a stand of pin oaks which featured a hole in the middle for ducks to easily see a spread of blocks. Jerry, Wyck and I had the hole covered when I saw a flight of mallards and spun them around to us with a high-ball call. They started circling, craning necks to see where the ducks were. We were sloshing the water with our waders while we stood next to trees, rocking the decoys. After three passes, circling, here they came, wings cupped, dropping down into the trees. “Take’em”. 9 shots and not a feather touched.
It was year one taking now 13 year old Abby into a woodcock woods—first time. She came to a sudden halt, stub of tail shot up and not a muscle moved. On the tip of her nose, about a foot away, was a woodcock. Easy shot when it flushed. Two shots from my 20 ga. Beretta 686, and not a feather cut. Minutes later, a hundred yards away, Abby locked down on an open area, not a tree, bush, twig or anything in sight. Gun over my shoulder, broken open, I walked towards her to get her to move. The woodcock launched into a towering getaway with my gun broken, over my shoulder. I’d like to say lesson, learned, but…. Gil
