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Waterfowlers have been blessed with all the wonderful trappings of guns, waterdogs, blinds, jonboats, duck-stamps and dekes.
Got any pictures or stories to get me out of the summer doldrums?

Do you have any pics with dead ducks ?

If you had ever tried lugging all that cr@p through icy muck and across treacherous floating bog in the dark and driving snow an hour before dawn (and you forgot to include the thermos, an overloaded gun box, and the bag of squashed wet sandwiches - plus, of course, the legally required PFD which you left back at the landing ) you'd know that waterfowling gear is not a blessing, but a curse.

Jack, your taking all the romance outta it!
My duck hunting is pretty snug and dry.
A blind not thirty yards from the van to keep me and the dogs warm as toast and the coffee hot.

Homeboy, nows your chance to post some dead duck pics posed next to your market 10b. 32" Scott

Lowell, the first picture is of mallards, a black and my Fox. The second picture is sunrise over my marsh last season. The third is my Lab Vanderbilt's Hi Tess MH

January past found me and Henry in the L'Anguille River bottoms in Arkansas, as in past years, hunting greenheads with my close friend who lives there. There was a small field of corn left unharvested in a little nook which went right down almost to the east side of the river. Six inches of rain fell two days before we arrived and the river flooded to the point that the corn was inundated, with the water level right at the ears on the stalks. Perfect? Wait, there's more.
A cold front was pushing down from the north. Missouri was already freezing up and when we arrived at the apartment we stay in it was about 4:30 p.m. and the sky over the corn field was wrapped up with ducks. They were moving south and the more ducks that saw the corn and landed the more they attracted others. We could stand by the boat house and kennels and see literally thousands of ducks circling and lighting. Sleep, though much needed after a 10 1/2 hour drive, fell upon us both only after it chased away the feathered wraiths that had invaded the backs of our eyelids when we turned out the lights.
Next morning revealed ice over much of the water in the bottoms, but not in the protected corn field. But, the north wind made up for the lack of ice. We elected to hunt that afternoon and took one of the War Eagles up the river a ways and then turned through the green timber. Going slow we wove our way between the huge oaks, dodging logs and submerged stumps, past the Rootwad Hole, and eventually emerged into the flooded cornfield. At least two thousand mallards erupted from the corn as we motored from the oaks. We parked the boat in some brush along the treeline with a nice open hole along the edge of the corn in front of us and quickly put out, oh, maybe 35 Judas ducks. Bubba, my Arkansan buddy decided he would remain in the boat, being vertically challenged, while Henry and I, each having much longer legs than we do patience, slipped over the side into the water, which came precariously high on our waders. The birds immediately began coming back, intent on resuming the feeding they had been so bountifully blessed with. We, without the use of our toes, cyphered that we could take twelve mallards betwixt the three of us, and so swore a vow that they would all be drakes. For the next hour we were never without ducks circling or alighting the corn. I shot well, Henry poorly, not the usual way of things and we picked them up as we went. Bubba, being slightly handicapped by being somewhat behind us in the boat was content to worry the ones that were in range for him, all the while chiding us for every miss and bragging on the shots we made, no matter how "in the face" they might have been.
Then, without us realizing what was occurring or why, suddenly there weren't any mallards over the corn. Just as I commented on this we all heard at the same instant the sound of a multitude of wings cutting air, incredibly loud. I looked up to see the most amazing thing. A flight, if a grouping of teal numbering maybe three hundred can be called that, diving on the place in which we stood motionless from an incredible height. Evidently they had been moving south in a large group and spotted the corn and mallards and decided to see if there was any vacancies for the evening. They fell to maybe two hundred feet above us and, as if on cue, split up into small groups of fifteen or so and commenced to make strafing runs over the corn. There would be several groups buzzing the six or seven acres of corn at once from different directions. I stood speechless, forgetting that I could take a couple for my limit, taking in the spectacle instead. Finally remembering why I was there I made a vain attempt to scratch one from the sky, Henry too. Vain as well. Ten to one we were behind them after having homed in on those fat slow moving greenheads. Then, as quickly as it began, it was over. Teal gone except for a few dummies, or maybe they were just hungrier than the others. Only then did the mallards return.
Next day I recounted the incident to Mr. Charlie, Bubba's cousin, who stopped by to talk about duck hunting, having given it up years before. Charlie allowed as how he had seen that happen once in his lifetime of hunting the bottoms of Arkansas, a time which had spanned at a good 60 seasons since his youth. He said that mallards will vacate a hole when they see a big group of teal pitching in, not wanting to put up with the incessant break-neck speeds at which they zip to and fro. I felt humbled and blessed at having been eyewitness to not only the biggest bunch of teal I've ever seen at once, but shooting that rivals the best Argentina has to offer. To have the opportunity to pick your shots and only take drakes, in the full knowledge that when they are all picked up and the dekes are in the bag there will be more pouring in, is as good as I can imagine it getting.
As I type this I can still smell the mud, hear the wind in their wings, feel the numbness and bite in my fingers from the cold water, and feel the ache for more. I can never get enough. Though I, at 55, realize my mortality and look forward to spending eternity with my Lord, I will leave here kicking and scratching and trying to hang on for "just one more duck season".

Here's hoping you each can experience during the coming season the best that waterfowling can be. Whether it be on soil foreign to you or behind the "back forty". As our dear departed friend would say, "Every day is a magic carpet ride". Amen.

Stan

Beautiful photos, Craig. Wish I could just learn how to post 'em!

Stan

Nice photos Craig...now Lowell will have something to dream about.

Duck is greasy but better than crow marinated in kerosene.

jack