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The Teal Squeel

By: W. S. Allen

“Steve, to your right,” I whispered to my younger brother.

Steve immediately brings his gun up and to the right. His eyes and the speeding Teal’s found and locked on to each other at the same time. The Blue Winged Teal hits the afterburner and Steve squeezed the trigger.

An ear shattering blast fills the air as the teal dodges to the left and then back to his original course. Another blast followed quickly and then a third. Maybe due to energy expended or slow reflexes either way the teal was hit and hit hard. Involuntarily his wings folds as silence once again returned to the marsh. The duck had no need to brace for the impact as he splashes down in the Gulf of Mexico.

The Teal killer’s face was all smiles as Daisy the lab played her role in this life and death drama. Before Aaron, our guide, gave Daisy the command her tale betrayed her excitement to enter the frigid waters at the thought of retrieving a mouth full of speed and color. Once the command came nothing short of death would keep her from performing what she felt was her role in life. To Daisy the words “dead bird” meant so much more than it did to us, the humans that supplied the ducks.

Daisy’s retrieval was flawless and usual. The twenty yard swim and sprint back to blind put the dog in her element, she was taught not to do her version of a happy dance until after the duck was in the blind which she adhered to resolutely.

Once this first speedster was in the blind all eyes started tracking the sky like radar searching for another incoming kamikaze fighter. Four pair of eyes working independently tracking and indentifying each and every aerial acrobat that strayed to within a half mile of the reed covered duck blind.

The no fly zone covered a couple of hundred square yards in all directions centered about half way in a three mile reed bed on the northwest side of Aransas Bay near Rockport TX. The winter destination for several million “snow birds” that migrated to warmer water from all over North America.

Our migration to the same waters was considerably shorter and a lot less hazardous than for all the blue and green winged teal, gadwalls, wigeons, and pin tails that practice shooting landings under fire in the gulf.  

At any given moment someone will say to the left or right and all eyes lock on to a target that strayed too close to the no fly zone. Mussels tighten as hands tightly grip shotguns, time is transposed into slow motion and you can hear faintly in the background someone saying, steady, steady, take em. With the magic of a phase an explosion starts, the sky is set ablaze, and for an instant the guns spit so much steel into the air that it’s measured in pounds.

The canapé of death last for three shells each then silence followed closely by splashes in the water. Daisy hearing or feeling the excitement is already poised to swim the gauntlet of decoys in order to full fill her compact with her fellow hunters. Once the teal or wigeons are collected, stored, and the happy dance completed it’s time to lift your eyes skyward and scan once again for the speedsters of the gulf.

The winged half of the drama gets a little smarter every time the steel snaps at his tail feathers. He above all others knows what’s at stake when the game of life and death is played out in the skies above the gulf. God gave the ducks speed and agility rarely matched in the animal world and He made the teal their dare devil.

The Teal pushes the envelope every time he takes to the wind. In the blink of an eye the teal makes you think he jumped that high and the g-forces of his turns are the same as the age of your oldest child. And lastly just to make it a bit more interesting for the human radar to find and lock on, the teal is about half the size of a mallard.

The two combatants in this deadly game aren’t enemies, no far from it. They’re adversaries in a life and death struggle. They’re both sides of the coin of life. The duck can’t stop being a duck and men can’t stop being hunters. So they match their wits and abilities in the skies over the Gulf of Mexico and on many ponds, lakes, and rivers around the world. The outcome is never a sure thing for either side. However I put the odds in my favor by asking Captain Aaron Mack to show me his world and put me in his blinds.

I’ve learned one thing about duck hunting, the duck blind is magical place it turns boys into men and men back into boys.  

Ducks, Dogs, and Jerk Lines

By: W. S. Allen

The all but undetectable coffee scented steam rose to a height of just a few inches until some silent force dispersed it to the wind. The steam sensing it's emanate demise throws caution to the wind as it preformed a seductive ballot, knowing at any moment the wind could and would end the dance. The aromatic steam determined well before leaving the cup to explore as much of the world as the unpredictable wind would allow and then to fight the forces of natural until its strength was totally exhausted and then, and only then, surrender to the breeze.      

I watched by a lantern light as the same scenario was played out on both sides of me. Each hunter held his face mere inches from the cup allowing the aroma to fill their senses. The steam dance capturing each of their gazes and freezing the minds of all that ventured to this place. The thought of ducks, decoys, dogs, and calls slipped to the background. Not forgotten just frozen for the length of the steam dance.

At some point that had no rhyme or reason each hunter would bring the cup to his lips and temporarily halt the dance. Once satisfied the hunter would lower the cup and the dance would begin again.

This melodrama was preformed over and over until the dawn brought the first rays of light at which time the hunter's minds were able to escape the fascination of the steam dance and allowed to think of things still to come.

Each decoy was placed with the help of experience and a dept finder at just the right place. Cord was measured and adjusted to exactly the right dept to allow each and every decoy to move at the beck and call of the wind with the hope that any duck passing by might find it irresistible and drop in to investigate. This would not be a chance encounter, knowledge and understanding dictated where to place each Mallard, Pin Tail, and Widgeon. All factors considered, wind, sun shine, temperature, and cover were all measured and calculated for all incoming flyers.

Unsure of the wind's cooperation in our venture we placed a jerk line of 20 Mallard and one of 15 Pin Tail. When the first rays of light peered over the surface of the lake you could see the jerk line decoys moving in synchronization with the movement of the hunter's hand to my left. He was the puppeteer controlling the players in a drama of life and death. The decoys seemed to be an extension of his will. Each movement of his hand, arm or body produced a specific movement of the life like replicas, it was as if he willed them to move left or right and without hesitation or regard for forces unseen they moved in unison. His arm would move so slightly as to be all but undistinguishable and the decoys would move where and how he wanted.

As if showing off for the breeze and the water he picked up both jerk lines and started to work them. Just fifteen feet in front of my boat a symphony of movement, a choreographed drama of wind, water, and decoys entertained hunters and dogs alike. A master puppeteer at his best and I didn't have to pay to see his work. Now if the passing ducks liked the drama unfolding beneath them it would be a great day in the flooded timbers.

Our humble foray to the wilds of Lake Belton's flooded timbers section for a day of duck hunting was just as I'd planned it. We arrived well before most creatures were capable of opening their eyes from a long winters night sleep and those that could see at that time of day were about to go to bed. We'd place 150 decoys of many different ilks, sizes, shapes, and colors all in just the right spots for the wind de jour. My fellow hunter on the jerk lines preformed each maneuver like the master he was.

Coffee was drunk, decoys were bobbing up and down like they should, and the dogs were eager to taste feathers and to discover, first hand, how cold the water was. The only thing left to do was to start inviting our guest, by the means of a mixture of double and single reed duck calls.

Individually but in unison each hunter gazed up at the sky and reached for his favorite duck call as we opened the receiving line. We started the chorus of invitation for our guest of honor. Within an instant the air was filled with a symphonic chorus of Green heads being enticed to pay a visit to the flotilla of plastic right in front of us. The chorus continued for a minute or so then a short pause to catch your breath then a repeat of the duck overture followed closely by several encores.

After an internal struggle on par with the struggle between good and evil I choose the soft hen call made exclusively of cocobolo wood, my favorite I might add. This call works best in flooded timbers so you can blow it softly and the sound reverberates though the timber. Each hunter had their favorite call plus spares hanging on lanyards of all shapes and designs each decorated with jewelry more valuable to a duck hunter than all of South Africa's minds.

The duck hunter's lanyard is a combination of pride and bragging rights. We display duck identification bans which we affectionately call jewelry, duck calls that cost as much as the boat we're hunting from plus spares. I'm only guessing here but with all the calls and duck bands on most hunters' lanyards, wearing it constitutes a major portion of most duck hunters exercise regiment.

Mine is adorned with three single reed calls one wood and two acrylic, a teal whistle, a wood duck call, a dog retriever whistle, my dogs' collar transmitter and a partridge in a pair tree. Oh how we love our lanyards. I even have two calls that are engraved hanging with pride from mine.

I was all but out of breath when the first brace of Mallards appeared on the horizon. They were coming in from the east over the lake at tree top level as would a flight of B52 bombers trying to evade some unseen enemy's radar.

We'd set up to allow the ducks to land only fifteen feet in front of the boat which we anchored on the north side of the decoy spread. The wind was from the west at about 15mph, all was ready.

We kept calling until they were cupping, yet no one ever said to "cut or take em" so we watched as they landed. We looked at each other speechless.

Then someone said, "Anybody going to shoot these ducks or what." The noise disturbed the ducks and they bolted for parts unknown.

"Cute em," I yelled, just to make sure. For a second I thought with all the gun fire I might have been at Normandy in 1944. Fifteen ducks took off for parts unknown, eight are still flying. A great start to a beautiful day.

Once the first shotgun barked, Bailey was on her feet hoping someone would hit a duck. Daisy on the other hand is much more laid back about the entire duck hunting thing. Once the shooting stopped she looked at me to see if I was going to disturb her beauty sleep. I was.   Bailey was off the front end of the boat not using the ramp that I had provided for their use. I'm sure I heard her say.

"I don't need no stinking ramp."

Daisy used the ramp as she raced for a downed drake. She made the retrieve poetically and started swimming back to the boat. The grace and beauty of a retriever is a sight to behold. They swim on par with the refined moves of Fred Astaire.

I don't know if they can count but they always know exactly how many ducks are downed. These dogs are world class in what they do. Along with swimming like Jonny Weissmuller they have very strong jaws however they never tear up a duck or a dove.

They can swim for what seems like hours retrieving ducks effortlessly and they seem to enjoy the simple act of retrieval. A good water dog is an important hunting partner. Not like me an old out of shape writer with a pretty good eye, they are world class athletes that make the hunt that much more enjoyable with their enthusiasm and willingness to please.

The hit parade went on for the next two hours in that time the four of us downed 20 ducks. Not a bad morning of duck hunting. At the end of that time the dogs and hunters were tired but ready and looking forward to the next time we would be captivated by the steam dance in the world of ducks, dogs, and jerk lines.

     Most of us have that first venture into water fowling deeply etched in our minds;or perhaps this will be your first time in the autumn darkness waiting for the first light of the day. For myself;it was many years ago with a second hand shotgun purchased at a gun shop a couple miles down the road with money made from pitching hay bales for the summer. You can imagine the anticipation just watching the calendar edge towards opening day and with the reality that chores on the dairy farm had to be completed before the hunt could begin.

     Back in the day there were no youth programs; so at sixteen and not withstanding the successful completion of the licensing program ;my father thought perhaps his company would be the prudent choice for that first morning afield. I remember that autumn well; the maples had started to turn in the sugar bush along the bay that cut into our farmland. Since the holiday weekend that officially signaled the end of summer;many  of my scouting trips upon the bay revealed the wild rice being visited by ducks and it was rewarding to find a large population upon the water each time I crept along the maple bush. It was not too long before I had succumbed to a very high opinion of myself to successfully find birds on each scouting trip and with this success planned the opening day as a celebration of my talents as a skilled outdoors man .As the late summer days unfolded I soon began to realize that the wild rice would be picked clean long before the first shots of opening day and the undeniable realization that perhaps my earlier confidence was now being held to question.

     I remember my Father suggesting a visit to an undistinguished gentlemen who lived on our concession road. He advised me that this man had spent most of his useful years on the river be it fish,fur or feather in passing on a career or profession that would be formally recognized by society. So with my new found insecurities I decided that perhaps it would not be a mistake to drop by before opening day just to make his acquaintance.

     I found upon my first visit someone who long ago relieved his soul from the conquest of world. Perhaps a person who had long ago decided what impressed most people was frivolous at best and foolhardy at least. Over the many  ensuing tales that followed over the years of life upon the river it became clear he was perhaps something of an antiquity that one might never encounter again. I learned that each autumn doctors,lawyers and other professions sought out his company on the river in the secluded cabin. For those that could not postpone their individual quests;it may have brought some comfort to spend time with someone who had. Each autumn many would seek out his company(myself included) for time at the cabin and on the river. I often looked for the smoke rising from the cabin each morning for it meant a welcome cup of tea and a warm fire within.

     Trophies mattered not to this man and for those that sought him out during the fall equinox;it brought an ease to their person to spend time with him. If one found oneself at the bottom of the marsh in the darkness resulting from some tragedy of Greek like proportions and gravity combined ;you earned a place on the wall of the cabin. He often recounted upon picking up a doctor and his friends one particular cold October morning and expressing his regrets that perhaps his skiff was better designed to make two trips than one. Upon allowance of the request to cut the motor's speed because of the cold water splashing upon his companions in the less than calm waters of the darkness;all found the improper load and the nose of the craft now below the waterline. Two of the guns are still on the bottom of the river on this given day. It was a wise suggestion my father made to visit this man who many had discounted long ago as someone who did not blend with the universe in any tangible way.

     So that morning came and together with my Dad, we set out upon the morning to the bay upon our farm. I with certainly an uneasiness and confidence in my mind that made for a nervous trek in the last few moments of the night. The day unfolded as a spectacular sunrise and the ducks swept into the bay just like my new friend had said they would. For he had warned me to stay patient and wait out the birds after the gunning had started on the' big water 'as he called it. "They will seek out the bays and cover along the shorelines once it starts out there;five minutes passing and you will not be able to keep shells in the gun." He was right and each autumn I head to the same bay and in the darkness;I pause and think about my Dad and my friend for both of them like the small gun shop where I purchased my first shotgun are fixtures in time now. Young hearts are waiting today not unlike mine of so many years ago to make the first trip upon the autumn. Let's not disappoint them.

Here in the South, it is hard to get excited about duck hunting when the thermometer hovers at or over the century mark. Yet, this is the perfect time to begin to prepare for that opening day to ensure your success. And it helps pass the days until the season begins.

Decoys

Most decoys get bagged up or stacked in a corner or shed for the duration of the summer months. Over that time, last year’s muddy anchors, shot holes, scratches, and dents are forgotten about for most hunters who will find to their dismay that their dekes aren’t ready to go on opening day. Guys, these things aren’t free or cheap, so take care of them now. Ideally, you should wash your dekes at the end of the season. But if you didn’t get around to it, now is the next best option.