The Sunday of duck opener was not about to slip away from me, whether I was puppy sleep deprived or not. Dad drove up here, we were going to hunt! We got out to our spot with just enough light to not need a headlamp, and there were plenty of ducks on the slough as anticipated. We made a game plan and headed for the south end of the slough. With our current drought conditions there was water on the slough but it was deceptive. There was 3-4 inches at best, and the rest was unholy muck. I set out the dekes in a hurry and they were covered in mud and not moving at all because of the too-shallow water. We managed to pick off two teal, but just as the year before proved, we were in the wrong spot yet again, as the birds would drop down into the pothole, directly opposite us. We made a quick game-plan change and picked-up and re situated. Despite the move, we were fighting epic mud. I know, epic is overused, but this was 2 foot deep sludge that threatened to dislocate ankles. We had mostly poor shooting, but were able to pull down some ducks throughout the morning. Mocha was starting to show her age after the second bird and I was afraid the muck was going to be the end of her. An arrant flock whizzed through and I was able to barely pull down one teal. Mocha went on the bound to collect but by the time she got there my worst fear became reality. It was a cripple, and a lively one at that. She chanced that duck for two minutes in the shit mud. Two minutes was an absolute eternity. I tried to call her off of it but she was not about to let this thing give her the slip. At one point it dove between her legs and she collapsed in the water/mud. When it popped back up she was able to grasp by the skin of her teeth, one foot. the flapping duck dangled from her mouth as she made the labored slop back to our shoreline. She went to the nearest not-muck and I had to track her down. When I got to where she was, she was nowhere to be seen. I was scared out of my mind that she was done. I started to panic when she popped her head between some cattails, tongue out-tail wagging-goofy-shit-eating-grin on her muzzle; sans the duck..... Because he was still alive I figured it was a lost cause, but she came back a minute later with the duck in her mouth.
God bless this dog.
Needless to say, she was pretty much spent for the rest of the hunt and close ducks took a lot of time to retrieve, and I made sure to hold her off of one that sailed way out (I later retrieved it). In the end, we ended up with 9 ducks, a gadwall and 8 teal. Not exactly the big duck hunts of last year, but it was still fun to be out there.
I picked up dekes, grabbed the sailor duck, and Dad dropped our gear by the road and got the car. We took a few pics, tried to find another cripple (total lost cause), and called it a day.
We were mud weary, hungry, and tired. First order of business for the afternoon: FOOD. Dad cooked, I cleaned birds, dealt with pups, and we feasted. The rest of the afternoon was blur and I was not sore or hurting, but every ounce of me was beat. That mud made me stronger, merely because I didn't die.
The next thing on my agenda is to find a few more duck spots that don't include widow-maker mud.
Stay Tuned
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