For starters, teal flew so steadily that we took turns shooting. The rising tide was shrinking the shores when, on a recent afternoon, Galen Ruhlin, Ryan Bridges, and I loaded our gunning gear into Galen’s boat and set a course for a cove that had grown grassier over the years.

Things change: Being primarily vegetarians, teal are attracted to new grass. Coastal black ducks, however, prefer sifting through mud for marine animal life. So it was that, back in the ’60s and ’70s, as soon as the ebbing tide began exposing the cove’s mud flats, flocks of black ducks would begin arriving there like relatives gathering at a will reading. Today, in spite of the encroaching grass, black ducks still use the cove. Their numbers pale, though, in comparison to those of times past.

To avoid overloading the boat, Louis Perry and his blond Labrador retriever “Thunder” had taken a woods trail to the cove. “Teal’ve been flying steady since I got here,” said Louis as the bow of the boat slid onto the grass in front of the blind. Then, “Look there,” pointing to a flock pitching toward the opposite shore. “More right behind ’em.”

There’s nothing like a pup to keep old dogs moving: Ryan, the 11-year-old son of Brian and Pam Bridges of Birch Harbor, wasted no time talking. In setting black duck decoys, which toll all puddle ducks, I noticed he placed the decoys on the water carefully to avoid splashings that would reflect light. And it didn’t go unnoticed that, during our hunt, the youngster didn’t attempt anything – loading his gun, shooting, leaving the blind – without asking permission.

The green-wings continued flying – some flocks swung in on set wings – as we rigged 20 decoys in two separate groups, leaving a space for Thunder to swim through. Directly, with the boat hidden, we huddled in the blind. But the game of hurry up and wait commonly associated with duck hunting wasn’t played that afternoon.

Suffice it to say that teal are swift and sporty. No sooner were our guns loaded when three came tolling in from the left. Like darts flung high against the cerulean sky, the ducks swept over us, banked sharply, and tumbled down to the decoys like falling leaves. Two fell loosely to the water as the reports of 12 gauge guns rolled across the bay. The third teal, obviously wing-tipped, glided across the cove, splashed down, and skimmed into the grass on the right-hand shore.

Now, here’s where a retriever earns its Alpo. With Thunder in tow, Louis left the blind and walked to where the teal had taken cover. Within seconds of reaching the spot – marked in line with a birch stub – Thunder’s tail began whipping. Moments later, the excited Lab fetched the duck. If not for the dog, the teal undoubtedly would have become a meal for a fox.

By the time Louis and Thunder returned to the blind, two more teal were floating feet up in the decoys. And while the dog fetched them, a flock of five dropped out of nowhere and lit on the water just beyond the decoys. Paddling along as if they owned the place, the teal paid no attention to Thunder or to Louis standing outside the blind.

As always, the swimming ducks attracted others. When another flock came straight at us on set wings, Galen said, “Take ’em, Tom.”

“I’ve shot a couple, you take ’em, Louis.”

“I don’t want ’em. I’m just here to smell the powder.” That left Ryan, who didn’t have to be told twice. When a teal folded at his shot, I dropped one as the others immediately towered, then wobbled another going away. The duck scaled across the channel to our left, lit near a grassy point a strong 100 yards from the blind, and swam ashore. The stage was set for Thunder’s encore.

Because the retriever didn’t see the duck go down, Galen and Ryan fetched the boat and ferried the retriever across the channel. Once ashore, it took Thunder only a few minutes to end the game of hide and seek.

And so it went in that coastal cove rimmed by fires of October foliage that would soon burn down to November’s ashy grays. In all honesty, hardly a minute passed without teal in sight: big flocks – which seldom toll – small flocks, singles, pairs; flying high, low, into and out of the bay; winging into the channel and, seconds later, pitching down to the decoys from over the woods behind us.

Scanning the skies, we called the locations of approaching flocks according to the face of a clock: “Flock at 10 o’clock”…”Watch it, 12 o’clock”…”Pair high, 2 o’clock.” But when ducks fly that steadily, shooting becomes monotonous. Hence, we cooled our barrels by letting flocks light and swim, grunting, toward the decoys. When we waved and yelled, the surprised ducks catapulted straight into the air with a watery rush of wings.

Although we could have easily bagged 24 teal – a regular four-duck limit plus two bonus teal each – we unloaded our guns when the tally rplus two bonus teal each – we unloaded our guns when the tally reached 14. Mud was showing along the shores as the shifting wind began shoving the tide out to sea. And, as expected, no sooner did we leave the blind when a flock of five black ducks came winging into the bay and swung toward the decoys. Almost directly over us, with their wings cut back and their heads cocking from side to side, the blacks flared and lifted, their white wing linings reflecting the amber glow of the setting sun.

The trafficking of teal continued as we left the cove and black ducks were arriving from the bay’s outer shores. While watching a pair of blacks set their wings and bank steeply toward the cove that was growing grassier, I thought of the slogan that appears in an advertisement for Scotch whisky: “Some things were never meant to change.”

Tom Hennessey’s columns can be accessed on the BDN Internet page at: www.bangornews.com.