That whole “it’s always darkest just before dawn” analogy is never more true than when you’re loaded down with hunting gear, stumbling around unknown territory in heavy chest waders trying to locate a duck boat. A good hour before dawn the sky was peppered with stars, but the crescent moon gave up only a mere grudging luminescence. Four of us tried to stay in line and upright while following the fast-moving, bouncing and swaying wash of the guide’s flashlight.

When we finally reached the water’s edge, there floated the biggest darn jonboat I’d ever seen. Twenty feet long, knee deep and wide enough to lay down in, this camo-coated barge was our group’s luxury liner to a new world of waterfowling. That’s when it really hit me that we were finally here, about to embark on one of those special outings that earmark an outdoorsman’s memories forever.

Stuttgart, Ark., is proclaimed to be the duck hunting capital of the world and millions of sportsmen swear to that fact based on personal experience. Over the years, Jim Stout of Bangor, Buddy Horr of East Holden, and I had gunned ducks throughout Maine and longingly read dozens of articles and watched many outdoor TV shows about Stuttgart’s tremendous flooded-timber and rice-field hunts. Now we were about to finally experience these unique styles of waterfowling in a flyway state where ducks are so thick the flocks move like clouds across the skyline.

Tit for tat

A few years ago during a three-day weekend trip to a South Carolina plantation to hunt deer and fly fishing for spottail, I’d made some new friends. We had so much fun that I’d invited three of them to the Pine Tree State for a November sea duck hunt, a sport they had never experienced but always wanted to try. Gunning eiders by day and eating lobster every night became a regular fall trip for the South Carolina crew.

Herman Moore was the elder statesman of the southern shooters, and a man who traveled far and wide to hunt and fish. Herman had been a well-known and respected state senator for eight years, then retired and dabbled in high class real estate ventures. Well into his 70s, Herman still brokered a few deals as long as it didn’t interfere with his cast and blast pastimes.

When Herman called out of the blue to tell me how much he’d enjoyed our last sea duck outing, I was very pleased. When he sprang the news he’d just rented a farm in Stuttgart, Ark., for the entire duck hunting season and asked if I’d like to visit for a few days of gunning, I was nearly speechless. After I accepted the invite with enthusiasm, Herman commented that the house had lots of rooms and I should bring Jim and Buddy with me. We had all enjoyed each other’s company during several Maine outings, so it was time to reciprocate, Herman stated, tit for tat.

We discussed dates for the hunt and settled on mid-January, late in the Arkansas season, but a time when all the migrating flight birds were sure to have arrived. Besides the great gunning, trading Maine’s snow and freezing temperatures for bare ground and mid-60s hunting conditions in Stuttgart would be an added benefit, and we would get to extend our puddle duck and goose seasons. Our Pine Tree trio made our travel arrangements, then waited for time to pass like a kid waits for Christmas, with a combination of impatience and enthusiasm.

After landing in Little Rock, a 55-minute drive put us at Herman’s leased farm where an enjoyable reunion over a great supper took place. We sorted out our gunning gear and clothes for the next morning’s hunt, chattering like three kids about to visit Disneyworld, and then we hit the sack early to toss and turn between duck dreams. And now here we were in the Stuttgart starlight, scrambling to load our equipment, shotgun cases, and ourselves into a bobbing boat without taking a dip in the bayou.

Flooded timber

Speaking of Disneyworld, our 20-minute boat trip was reminiscent of the Space Mountain thrill ride. We careened through the flooded forest twisting, turning and bumping off trees and every once in awhile the boat would jolt as the motor hit a stump or caught on bottom. Frequently the guide would slow and shine a light to locate the trail of reflecting thumb tacks pushed into tree trunks to mark our course, then buzz off again. Keeping our arms inside the ride was just common sense as we ricocheted between huge oak trees and I even suggested later that a shoulder harness and roll cage might be a good addition.

What’s hard to comprehend is that folks were hiking, camping, and enjoying weekend cookouts all summer in the large parcel of forest we were boating over. Then just before duck season, the levees were opened to flood the woods with 2-4 feet of water. Dozens of garage-size openings polka dot every plot of timber, each with a huge blind on one side and seats and shelves for gear attached to trees on the other three quadrants to allow the best shooting angle no matter which direction the wind is blowing.

Dawn’s glowing fingers were just penetrating the tall trees as we arrived at our shooting spot, unloaded and hid the boat under the huge brush and leaf- covered blind. Decoy rigs are set out and left all season long in these pot holes so the ducks become accustomed to their presence. Over a hundred colorful dekes ghosted along the water in the rising haze, and the guide moved among them adjusting positions, attaching jerk strings, and starting the wings spinning on the three battery-operated robo-ducks.

No warm comfy blind for us this morning, the wind dictated we set up on the east side of the spread to have the best shots at birds settling down to land into the breeze. Morning gloom and dirty water hide tree roots, stumps, and vines, so our quartet slowly and carefully high stepped to our shooting stations. Wings slashed the air with a sound like ribbon ripping as half a dozen mallards arrived early without a sound. Spotting us in the open, there was lots of quacking as they departed in haste, and our pace to reach cover and our tree seats increased markedly as well.

I was staring up through the myriad of limbs of the tall trees surrounding us, wondering how ducks could possible navigate among the branches when a dozen mallards arrive overhead. We called, kicked water to add motion to the decoys, and hunkered against out respective tree trunks. Circling only once, the birds seemed to dive into the small opening over our spread and tumble like falling leaves through the tall oaks.

“Take ’em, boys,” yelled the guide and scatterguns barked, flames dancing from the bores in the dim overcast. Five ducks stayed behind the fast departing group, and Herman, being a proper southern host, never popped a primer. “Now that’s what treetop flooded timber gunning is about,” he grinned. He sent his Chesapeake retriever, Trigger, for a fast-swimming cripple as Jimmy and the guide waded and waddled to pick up the other birds.

A few minutes later a half-dozen ducks circled twice, watching, wavering, but too wary. They sprinted away on the wind. A trio of birds appeared overhead, and one parachuted into the hole without hesitation. “Your bird, Herman,” I called, and then nearly choked when a full-plumage pintail cartwheeled rather than the expected mallard. Black ducks and mallards we have in Maine aplenty; it was the mature, highly colored gadwalls, spoonbills, and pintails we Pine Tree boys were hoping to bag.

For the first hour, ducks traded back and forth across the sky steadily and every 10 minutes or so a pair or trio would settle into our setup, and we took turns as lead shooter with one backup gunner, just in case. It was Buddy’s turn when two smaller birds weaved downward and between the trees like a blur. Bud scared breakfast out of them on the first shot, sped them up with the second, and tumbled a beautiful gadwall on a long, going-away third shot. In the first hour we had 11 ducks and five species in the bag, and then things slowed for a while.

It seemed like five minutes couldn’t pass without hearing shooting from one of the dozens of other setups spread throughout our large chunk of forest. Suddenly, a barrage of bangs registered from a blind half a mile to the north, and a few minutes later a second fuselage boomed from a rig a quarter mile to the east. Less than three minutes later we heard mallards quacking and heard the whistle of many wings. Before ever spotting the birds, we all knew this was no small flock.

More than two dozen mallards worked the treetops, calling back to our pleading quacks and feeding chuckles: two circles, then three, looking hard as we pulled the decoys about on jerk strings – and then they sprinting away. Before we could question or curse our poor luck, the wad of ducks reappeared, from behind us, formed a twisting, turning funnel like a tornado, and tumbled through the trees into our hole.

“Tag them greenheads,” Herman boomed. Air above the decoys was a moving mass of feathers, and vivid green heads and orange legs flitted among the trunks and branches. Shotguns boomed until everyone was empty and locked open and it literally rained ducks. Our guide had to sidestep and duck one falling bird. Trigger nearly wore himself out grabbing winged birds trying to escape and retrieving distant ducks while we picked up the nearest mallards.

Since it was never going to get any better than this last onslaught, we took a coffee break and enjoyed retelling individual perspectives of how it rained ducks. We were so satisfied, we just watched and enjoyed a couple of times when birds visited, then spooked at us standing by the boat.

By 10 a.m. we were back at the boat launch and, unlike earlier in the morning, could actually see to unload our gear and ducks into the truck. The afternoon was spent scouting, sightseeing, and visiting a huge sporting goods store. Wild long-grain rice and braised duck breast and peach cobbler were the evening feast, all seasoned with plenty of table talk about tomorrow’s hunt. We all agreed on one thing, the big sign at the town line: Stuttgart, Duck Hunting Capital of the World, was no exaggeration.

Outdoor feature writer Bill Graves can be reached via e-mail at bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com