Wet weather doesn’t deter hunt’s success Changes OK for sportsmen

“The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry,” said poet Robert Burns. To this I add: especially if the men are duck hunters and Mother Nature steps in and takes a hand.

Buddy Horr, a longtime waterfowling companion from Dedham, and Norm Cousins, a Milford rookie duck and goose hunter, had juggled 12-hour shifts at the Bucksport mill, family obligations, and chores to make a two-day feather foray north. Bill Norsworthy of Presque Isle, always eager to enjoy some duck gunning and hoping to get a bunch of retrieves for his young but well- trained German wirehair, Gabby, threw his camouflage hat in the mix as well. My frequent goose-gunning buddy, Beaver Pierce, also opted to join our merry camo-clad band, so dates and times were set and finalized.

Rain date

Our plan was to float and jump shoot portions of one river and three streams that always attracted loads of black ducks, mallards, green wing teal, and even a few wood ducks. Bunches of birds spent the entire day sunning on exposed rocks or tipping up dabbling in the shallow runs. Every bogan, back water, and eddy held a handful of ducks resting and relaxing.

As the canoe silently floats along, the bow gunner often gets a good shot when the ducks spook and flush. Most of these birds made a beeline downstream in search of another spot to settle in. Since the other hunters have taken up streamside stations in the shoreline brush along narrow sections of the waterway with a good view upstream, they, too, get shots at ducks as they are pushed ahead of the boat.

Everyone in the party takes turns in the canoe, which not only offers great gunning, but some beautiful scenery and frequent sightings of deer, moose, and many other species of birds and animals. It’s a unique and productive style of waterfowling that seldom fails to produce action, and it would have worked this time, too, except for the rain. A steady, heavy rain started Monday and turned to a downpour with nasty winds all night and into Tuesday. When showers continued into Wednesday, I began thinking ark and trying to decipher how big a cubit really is. Thursday was plagued with only intermittent showers, but the damage was done. Rivers and streams were running mud and into flood stage, flowing well back into the bushes. Not only were boat ramps under water but parking lots for many launch sites were flooded, too.

Needless to say, when Buddy and Norman arrived Friday morning, there were no ducks on any local rivers or streams, and without a barge, floating was out of the question. The boys had eagerly awaited this outing all month, and I didn’t want to disappoint them or make a long trip for nothing, so I had to put my thinking cap on and develop an alternate plan. By doing some goose hunting, which hadn’t been on the agenda, as well as some type of duck gunning, I figured I could entertain the troops for two days.

Canadian sunrise

Beaver and I knew where several hundred geese were roosting on a local pond, and each morning the honkers flew out to feed using one of two very precise routes. The big question was, which flight path would they use tomorrow? My choice would yield either a sunrise filled with winging Canada geese or a long morning of clear skies and conversation. After checking the weather forecast, I ran my best guess past Beaver, and he agreed. We both decided on a cut grain field right along the birds’ a.m. flight line for an ambush site.

That candlelight luminescence that shuttles darkness into dawn was caressing the horizon as we finished setting out 120 goose decoys and situating five lay-out blinds. We each settled in, loaded up, and began straining our eyes and ears. Ducks always fly first, and a few swung by to check out the goose spread. Pretty soon a trio of mallards checked too close and Bill and Beaver each culled a greenhead, letting the female wing away. Norm tried his luck at a fast-passing pair a few minutes later but was a bit slow rising from his camo cocoon and just scared them into the next county.

After a lull of about 15 minutes, Beaver asked, “Is this a goose field or a moose field?” A huge cow moose was standing not 75 yards away checking out our decoys. After about five minutes a huge set of antlers appeared above the brush and a hefty bull joined the cow. I grunted at them and they actually began to wander our way, and then the first flock of geese appeared in the distance. Beaver begin waving the wing-shaped attractor flag and Bill, Buddy, and I struck up a woodwind symphony. Mr. and Mrs. Moose took the serenade as their signal to depart.

We coaxed, cajoled, and pleaded with honks, howls, and moans. After a couple of inspection passes, four geese peeled off, set their wings, and glided in. Norman, being a rookie, got to shoot first with Bill and Buddy as backups. Three shots and nary a feather disturbed. Bill dropped one in the decoys and winged another that sailed 200 yards. Buddy tumbled one and finished it when it tried to run off. Gabby, Bill’s Germen wirehair, made quick work of finding and retrieving the wing-tipped honker to fill his master’s two-goose limit.

Norm was muttering in disbelief that he could miss such big birds when another group was calling and coming our way. This time a quartet of Canadas passed by my end of the spread. I anchored a pair, and Beaver jerked the air from under another one. Norm offered a couple of parting shots at the remaining goose with similar results to his first try. We offered our novice a few tidbits of advice: cheek to stock, watch the sight not the bird, and lead twice as much as you think you need to. Buddy and Beaver finished their two-bird limit, but no joy for Norman. Buddy offered Norm the use of his new Beretta Extreme, relieved him of his pump gun, and on the very next chance at a single, the rookie cartwheeled his first goose. A few minutes later we teased in a pair, and Norm culled one to fill his limit. We were all done and picking up the setup by 9 a.m.

Ducks at dusk

I knew if the local ducks couldn’t visit the rivers and streams, birds would be crowded wing to wing on some local backwoods ponds and pot holes. Our group headed home to clean and store our birds, exchange goose gear for duck rigging, load the canoe, and have a late lunch, well seasoned with teasing and retelling the morning trials and tribulations. By 2 p.m. we were trooping through the woods, overloaded with equipment, huffing, puffing, tripping, and tumbling.

Decoy bags and waders hinder balance and agility. Canoes don’t bend well around trees and straight woods paths are nonexistent. Gun cases and paddles catch on or clothesline trees as if made of Velcro. Perseverance finally led us to the shoreline of a secluded pond where Bill and Buddy launched the canoe and began setting out a dozen cork mallard, teal, and black duck decoys. I guided Norm over the blowdowns, under toppled trees, and through thick brush to a small point with a great shooting lane overlooking our line of dekes. I would be 50 yards away at the other end of the spread.

Beaver joined Bill and Buddy in the boat and they paddled 300 yards to the other end of the secluded pothole. Another dozen blocks were set out as well as Bill’s motorized, wing-spinning Mojo-Duck. Leaving Bill, his dog, and Buddy to fend for themselves on a spongy, semi-floating peninsula, Beaver paddled across the pond and took up station near a pot hole in an expanse of thick reeds and cattails. I could hear Beaver loading his shotgun in the afternoon solitude, and as I glanced up to check the setting sun’s position, our first band of birds arrived.

I saw the wings begin to spin on Bill’s Mojo-Duck and so did the incoming mallards, and they swung that way. On the first pass both Bill and Buddy emptied their scatterguns, and then the lone remaining duck swung high along my side of the pond. Norm tried two shots with no luck. When the greenhead got over me, I shot straight up and watched it tumble into the dark growth behind me. I then enjoyed the show at the far end as Gabby made four slick retrieves, leaping in and powering through the water and mud, each time bringing a bird to her master’s hand.

Five mallards favored Norman and I with a pass over our lineup of fake fowl. Norm was on a roll, and not the good kind; three shots and not a feather ruffled, while I managed to smack the water with two ducks. Beaver upended another drake when they passed over his hidey-hole. Not five minutes later a ringbill made the mistake of buzzing by Beaver and paid the price. For the next hour, ducks traded in and out steadily, some stayed behind, most left unscathed.

Our small squad of shotgunners accounted for 14 ducks, and yes, neophyte Norm bagged two. He went into the pond with a full box of 25 shells and had only one left at dusk, but he’s still raving about the hunt. A successful daylong goose and duck combo outing is every waterfowler’s dream, but the best part for our group of gunners was the late flight. As three of us stood on shore and two picked up the last set of decoys, hundreds of ducks began dropping from the sky in the failing light. Dozens splashed down within 25 yards of the canoe, others came over so low a paddle could have whacked them.

Teal arrived in flights that made a sound like ribbon ripping as they swerved and set in. Mallards quacked and chattered up a storm coaxing incoming birds to join the party. Finally a flock of more than 20 geese settled onto the water. When we could no longer see but only hear the waterfowl, we loaded up for the trek out to the trucks. Oddly, even with the extra burden of our birds, the load seemed lighter and the walk shorter. We all agreed that Mother Nature did us a favor this time by canceling our river float for ducks.

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