As I ducked under the rising garage door and stepped into the driveway, that first breath of sharp, frigid air burned the back of my throat just like that strong cough syrup I forced down as a child. My outside thermometer hovered at 26 degrees and a white gauze of frost masked the grass while a heavier coat clung to my truck and the 19-foot aluminum, square-stern Grumman canoe strapped to the roof racks. In the pre-dawn darkness of this early November morn everything had a ghostly translucent cast, each breath drifted away eerily translucent, and even the moon was surrounded by haze. For an avid duck hunter the ambience was perfect.

My reverie was broken as stark headlight beams swept the yard and driveway, ruining my surreal illusion and announcing the arrival of my gunning partners. Bob Palm, Les Smith and Tom Tardiff hopped out to exchange a few pleasantries as I loaded my gun and gear bag into my vehicle. While we waited for the defroster to clear the windshield, we explored the game plan for our morning hunt. Three days of sub-freezing temperatures had socked in the local ponds and small lakes with a thin layer of ice, and driven all the ducks to nearby rivers and streams.

During a short scouting trip the previous day along a stretch of the Prestile Stream in Aroostook County near the New Brunswick border I’d located groups of mallards, blacks, ringnecks and even a few widgeon and wood ducks tipping and dipping for food or sunning on rocks. Every eddy, backwater, bogan, slough and reedy shoreline was alive with waterfowl, and while any attempt to sneak within scattergun range from the wooded river bank would be tough, floating close enough for a shot should work. Although I enjoy all styles of duck hunting, silently paddling a canoe along a serene, winding waterway, enjoying the fall foliage and occasionally flushing a bird or two, is my favorite tactic.

With warmer weather and rain showers forecast for the first of the week, our quartet of dawn drifters had selected this Saturday morning for a sneak and shoot float. In a couple of days the lakes and ponds would be free of their thin coat of ice, and local waterfowl now congregated on the Prestile would have dispersed far and wide again. In all likelihood the next freeze up could very well be permanent, and while local ducks might return to flowing waterways for a few days, soon after they would be winging south in search of warmer climes, open water, and soft, frost-free food fields. Opportunities that actually favor the duck hunters are scarce, so we were going to strike while the ice was cold, so to speak.

Experience had taught us that while stealthy canoe handling always provides some jump shooting, many birds spot or hear us approaching and flush out of range, winging downstream to alight on another quiet run. To increase gunning opportunities and productivity, I’d taken a page from the pheasant hunting brotherhood and began using blockers.

Blockers are the shooters who spread out, take a stand, and wait quietly at the end of a field while other hunters and dogs work toward them from the far end. Since pheasant often run ahead of the two and four-legged hunters, a lot of ringnecks get trapped and take to the air in droves when they reach the blockers, and shooting is fast and furious for a few minutes. By sending a couple buddies a mile or so downstream from where we launch the canoe, and having them hide in the bank-side brush, they get some great pass shooting at ducks we flush ahead of the boat. And sometimes the shoreline shooters turn those birds about face and send them winging back upstream where the guys in the gun boat get another crack.

Less than 20 minutes after leaving my yard and having played dodge the moose with a good size Bullwinkle crossing Route 1 just above Westfield four corners, Les and I parked right beside the Prestile Stream below the village bridge. Bob and Tom had driven on south and would be hiding in wait at Buckley’s deadwater, a hundred yard apart, one above, the other below the wide pool. I had promised to wait 15 minutes before beginning our float, figuring it would take that long for Les and I to untie the canoe, slide it into the water and load our gear and guns. It would be legal shooting time then, and the boys downstream might even get some random morning-flight pass shooting before our canoe began to push ducks their way.

Manhandling the frost-slick canoe from the truck racks while slipping about on the wet grass of an uneven shoreline was a lot like body lifting an unwilling partner while on ice skates. Tricky but possible, and we both managed to stay upright and dry. Les settled into the front canoe seat and I stepped into the stern with one foot, balancing with my paddle, and pushing us into the mild current with my other leg. Amid the sound of riffles bubbling over rocks came the noise of shells being fed into a shotgun magazine, then I saw the barrel silhouetted against the first pink hint of sunrise as Les held the gun at port arms, studying the brook ahead, ready for action.

We had all been a bit worried about water level due to a recent lack of rain, and our fear proved justified as over the first half mile we spent more time dragging our watercraft than floating. Les wondered aloud if his arms might be too tired to shoulder his gun,- if we ever saw a duck. Less than 100 yards passed before we had an answer as I hugged the inside bank rounding a bend and three mallards came up from the cattails right beside us. A female and two mature greenheads headed upstream rather than down, making Les swing to his off side to find a target. I used my paddle to dig in and swing the canoe a bit to improve the angle, and after one warning shot to hurry the trio along the second charge neatly folded a drake just before the birds escaped around the bend behind us.

We stepped out of the boat into knee-deep water, waited for the hefty male mallard to float to us and then admired his vivid plumage. Now it was my turn to be the bow gunner, and just as we were switching places, distant gunfire alerted us that our partners were in place and active. My shooting stint was a short one, for no more had we floated into a long, narrow run guarded by high hardwoods along each bank when five small ducks came buzzing upstream about five feet off the surface. We each froze, allowing the current to guide us, and when the fast moving waterfowl were within 30 yards I snapped my shotgun to my shoulder. Ducks veered in every direction like a starburst of fireworks, but I managed to find one over the vent rib; missed, tumbled it on the second shot, and then sped them along their way with a third ineffective round.

My duck, which I’d initially pegged as a ringbill, turned out to be an immature, but still exquisitely vivid-hued wood duck. Les and I were chatting about this species being delicious table fare, and also offered some great fly tying feathers, when he pointed to the tree line on the near bank. There, budding along a tree limb was a plump partridge. Les switched the number 4 shotshell in his chamber to a #6 and toppled the bird, adding yet another taste treat to the game bag. I argued that since he had just shot another bird it was still my turn in the front of the canoe. Les laughed like a crazy man, and was still chuckling as he passed me the paddle, and climbed into the bow seat.

Over the next 45 minutes we rotated positions three more time and accounted for a black duck, a hen mallard, a double on drake mallards for me and double on ringneck ducks for Les. There were also a couple of missed opportunities mixed in to keep us humble. Every once in awhile we would hear our downstream duo of pass shooters fire a salvo, and when we paddled to shore upon reaching their shooting site, Tom and Bob had a half dozen waterfowl between them as well as a grouse they surprised under an apple tree during their sneak to the shoreline. On a frustrating note, when Tom fired at the partridge, a good size flock of ducks had flushed from the deadwater and neither he nor Bob got a shot due to heavy brush.

Switching roles, Les and I put our buddies on a 15 minute hold while we drove toward Mars Hill, parked by the grass air strip and hot-footed it along the snowmobile trail toward the stream. Conscious of our friends’ earlier mistakes, we hunched down, crept and crawled the last 50 yards to the waters’ edge, hoping the babbling brook would cover our approach. With hand motions I signaled Les to watch upstream and I’d look down, then we sprang upright from behind a wall of reeds and rushes.

While not a single duck was in sight in either direction, about two seconds after our jack-in-the-box appearance a cacophony of sound and a rush of wings exploded not five yards away, just on the other side of the curtain of cattails. Talk about open mouthed and flat-footed! Ducks were catapulting skyward in every direction and to make matters more difficult, since we already had limited out on some species, we had to pick and choose targets carefully. My three shots yielded a pair of emerald green-headed mallards, while Les also cartwheeled a greenhead and his one-bird black duck limit.

We learned later, when Tom and Bob finally floated by, that they had just started paddling when we cut loose. After wading out and collecting our downed birds, a quick tally confirmed our fears; we were limited out! While this is never a bad thing, for Les and I it was torture because we had to sit on the river bank, with empty guns, and allow small groups of ducks to wing past unassailed. To add insult to injury, every five or ten minutes our canoe crew would cut loose on birds, but at least they’re shooting helped us track their progress.

When Bob and Tom finally sidled the canoe to the bank where Les and I were perched, the assemblage of ducks in the boat served proof of their marksmanship. As it happened they too had already limited out, so the next leg of our planned float trip had to be postponed. Our next canoe outing for waterfowl may be a different stretch of the Prestile or perhaps an altogether different river or stream. Ducks in ponds, lakes, reservoirs and even farm fields get hunted heavily throughout the season, that’s why the birds seek refuge along hard to reach stretches of flowing waterways. This is where the technique of floating for ducks really pays off. The ambience and forested surroundings of a secluded stream offer an unequaled atmosphere, and the duck hunting is just as rewarding.

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