Ever since I became a teenager, with few exceptions the long Thanksgiving weekend was designated for three great days in deer camp with family and friends. Since my wedding took place on the Saturday after Thanksgiving many years ago, that kind of threw a monkey wrench into that year’s hunting holiday outing for all my kith and kin, however. But we survived that hitch, as has my marriage, despite my seldom being home on our anniversary for 35 years, yet the heritage of holiday hunts still lives on.

Even on those rare autumns when I managed to cross paths with a slow-witted whitetail and filled my tag early in the season, deer camp was still on my itinerary for the holiday food, fellowship and fun. Only on a handful of unique instances has the three-day foray changed dates from turkey day weekend, and one in particular comes to mind every year at this particular time. A wild and woolly Thanksgiving Day hunt with several friends was still enjoyed, but that year we opted for water instead of woods and our quarry sported feathers rather than fur.

Foul-weather fowl

Mike Wallace, my cousin and near constant cast and blast companion for years, had taken a mechanical engineering job with a Portland firm the previous winter and our outdoor get-togethers had been few and far between. I was elated with his early November call informing me of his trip home to spend a long holiday weekend with the in-laws. Mike wanted to deer hunt Friday and Saturday, but he wondered if there was any way we could set up a duck hunt for Thanksgiving morning. To that point the Crown of Maine had enjoyed a mild autumn with ducks aplenty on every pond and stream, so I assured him I’d round up some of the “usual suspects” and arrange an early-morning turkey day outing.

With just a few phone calls, a full crew of the old crowd was on board for our hunt. Joining Mike and I would be Bob Palm, Tom Tardiff, Les Smith and Rod Mahan. We had several remote farm ponds and secluded reservoirs in mind to jump shoot at first light. By midmorning we would set out decoy spreads on one or another of the small, often overlooked local lakes and wait for the early-feeding flight ducks to return to their roost waters where we’d be waiting. Chilly nights had already sent most of the thin-skinned blue-winged and green-winged teal flying south, but mallards, black ducks, ring-necks, a few wood ducks and a multitude of mergansers were still on hand.

Our plan was made, everything was in order; it was going to be like, well, shooting ducks in a barrel! Just to make sure everything was perfect for Mike’s homecoming holiday hunt, my buddies and I even avoided specific ponds during our shooting trips over the preceding two weeks. Day by day the excitement was building and we were like kids waiting for Santa’s visit, and then like a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking, Mother Nature and her evil sidekick Jack Frost rained on our parade.

Actually it was snow, and only an inch or so, but the cold front that came with the white stuff and swept over Aroostook for three days was brutal. With only four days left before our Thanksgiving duck hunt, every pond, puddle, bogan and backwater suddenly sported an overcoat of ice. Although I was positive most of the ducks must be on their way south and our outing spoiled, waiting a day or so before calling Mike with the bad news seemed prudent. Perhaps Old Man Winter would give us a break.

At noon Monday Tom Tardiff called with amazing news. He had been checking muskrat traps all morning along the Prestile Stream, a fair-sized waterway that meanders from Easton through several small towns and finally crosses into Canada at the Bridgewater boundary. Tom had collected a fair number of ‘rats, but what he saw far more of were ducks and geese. At five different coves, eddies and long, slow riffles, he had flushed flocks of 20-50 ducks and even a few Canada geese. It seems the local waterfowl sensed an upcoming change in the weather for the better. When frozen off their favorite roost and rest ponds, many opted to take up temporary residence on area brooks and rivers.

As it turned out, that special sixth sense that wildfowl all seem to possess was correct (no wonder they frequently outsmart me). The frigid front moved on and the weather warmed. Not enough to free the lakes and ponds of ice by turkey day, but our gang of gunners didn’t care. Thanks to a little luck and Tom’s trapline, we knew where the birds could be found. I phoned Mike on Wednesday to inform him we would be doing a float hunt rather than jump shoot and to bring appropriate clothing, hip boots and gear. After agreeing on a time to meet, at zero dark hundred Thursday morning, I advised him to drive carefully, we couldn’t afford to lose a shooter since numbers were far in the quarry’s favor.

Float and flush

Our happy half-dozen hunters met in Westfield at the bridge over the Prestile, exchanged pleasantries and formulated a game plan. My truck thermometer hovered at a tolerable 34 degrees as we offloaded my 19-foot square stern Grumman canoe in the black, gloomy half-hour before first light. Les and Bob headed out to take up positions at the head of Mars Hill Pond while Tom and Rod selected Buckley Deadwater, a halfway point, as their ambush site. I promised them 20 minutes to get situated before we started our float and flush assault.

This waterfowling strategy has proven very effective over the years when gunning over decoys or jump shooting can’t be accomplished for some reason. It works like this: a paddler sits in the stern of the canoe quietly propelling the craft downstream while hugging the appropriate shoreline, gliding with the current, hoping to sneak within shotgun range of dabbling ducks. In the bow perches the shooter, scattergun at the ready to waylay birds on the rise. Better than half the time, quick-witted, keen-eyed ducks beat a hasty retreat while still out of range, but on rare occasions when the boat and birds are positioned just right both men actually get a chance to shoot.

All of the ducks and geese which flush out of range don’t get away scot-free. Some end up winging past the stakeout gunners waiting farther downstream; occasionally both sets of shooters get fly-by chances. When the downriver hunters sneak into position, it’s not unusual for them to put up a few ducks, and once in awhile those birds wing upstream toward the approaching boat allowing the floaters a passing shot. Once the canoe reaches the gunners farthest downstream, two different sports take over the boat and the others quickly hopscotch to new hiding sites farther along the waterway.

As the first pink tinges of dawn crept over the trees lining the riverbank, I pushed the canoe into the current and Mike fed shells into his shotgun. Water levels were low due to a dry fall, but the wide, stable Grumman with its diminutive shoe-keel floated over the shallow runs with nary a sound or a scrape. Not five minutes had passed when we heard shots far downstream and grinned knowing our buddies had gotten a chance while sneaking into place. I admonished Mike in a stage whisper to watch the skyline as well as the shoreline for birds as I J-stoked around a wide bend, but the last of my sentence was lost in loud quacking, flailing wings and three loud shotgun reports.

Mike reached over the gunnel to snatch up a hefty black duck that was floating on its back, and I then guided us to shore where it took him only half a minute to search out a hen mallard that had tumbled into the grass on the bank edge. My cousin, hiding a grin, then grudgingly suggested it must be my turn in the bow, in spite of his short tenure. I told him jokingly that by all rights I deserved to stay until my tally also totaled two birds. His response was neither kind nor repeatable. Less than 10 minutes later I was again holding a paddle instead of an autoloader after tumbling one of three fast-retreating wood ducks, a gorgeous full-plumage male that would benefit me not only on the table but also at my fly-tying bench.

After about 50 more minutes, during which Mike and I each missed a couple of times but finally managed to account for two ring-necked ducks, a merganser and an immature male mallard, we beached the boat near Tom and Rod’ s makeshift blind. During our drift downstream there had been sporadic shooting and the boys had made the best of their chances. There were ducks already floating on the quiet backwater when the pair had snuck up to the bankside bushes, and when more than two dozen birds exploded in all directions, six shots upended three mallards and a female woodie back to the water. Pass shooting at ducks, we pushed ahead of the canoe and added three mergansers, two ring-necks and a heavy redleg black duck.

Nearing the limit

Mike and I pushed off for Mars Hill Pond where our sextet would all meet at the boat launch and a new pair would captain the canoe. We didn’t get another shot despite sending five pods of ducks winging downstream, but gunshots in the distance told us Les and Bob were busy. In all they ended up with three brilliantly colored greenheads, a black, a hooded merganser and a ring-neck. Both buddies grinned from ear to ear as they also held up a brace of partridge they bagged on the trail to the water’s edge. Mike and I paddled to the opposite shore where we waded among the reeds to no avail trying to locate a wounded female mallard that sailed out of range.

After portaging the canoe around the Mars Hill dam where Tom and Rod would take over the canoe work, Mike and Les headed for a long open stretch of stream above Pierces’ bridge while Bob and I drove to Robinson and hiked to the head of that village’s pond to hide among the cattails and waylay waterfowl. It would take the best part of an hour for the canoe to float the full distance, and that would leave two more similar sections of stream to float before nearing the Canadian border. Bob and I had just barely left the truck when we heard shots from upstream.

Worried that ducks were already heading our way, we sped up our pace, but 50 yards from the stream we slowed to a stealthy sneak. Before we could even see the water, the quack and gabble of content, feeding mallards could be heard. Spreading out, we made our final approach on hands and knees through the high marsh grass. As agreed, I leapt to my feet when Bob shouted, “Now,” and a mass of nearly a hundred ducks sprang skyward so close they blotted out the horizon as they flapped in every direction. I flat-out missed a mallard so close my shot pattern must have been the size of a baseball, but to my elation a pair of side-by-side ducks fell at my second shot. Bob also accounted for a pair with his first and third charges of pellets.

A quick tally showed us one duck short of our dual limits, so we decided to watch instead of shooting any more. Ducks flew past us steadily, from pairs to dozens at a time of every shape, size and color. I swear every duck in Aroostook was visiting the Prestile Stream that morning. Oddly, despite the constant traffic of feathered quarry, only three shots resounded from upstream after the several initial volleys preceding our arrival at streamside. When the canoe arrived we learned the whole story.

Mike and Les had limited out on the first two passing flocks. Mike’s day was made when his final shot tumbled a full-colored wood duck. Tom and Rod were a duck each short of their limits but didn’t care a bit because resting in the bow of the canoe lay two huge honkers. The pair of geese had been paddling in a quiet side cove when the boys floated silently around the bend and that was the final trio of shots we’d heard.

As we packed our gear in the trucks and loaded the canoe onto the roof racks, everyone agreed that for once some really bad weather produced a really great outcome. Just before parting company, Tom and Rod rubbed it in a bit; we might all be having turkey for Thanksgiving dinner they allowed, but two top hunters would be having stuffed roast goose for Christmas. It really was an outing to give thanks for.

bgravesoutdoors@ainop.com