Editor's note: In light of the USFWS's controversial closure of canvasback hunting the upcoming 2008 waterfowl season, a great weekend of hunting canvasbacks in the South Louisiana marsh is remembered fondly.
The predicted precipitation had arrived. I awakened to the faint sound of lightly falling rain on the roof. I'd felt it coming the night before when exiting Salvo's Restaurant, a customary stop for stuffing myself on fresh, local oysters, blue crabs and shrimp while en-route to Camp Jeff, near Buras, Lousiana.
Weather forecast be damned, I remember thinking; the marsh was more beautiful than it had been since Katrina, when salty storm surge decimated an abundance of aquatic duck groceries. Canvasback hunting had been nothing short of phenomenal. The daily limit was 2 cans for the first time that anyone could remember.
It was about 3 hours before shooting time when I walked outside. Kenton and Jerry, a couple of Jeff's retired hunting partners, were methodically checking the boat and its cargo. Same inspection they've probably done for decades, making sure everything is on-board, in its proper place, fastened securely. Their routine is well-seasoned with the friendly banter and endearing profanities of long-time hunting partners. Check the plug. I checked it already. Check it again. I checked it again. And then later, after they've again checked that the pirogues are properly stacked, secured; again made sure that PFDs, decoys, paddles, anchors, camo skirts, shell buckets, guns and other provisions, necessary and otherwise, are on-board: have you checked the plug?
The boat ramp was eerily vacant for the last Thursday of duck season. There was one other truck. There should have been dozens. We guessed it was the rain. Several phone messages had been left between leaving camp and arriving at the ramp; exact hunting location and estimated time of return given. We were hunting in poor weather, after all. Way down river.
This far south of New Orleans, the Mississippi River is very wide, always dangerous. You can feel its powerful current beneath the boat the minute you come out of the jump, onto the river. Not so much the traffic of ships several stories high, but the wicked snarls of massive wake they leave, create especially treacherous boating conditions. Especially in the dark. Especially in rainfall, when visibility is limited in general. More so when the secondary spotter is limited specifically to one eye peaking from behind the cover of a rain hood. It was a harrowing boat ride towards the Gulf. Always is.
The GPS unit seemed the only light in the world in the pitch black darkness and rain. My white knuckles glowed faintly in its light. It was a relief when we exited the river. Always is. Following a GPS route, we made a convoluted series of rights, lefts and straight aways, only missing our turn once. Maybe twice. With each subsequent turn, the channel grew slightly more narrow, the ubiquitous stands of roseau cane drew slightly nearer to the boat like walls on each side. We arrived, staked the boat, unloaded 3 pirogues, and loaded them with hunting equipment.
The tricky part, for me anyways, was loading ourselves into the pirogue which seemed precariously balanced on a very narrow beam. Always is. In a span of five yards travel, water depth changed from 10 feet in the channel to about 18 inches in the lake we intended to hunt. But the tide was still out. We soon went from easily paddling the pirogues, that skim over water like a freshly-fallen leaf, to digging our paddles into the bottomless muck. I finally got out and dragged. The pirogue contained a wet Kenton, no telling how much wet equipment and, knowing Kenton's certain penchant for preparedness, a kitchen sink. Wet, of course.
After slogging for what felt like miles but was actually much less, sinking from ankle- to knee-deep marsh sludge, swearing off sweets for life, promising God I'd return to the gym sooner than later, and experiencing the pre-onset of my first myocardial infarction it suddenly occurred to me that maybe he was just playing a practical joke on a Mississippi boy. Seriously. He wasn't. You done good, he assured. I dragged it a little further and was soon in ankle-deep water sufficient for paddling again.
It was light, but not quite shooting time, when we arrived to a point of cane that jutted prominently into the lake. We pushed the pirogues into the cane to serve as our steady shooting platform, and erected a small blind in front. The instant the very last decoy landed in the spread with a splash, the rain kicked in a notch or three. Not a torrential downpour, just a steady wet rain. The kind that soaks everything. The kind that makes you wish waterproof really meant waterproof. The kind that makes that big, black half-mile wide raft of ducks out in the center of the lake lift off and vacillate low over the water, like a thick plume of smoke hugging the rails of a roller coaster. Canvasbacks.
Even as viewed through the porthole-opening of my rain hood, the morning appeared perfect when the watch read shooting time. Right! A lone bull can rounded the point on my side, wings cupped, paddles down, and died in a single shot. Left! A lone drake canvasback entered from Jeff's side and cartwheeled in the air following a single, 12-gauge report. Out front! A pair of pintail, and Kenton got in on the action, too. More canvasbacks from out front; from the right, from the left. Jerry dragged down the last from a canvasback trio as it climbed ever higher towards escape. Green-winged teal. Shovelers were fair game, too.
This far south, canvasbacks and pintail limits are the norm; its the remainder of a six duck limit that's often difficult. Besides, gumbo's a culinary equalizer this far south.
Mottled ducks are extremely wary, especially during the last week of season. The only pair we saw ignored our decoys and landed deep into the roseau cane like they had planned for it their entire lives.
According to Jeff, wigeon had been somewhat scarce the entire season. I had seen the pair make a high pass and depart behind us, but through my porthole-view had not seen them turn to Jeff's earnest whistling and begin their descent. All I had seen was that lone bull sprig round the corner, a tad high, crumple gracefully at my single shot. Sumbitch! Expletive! Expletive! From under his rain hood all he'd seen were the wigeon, which had rocketed upward at the shot. The pintail landed with a loud splash and the mistake was forgiven. He promptly took back everything. Except for the sumbitch part, he added a little too quickly.
Limits were quickly accrued. First pintails. Then canvasbacks. An assortment of other ducks quickly followed. If that was the perfect cake, the icing was certainly the uncharacteristically low-flying flock of 5 blues that appeared suddenly from behind, and departed with 2 fewer. It took as long to return to the boat ramp as it had to get down river.
Soaking wet and chilled to the bone in the 50-degree "cold snap", our conditions were quickly remedied with a change of dry clothes, a couple of strong toddys and enthusiastic story telling back at camp. At the lunch table: Pass the bread. Pass the salt and pepper. Pass everything but the sumbitch. Laughter. Jeff's cajun, pot-roasted canvasbacks vanished as quickly as they were placed on the table. The only thing better: knowing there was more of the same waiting Down River the next day. Always is.
Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com
The predicted precipitation had arrived. I awakened to the faint sound of lightly falling rain on the roof. I'd felt it coming the night before when exiting Salvo's Restaurant, a customary stop for stuffing myself on fresh, local oysters, blue crabs and shrimp while en-route to Camp Jeff, near Buras, Lousiana.
Weather forecast be damned, I remember thinking; the marsh was more beautiful than it had been since Katrina, when salty storm surge decimated an abundance of aquatic duck groceries. Canvasback hunting had been nothing short of phenomenal. The daily limit was 2 cans for the first time that anyone could remember.
It was about 3 hours before shooting time when I walked outside. Kenton and Jerry, a couple of Jeff's retired hunting partners, were methodically checking the boat and its cargo. Same inspection they've probably done for decades, making sure everything is on-board, in its proper place, fastened securely. Their routine is well-seasoned with the friendly banter and endearing profanities of long-time hunting partners. Check the plug. I checked it already. Check it again. I checked it again. And then later, after they've again checked that the pirogues are properly stacked, secured; again made sure that PFDs, decoys, paddles, anchors, camo skirts, shell buckets, guns and other provisions, necessary and otherwise, are on-board: have you checked the plug?
The boat ramp was eerily vacant for the last Thursday of duck season. There was one other truck. There should have been dozens. We guessed it was the rain. Several phone messages had been left between leaving camp and arriving at the ramp; exact hunting location and estimated time of return given. We were hunting in poor weather, after all. Way down river.
This far south of New Orleans, the Mississippi River is very wide, always dangerous. You can feel its powerful current beneath the boat the minute you come out of the jump, onto the river. Not so much the traffic of ships several stories high, but the wicked snarls of massive wake they leave, create especially treacherous boating conditions. Especially in the dark. Especially in rainfall, when visibility is limited in general. More so when the secondary spotter is limited specifically to one eye peaking from behind the cover of a rain hood. It was a harrowing boat ride towards the Gulf. Always is.
The GPS unit seemed the only light in the world in the pitch black darkness and rain. My white knuckles glowed faintly in its light. It was a relief when we exited the river. Always is. Following a GPS route, we made a convoluted series of rights, lefts and straight aways, only missing our turn once. Maybe twice. With each subsequent turn, the channel grew slightly more narrow, the ubiquitous stands of roseau cane drew slightly nearer to the boat like walls on each side. We arrived, staked the boat, unloaded 3 pirogues, and loaded them with hunting equipment.
The tricky part, for me anyways, was loading ourselves into the pirogue which seemed precariously balanced on a very narrow beam. Always is. In a span of five yards travel, water depth changed from 10 feet in the channel to about 18 inches in the lake we intended to hunt. But the tide was still out. We soon went from easily paddling the pirogues, that skim over water like a freshly-fallen leaf, to digging our paddles into the bottomless muck. I finally got out and dragged. The pirogue contained a wet Kenton, no telling how much wet equipment and, knowing Kenton's certain penchant for preparedness, a kitchen sink. Wet, of course.
After slogging for what felt like miles but was actually much less, sinking from ankle- to knee-deep marsh sludge, swearing off sweets for life, promising God I'd return to the gym sooner than later, and experiencing the pre-onset of my first myocardial infarction it suddenly occurred to me that maybe he was just playing a practical joke on a Mississippi boy. Seriously. He wasn't. You done good, he assured. I dragged it a little further and was soon in ankle-deep water sufficient for paddling again.
It was light, but not quite shooting time, when we arrived to a point of cane that jutted prominently into the lake. We pushed the pirogues into the cane to serve as our steady shooting platform, and erected a small blind in front. The instant the very last decoy landed in the spread with a splash, the rain kicked in a notch or three. Not a torrential downpour, just a steady wet rain. The kind that soaks everything. The kind that makes you wish waterproof really meant waterproof. The kind that makes that big, black half-mile wide raft of ducks out in the center of the lake lift off and vacillate low over the water, like a thick plume of smoke hugging the rails of a roller coaster. Canvasbacks.
Even as viewed through the porthole-opening of my rain hood, the morning appeared perfect when the watch read shooting time. Right! A lone bull can rounded the point on my side, wings cupped, paddles down, and died in a single shot. Left! A lone drake canvasback entered from Jeff's side and cartwheeled in the air following a single, 12-gauge report. Out front! A pair of pintail, and Kenton got in on the action, too. More canvasbacks from out front; from the right, from the left. Jerry dragged down the last from a canvasback trio as it climbed ever higher towards escape. Green-winged teal. Shovelers were fair game, too.
Mottled ducks are extremely wary, especially during the last week of season. The only pair we saw ignored our decoys and landed deep into the roseau cane like they had planned for it their entire lives.
According to Jeff, wigeon had been somewhat scarce the entire season. I had seen the pair make a high pass and depart behind us, but through my porthole-view had not seen them turn to Jeff's earnest whistling and begin their descent. All I had seen was that lone bull sprig round the corner, a tad high, crumple gracefully at my single shot. Sumbitch! Expletive! Expletive! From under his rain hood all he'd seen were the wigeon, which had rocketed upward at the shot. The pintail landed with a loud splash and the mistake was forgiven. He promptly took back everything. Except for the sumbitch part, he added a little too quickly.
Limits were quickly accrued. First pintails. Then canvasbacks. An assortment of other ducks quickly followed. If that was the perfect cake, the icing was certainly the uncharacteristically low-flying flock of 5 blues that appeared suddenly from behind, and departed with 2 fewer. It took as long to return to the boat ramp as it had to get down river.
Soaking wet and chilled to the bone in the 50-degree "cold snap", our conditions were quickly remedied with a change of dry clothes, a couple of strong toddys and enthusiastic story telling back at camp. At the lunch table: Pass the bread. Pass the salt and pepper. Pass everything but the sumbitch. Laughter. Jeff's cajun, pot-roasted canvasbacks vanished as quickly as they were placed on the table. The only thing better: knowing there was more of the same waiting Down River the next day. Always is.
Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com
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