The Lifeblood of Tradition

Like most of life's best moments, my youngest son, the middle child, posed a big question out of the blue: is there anywhere in the world left to discover, places that no one has ever been?  If so, it was plainly evident by his earnest demeanor, he intended soon to explore and to discover them, barefoot of course, with nothing but his trusty, iron-sighted air rifle slung over his shoulders and a pocket full of loose pellets so that they didn't noisily rattle in the canister like they would, later and inevitably upon his much celebrated return, clatter in his Mother's ill-fated dryer.

A thousand images of a young adventurous boy probing the wildest and most impenetrable corners of the world overwhelmed me.  Before I could speak he continued with the fascinating depiction of discovery and fame that only a young boy with a trusty pellet rifle can conjure.  Good stuff.  I smiled and soaked it in. As it grew quiet except for the hum of all-terrain tires over asphalt, I sensed he awaited an answer. It's a big world full of dark woods and long rivers, I told him, but whether someone's been there before, or even if it's smack in the middle of the world's third-largest city, I shared, it's our true selves that is the most enduring discovery.  Unimpressed, the conversation abruptly turned to the downrange trajectory of flat versus conical pellet types.

Plenty Ducks

Like a former heavyweight prize-fighter that hasn't yet mustered a successful comeback, Mississippi's South Delta oftentimes seems to bear only slight resemblance to its historic reputation.  Back in the days, it is storied, overwintering ducks numbered hundreds of thousands and blanketed the soybean fields that stretched from near Vicksburg to Delta National Forest.

A few years ago while reviewing 30 some-odd-year-old property maps, I learned that among Willow Break LLC 's long list of agriculturally-speculative owners was the prominent former client of my grandfather.  A certain photo I had always pondered was collaborative proof:  the former farming operation presently known as Willow Break is where my old mentor shot his last greenhead in the early 80s.  He struggled to muster the voice for such recollections during our final visit a few years later.

The South Delta landscape has changed.  Dynamic systems that flooded the area naturally for eons have since been beset by engineered feat.  Flooding invariably occurs during the late-spring months when water collects for as far as the human eye can see before "speeding to the Gulf." Large buckshot-clay fields created mostly during my own lifetime to plant gold-like soybeans are again dedicated to young plantation thickets of native hardwood species.  They'll likely not resemble historic stands until my children are old, but already comprise more than a third-million, nearly-contiguous acres of wildlife habitat that structurally offset contemporary agricultural losses caused by backwater flooding. Black bears, long-since endangered in the region, have staged a comeback.

West of the creek that intersects Willow Break, near a hole named Pintail for reasons unknown but misleading, is a 300-feet length of old circle pivot.  It should have been dismantled preceding the farm's reversion to hardwoods. I'm glad it wasn't.  The sagging, metal spans are ensconced in vines; surrounding hardwoods incrementally eclipse its height each year. Were it not for steel cable supports, it'd have long ago collapsed.   Contemplating transformations among south delta people and land, as symbolized by the irrigation relic, sometimes helps to pass time while hunting under its shadow.

When mallards literally carpet the area anymore, it's more likely for hours than for days.  There are ducks, more at some times than others and usually just enough, but nothing like what must certainly have once wintered here.  Duck hunters are eternal optimists: they'll return one future day.

Willow Break's few duck hunters are necessarily dedicated.  Limits are earned. If they say there are no ducks, it means that there are somewhere between zero and a few savvy handfuls of doctorate-eligible ducks that have strategically outmaneuvered local hunters since Eisenhower.  Thriving populations of white-tailed deer and wild hogs are minor consolations when ducks are as stale as last week's donuts. But persistence pays. We hunt regardless.

Smiles creased our faces as we counted about 3 dozen duck silhouettes emerge from the tall, flooded coffee weed covering almost 2 acres in Pintail. Plenty ducks for Duncan and me. Within 15 minutes of sunrise, a crystal-clear December day was imminent.  Anxious to return, ducks paraded in slow, lazy circles overhead as we settled into the south blind.   The brisk north wind blowing directly into our faces, I hoped, would render strategic advantage.  With 4 well-spaced decoys situated far behind, and a pair placed up front for a focal point. We shared a moment absorbing nearby mallard and gadwall murmurings.

A pair of woodies rocketed in abruptly, startling us as we loaded our guns. The plan was unconventionally simple: ducks would seek safety among the coffee weed shadows after sun up, and when they banked over the front decoys to get right with the wind, we'd take them.  By the time a handsome limit of gadwalls and wood ducks hung from my leather strap, Duncan was already half way to his own as the sun crested the horizon.  Spiced with enough great shots to overpower inevitable misses, Duncan soon weighted his strap with 3 mallards.  Like the heft of a new shotgun, heavy duck straps are never burdensome.

We returned to Pintail the morning after Christmas.  The north wind was bitter.  Heavily overcast, it was spitting snow.  Few more than a dozen mallards greeted us.  We placed stools in the coffee weeds and loosely strung 9 decoys in singles, pairs and trios along the periphery, about 45 yards in each direction of our position.  It's hard to hide in the absence of shadows, so we agreed to shoot the first pass low enough over our hide.  Returning in pairs and singles, mallards slid over the cover for a glimpse at the susie softly beckoning them nearer. It took a couple hours, with young Duncan and me shooting our respective sides.  Lively banter between volleys warmed us. There were plenty; the time passed too quickly.

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com

Down River Remembered

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.

Boy’s First Limit: Sandhill Cranes

Have shot many sandhill cranes over the years but usually while set up for geese or ducks. It's been my experience that sandhills are extremely wary and generally require tall shooting unless the hunters are perfectly concealed. I've heard that some crane hunters prefer to shoot small buck shot (lead shot is legal for sandhill cranes). My outfitting partner assured me that tall shots would be the exception if I would just make the long drive to west Texas, saying he really wanted to help Forrest get his first crane.

We arrived to the hunt location, a field adjacent to one of the gazillion playa lakes that dot the west Texas landscape, about 2 hours before shooting time, brushed our blinds (low profile Power Hunters for them, a Finisher for me and Delta), deployed the crane silos and enjoyed shooting stars; the eerily beautiful sound that only a thousand-plus sandhills roosting about 1/4 miles upwind can make. We practiced throwing back the Power Hunter lid and shouldering his 20 guage a few times with Forrest. Even in the dark he began to look like a seasoned pro!

On cue, a pair of sandhills glided silently into the decoys at precisely 6:47. A lone shot from Forrest's 20 gauge cleanly folded the bird on the right and I picked off the retreating bird on the left. Forrest had his first sandhill crane within the first few legal minutes of the hunt! Hungry flocks of sandhills picked up off the roost and departed in all directions for distant fields including the wheat field near which we were hidden. Their distinct calling soon surrounded us.

Within the next half hour, we repeatedly enjoyed the sight of decoying sandhills. So close were the shots, hevi-shot 6's and 20 gauge steel 2's were ample. We yielded first shots to Forrest. I especially enjoyed watching my 8 year-old son picking his shots and accomplishing his first wingshooting limit. It is something I will never forget. The last bird of the morning was Forrest's and it sailed into some tall grass in the roost pond. Not wanting to send Delta after a live bird we glassed the grass for the crane's head for quite awhile. Convinced it was dead, I gave her a line down wind of our mark. Turns out it was alive (the only live one of the morning). Luckily it was a juvenile and Delta was able to quickly subdue it.

You other Dads know what I'm talking about: there's no better feeling like watching your young hunter hoist his first honest-to-God limit ever plucked from the air...

The second morning we setup about one mile west where fields of harvest milo, harvested beans and winter wheat converged. Sandhills had been in each of the fields thick the previous day.

The hunt was a repeat of the first morning, but with only 2 juvenile birds downed. Done by 8 o'clock, my favorite part was just watching Forrest putting it all together. It was brisk, with about a 25 mph wind out of the north, but the boy just won't wear a coat because it impedes his shooting. That's my boy!

Ramsey Russell, GetDucks.com