One Delaware Black Duck

I've always said I'd rather be lucky than good.  I'm usually neither.

Such was the case when, back in mid-December, we left for a week-long Christmas visit with inlaws in Virginia.  It's not that I don't have great inlaws, in that instance I am truly blessed beyond compare.  But no matter how far delayed the migration or poor the hunting, to leave for a week during duck season is neither lucky nor good.

Snap! It really is duck season somewhere.  So I called a friend and begged an invite.

Hank had said, heck yes come up and hunt.  When I telephoned him from Virginia for directions to camp, the hunt report was less than encouraging:

Hank: "It's slow.  Bad slow.  We've not been hunting hard and not killing too many. We still need snow cover up North."

Me: "Story of my life. Every duck hunter's life. So where's camp?"

Hank: "We'll kill a few ducks, but if it weren't for you coming up, I'd be at the office getting something productive done."

Me: "Relax.  I don't want but ONE duck.  Just one."

Hank: "Yeah, yeah, I know. A black duck."

Me: "No.  A banded black duck."

Hank (howling hysterically): "I'm a duck hunter, not a miracle worker, and you're crazy (not exactly his words - there were a few skillfully used expletives tossed in for proper effect, too, but that pretty much sums it.)"

Even in darkness the change was startling as the DC-Metro Beltway ceded to the manicured-looking farms of Delaware and quaint towns wrapped in blinking Christmas cheer.  I was greeted at Hank's camphouse by his black, tail-wagging lab, Ryder.  We looked at property maps, talked about waterfowl hunting, habitat management and conservation practices long into the night.  And it wasn't lost on me that every time the words "black ducks" were mentioned Hank grinned in recalling that I only wanted ONE.

By moonlight we walked through tall, rustling corn stalks that shrouded a 2-acre duck pond.  The smell of saltwater marsh hung in the near-breathless air, reminding me that we were hunting a stubby finger of land pointed into and surrounded on three sides by Bombay Hook National Wildlife Refuge.  Good place for black ducks, Hank had reiterated.

Shooting time arrived soon after the last of Hank's over-sized, hand-flocked (or hand-fuzzed as I called them) decoys had been pitched.  The whir of whistling wings jarred the silence and before we knew it, 3 green-winged teal pitched into the decoys and left 2 shy.  The next half-hour brought a pair of mallards that soon joined them on the blind bench.  We waited.

During the next half-hour, Ryder paced his wet paws in place, looked upward through the blind opening and gently pleaded to the duck gods to bring more.  Reminding me of the commercial, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, I soon made Ryder a deal: "I'll shoot another duck if you'll bring me the band."  Ryder's tail agreeably thumped on the deck.


The sun had risen over the horizon and subdued the blue, predawn darkness with hues of copper-golden lighting.  From the east a duck worked into the spread, too high the first pass, but recognized immediately as a black duck, its white underwings strobing contrast to its burnt umber plumage.  On the final pass, it rounded in low from the east, closer to the water, backlit by sunshine.  A single shot dropped it into the standing corn behind the blind.  I followed Hank and Ryder to watch.

With the duck in his mouth, Ryder passed by Hank and returned toward the blind.  I was directly in his return path, and he handed me the black duck.  My black duck.  A banded black duck.  Probably the first and last time that Ryder ever hands a duck to anyone other than Hank - because great retrievers  are like that - but a deal is a deal!

We shot more decoying mallards for the remainder of the visit, watched them pour into holes after shooting light by the hundreds, but it was all afterglow.   Thanks to a friends Hank and Ryder, I had my one Delaware black duck.

Ramsey Russell, GetDucks.com

Packed for King Eiders

It's a commonly accepted truism: duck hunters are crazy.   Cold and wet is a combination best poured from a frosty mug on a hot summer day.  But leaving Mississippi on a cold January morning bound not for the sun-baked sands of Mexico, but for a 40-square-mile piece of  bare, wind-swept rock situated smack in the middle of the Bering Sea nearly 800 miles northwest of Anchorage - to duck hunt - evokes a whole new realm of insanity.

Unless you're going to hunt the most coveted duck species that is practically unavailable elsewhere in the world: the King Eider.  Then it becomes a matter of dedication.  King eiders make their living diving deep beneath the ocean's surface to feed primarily on molluscs.  They rarely stray far from the fringes of floating ice that comprises the polar ice cap.  I'm reminded of the reality televison series Deadliest Catch, when during the winter opilio crab season there's always the mad rush to pull their traps and avert catastrophe as the ice sweeps southward.  It's that south-bound ice mass that drives king eiders full-force to the shores of St. Paul Island, the northernmost piece of rock for which there exists any practical amenities whatsoever to accommodate duck hunters, or anything else for that matter.

King eider hunting is not for the faint of heart.  Yesterday's forecast was low- to mid-teens with a 25-30 mph wind that whipped windchills deep into negative territory.  Average wind speed is about 15 knots.  That's average.  On the best of days, hunters find protected water in a small boat, and other times hunt from ice-encrusted rocks along the shore's edge.  During the worse of times, hunters hunker inside waiting on horrific winds to abate.  There are about 6 total hours of daylight to hunt.  King eiders seem most active during the first couple.  The limit is 4 king eiders.  Per year.

Besides king eiders, there are a few cold-hardy long-tailed ducks (used to be called oldsquaws), harlequins, and maybe even white-winged scoter.  Spectacled eiders are strictly off-limits to hunting but will sure be a joy to see if the opportunity avails.  The island is rife with feral foxes in many colors that were initially stocked by Russian-immigrant furriers.  That's why the .17 HMR is nestled right next to the recently cleaned, degreased and graphited 12-gauge Citori.

As if actually hunting king eiders in Alaska weren't extreme enough, getting there is equally challenging and not without its own unique risks.  Between unpredictable Alaska weather and PenAir flight schedules, trip interruptions and delays are a when not if situation.  Trip Insurance, check.  Weight is an issue for small commercial airline companies servicing remote Alaska, and just because you make it on board is no guarantee that your checked baggage - with all that state-of-the-art gear designed to keep you warm and dry - will arrive too.  Which makes packing everything you might possibly need an especially daunting task because it is best packed in a carry-on.

I managed to pack all essential items into a 39-pound carry-on: heavy 5mm neoprene waders, a box of 3-inch steel shot, several warm layers, extra wool socks, tobacco, toothbrush, and pocket knife.  Who needs clean boxers for a week at duck camp, or more if weathered in?  I'll let you know how it goes.  Think warm thoughts.

Ramsey Russell, GetDucks.com

Twin Brothers D’Wight and D’Wayne

Pat Pitt regales the members of L'Anguille Lounge Duck Club, of which he is founder and beloved CEO, with a memorable story from his days as an Arkansas duck guide.  As far as we know, the events of this particular hunt hastened his retirement from guiding!   The video was shot the night preceding the 2008 Arkansas Duck Season in Harrisburg, Arkansas, at Mel Redd's Steak Catering.  Mel's is a local establishment made popular with local duck hunters due to their serving the best damned ribeyes ever to grace a styrofoam plate.  Any plate for that matter.  Duck camp: good times, great food, friends.  Waterfowl - and plenty of them - come later.

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com

Sufferin’ Bastard

Sufferin' Bastard by Gil Jackson

An old River Boat Captain on the Mississippi,  Grady Forkum, gave me this recipe many years ago.  I have taken it to all corners of North America on hunting trips; it was very popular at Nash Buckingham's old Beaver Dam Club. It's not moonshine.  It's legal, and easy to prepare if you know what to look for and how to blend it. Three simple ingredients mixed in proper proportion creates this heavenly libation. Here is a passage from an old story I wrote that has the recipe:

Several years ago the Banker and I had become unwitting squires to an old retired waterman.  The Capt'n had been a pilot on the Mississippi River for better than forty years , living a duel life as husband and father between three month stints pushing trade to the delta.  All those long months away from home were hard on the Capt'n, but not without its fair share of rewards.  One of those rewards was being keeper of the key to the vessel's medicine box, and one of the most significant things stored within that box was known by all on board as "Sufferin' Bastard".  It was so named because a crewmen had to be near death for the Capt'n to allow him to partake of it's uncanny healing powers.

The Capt'n passed on his secret to the Banker and I only after we had performed a few chores about his house and barn. It was a matter of fair market value that one should only receive such a time honored formula within the framework of a true southern horse trade.  Once we had fulfilled our commitment to the Capt'n he gave us "THE RECIPE".

He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts before describing his creation. "Men, first off you got to be patient."  Don't rush things 'cause timing is everything.  Do the sweet stuff first, followed by the spicy stuff, then lastly, and most importantly, you gotta' light the fire in it.  Now, if you do exactly as you're instructed you'll find yourself with a gift from The River Gods." The way he started out I couldn't help but ask if he was describing his famous river tonic or his wedding night.  His tone changed to austere when he saw my mind drifting and brought the bow about.  He was in no mood for levity.  After all, you don't want to disclose your trademarked cure-all in a careless manner.

"Look here guys," he said.  "When I'm talking 'bout the sweet stuff, it consists of eight ounces of Grade A clover honey.  The spicy stuff is nothing more than three or four long cinnamon sticks, and the fire in this concoction is one quart of fine bourbon with Kentucky somewhere on its label. It takes a spell for the cinnamon and honey to blend properly with Kentucky's finest export, but once the right ingredients, in due proportion, have been given the time so well deserved, there is hardly an ailment known to mankind that can't be treated. "

I assured the Capt'n that I knew a good bit about Kentucky's artistry with hardwood barrels, and one of my cousins was a bee keeper.  After displaying favor in my response, he continued.

Next he told us to place the ambrosial ingredients in a glass jug, secure the elixir with a tight seal, shake violently for a couple of minutes, then store it in a cool dry place for a year.  At the end of the allotted time open the jug and strain the heavenly libation through cheese cloth to remove any residual wax and what's left of the cinnamon sticks.  The remaining sum total of your efforts will astound your friends and free your tongues for praise when served at room temperature or as a "Hot Christmas Toddy". He finished by saying, " This is for sippin' not drinkin' but if you choose the latter be forewarned it has made grown men run rabbits, and the fairest ladies to loose their resolve."

Capt'n has been gone for many years now, but his river boat elixir has traveled with me far and wide.  Canada to Mexico … Beaver Dam Lake to Reelfoot Lake …. Chesapeake to the prairies of Arkansas , and places in between. I hope the Capt'n is lookin' down smiling every time he sees me start a fresh batch blending.

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com

Of Gumbo by Justin Harrison

Thanks to Justin Harrison, locally-renowned retriever trainer, duck and turkey call maker, outdoor photographer, tale teller, reformed beer maker, aspiring taxidermist, consumate barbeque sauce manufacturer, true hunter and friend for allowing us to reprint this at GetDucks.com .  We look forward to his future contributions here and to front-of-the-line placement at his inevitable book signings.   And you can bet we'll not miss any upcoming cookings.  View Justin's traditional artworks at his web page, http://www.8gaugestudios.com/

There have been numerous influences in my life, but very few have been as strong as the little no named duck club which sat under the pin oaks on the banks of the Ouachita River.  So strong in fact that if the wind blows right, I can shut my eyes and see the characters that made that place so special.  Invariably, you notice Jim, "self-proclaimed" best friend of my father.  Yep, there'd Jim be, or as us kids called him "Cajun", fussin over the roux.  He used one cup of flour and ¾ cup of oil, that according to Jim, was "de' perfectest combonasheeon".

A Lesson in Proper Lead

Watching my children become duck hunters has renewed my enjoyment of waterfowling. Seeing the world through the wondrous eyes of youngsters is like experiencing it all again for the first time. Only better. Wintering songbirds that flit in the adjacent brush, frogs that occasionally share the pit, stray feathers or raccoon prints along the muddy shoreline, Dad slipping in the gumbo mud and especially incoming waterfowl: nothing escapes their keen observations.

Maybe More

Last hunt of the season.  Public land, too.  We need go about 3/4 mile deep into the primevial hardwood forest in the pitch black dark of night, well ahead of other possible hunters.  Across: an undulating, Mississippi delta topography, wading waist deep cypress sloughs-deeper if you find a hole, and much colder if you stumble on the wrong submerged obstacle.

Crossing: oak-studded ridges to yet another brake.  Listening to the winter woods awaken: a beaver slapping his tail on the water just around the bend, raucously vocal barred owls sounding off their mating season, a few ducks flushing blindly out of our way, a buck's antlers clashing brush as he departs the thicket.

Decoys deployed, we wait.  Watching: silouettes of a few ducks trading, the stars fading, a pair of bluebirds feeding on mistletoe, two black labs exhaling frosty plumes of steam as they also search the brightening sky intently.

Then: a whir of wings, a splash of water as a pair of wood ducks land a few feet away, another pair darting through the tall snags.  Finally: shooting time arrives and a single shot fells the lone greenhead that came in hell-bent on landing in the small hole enshrouded with buck brush.

Other ducks trickle in.  The rest is history.  It beat a day at the office, or anywhere else for that matter, by 3/4 mile.  Maybe more.

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com