Pictures Perfect

It's the hunt of a lifetime.  Whether it's your son's first greenhead near home, your best morning hunting ducks in the fabled marshes of Argentina, your Dad's last trip for South Dakota pheasants or what may be your only dove hunt in Cordoba, photographs are the perfect tribute to hunt.  In the fractions of a second that shutters blink, memories that will persist for generations are captured. Keep these tips in mind on your next hunting adventure and you'll produce photos that would make anyone proud.

The Blood Tradition Continues

Mississippi's Youth Deer Season.  After shooting more yesterday than he sometimes does while duck hunting, Duncan convinced me to check the zero on my Grandfather's trusty ol' .308.  It was off.  Way off.  Rezeroed, let him fire a practice round for confidence.  Baby girl went hunting with us that afternoon.  One and a half year-old spike bucks have been deemed cull by MDWFP on our club property.  Perfect.  It walked to within 25 yards and last thing I whispered was that if he missed it wasn't the gun's fault this time.

Baby Girl had stood in the blind so she could see.  The 120-pounder met Jesus the instant Duncan pulled the trigger.  I hit it, Daddy!  And then, to my surprise, came the tears.  First the boy's, then Baby Girl's.   Good.  I think they now properly understand.

A talk - the talk - followed by a couple high-fives.  We climbed down to go see Duncan's trophy. From another blind, Forrest passed on a young, 15-inch six-point, twice.  A sign of the times: he sent me a cell phone pic of the buck, too.  He couldn't lower the boom on a couple wary does, watched turkeys and wished he'd has his airgun to kill the racoon that ambled by.  He and Mom had a great time.  Forrest has two under his belt from preceding seasons.

Duncan was proud to at long last sport the time-honored blood tradition.

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".

2008 Manitoba Hunt Report

There's something about being in Canada during September or October that keeps calling me back for more; that keeps whispering to my subconciousness throughout the year and reminding me of crisp autumn mornings, freshly swathed barley fields, of weathered leaves yellowing by the day.   It's probably those giant, migrator Canadas locking their wings from several hundred yards downwind and sailing majestically into the spread, seemingly suspended, pinned to the blue sky like posters when they've finally finished right above the layout blinds, just hanging there.  If not, then certainly it's the flocks of mallards and pintails that fly off of the small ponds at daylight and swarm the decoys like bees around a hive, or the flocks of snow geese that seem to have seen neither hunter nor decoy before and fly low over the decoys, or land among them.

Manitoba's name is derived of the Algonquian word manitou, meaning spirit.    And I had to wonder: was Louis Riel, founder of the Manitoba Province, and leader of the Metis people of the Canadian prairies, a goose hunter?  Maybe not, but it seems perfectly logical to me that abundant waterfowl had something to do with the name choice.   Manitoba goose hunting does wonder for my spirits.

We arrived for the non-resident Manitoba waterfowl opener, which is always a Monday.  There were plenty of birds to be seen, but the unseasonably warm weather (lows in the 4os and highs in the 60s) combined with ongoing agricultural harvests had the Canada geese, in particular, still widely dispersed in smaller family groups.  Snows and lesser Canadas had begun to make a small showing.  Ducks were plentiful.  Feeding patterns were casual; it'd take some much colder weather to make the birds frantically pour into the fields all day long, and it took good scouting, well-devised game plans and solid shooting to consistently put away birds.

The first morning began with light rainfallwhile putting out decoys in a freshly-swathed barley field.   The farmer had requested hunters to keep the birds off of his livelihood until it the swaths had dried sufficiently to combine.   Within minutes of shooting time, a flurry of ducks bombarded us and we even managed to kill a few.  And then it ended as quickly as it had started.  After 20 or 30 minutes, with no ducks or geese whatsover, a sort of quietness fell over the decoys.

The outfitter broke the silence with a reassurance that the warm weather and clouds had the birds sleeping in and not to worry, that they'd show up. And show up they did!  At precisely 7:35 a.m.

It was like an alarm clock had gone off.  By mid-morning, six limits of ducks were piled behind our respective blinds, and nearly as many greater and lesser Canadas.   We spent the remainder of the day picking birds and preparing jalapeno-cream cheese duck poppers to precede our Canadian dinner fare.

The second morning's weather was similar to the first except that it rained throughout the morning.  During intervals of light wind, the mosquitos took refuge in our layout blinds.  Not that it mattered much: our attentions were on the near-constant flow of snow geese, grays and ducks that trafficked into the spread of 600 silo-socks and kites.  At almost any given time, flocks of geese were working and we shot ducks only when it wasn't likely to spook incoming geese.  the things you see when you're not looking at ducks over a pointed gun barrel: ducks almost knocking your neighbors at off, ducks hovering over the foot of your blind like moths around a dim light, or walking among the decoys.  By the hunt ended we had a nice pile of snows, lesser Canadas and mallards.

The afternoon hunt proved futile with temperatures hovering in the 70s and little wind, but the few ducks that did it, did it big time.  By the time it was dark, we had returned to camp, showered, mixed drinks and finished grilling cayenne-orange-maple duck breasts to share with our growing crowd of friends at the local watering hole. Nearly 70 people showed up for the gathering at the local establishment that night.  In a town of about 250 residents, that's a pretty good showing.  Someone said the next day that 3 bottles of Jagermeister had been depleted.  In addition to beer and other assorted inebriates.  The bar-owner waved off our tab the next day saying only that it was a helluva night, eh, and you boys are welcome back here sooner than later!

You know the week's hunting has been good, and maybe the preceding night a tad too long, when a hunter sleeps in and says he's shot plenty until next year!  So we were a hunter short when we arrived to a clean barley field on the third morning.  Gone were the clouds and rain.  There was a chill in the air.  And a west wind.   For an hour and a half, geese would fly from their roost, over the decoys, turn abruptly and come in with wings cupped and paddles down.  It ended right about the time the sun popped up full over the horizon, perfect timing for our departure to Winnipeg to drop these boys off and pick up new arrivals.

The sun and cooler temps stayed for the remainder of the week.  I greatly enjoyed again seeing the spectacle of Canadian dryfield duck and goose hunting through the eyes of newly-arrived clients.   At this point, I enjoy the people side of it way more than the trigger puling.  The fourth morning was clear again and much cooler.

With very little wind to work with, we placed a small, loose spread of full-body duck and goose decoys with plenty of forward-facing access from almost any direction.  It worked like a charm.  Ducks and geese decoyed perfectly from right, left, forward and rear positions, and everyone had plenty of gunning.  It was over way too soon, but everyone was still grinning ear to ear.

At some point during almost everyone's hunting career comes the realization that ducks and duck hunting the entire world over are just that: ducks and duck hunting.  No guarantees.  Weather, scouting, game plan, luck and ability all factor in to it.  Some days are hunting, and some days are nothing short of spectacular.

Our fifth morning fell well into the latter part of that assesment. It was a few minutes past shooting time before we finished stubbling in the layout blinds and perfectly arranging the spread into position.  For the first time during the week, the wind was howling.  And for the first time during the week, we were glad we'd packed heavy clothes.  It was close to freezing.  We'd no sooner settled into or blinds than someone said geese to the left.  It was game on. The first play consisted of 4 greaters that stayed.  No sooner had Delta brought back 2 than another flock was on the deck.  A few more stayed belly up.

The field had been watched for nearly a week and had started building abruptly when the front started moving in.  From the adjacent slough about a half-mile east, a flock of greaters emerged and started our way.  They turned about 300 yards downwind and started our way.  I counted 9 in all.  They set their wings at about 100 yards, seemed to take forever forthem to sail that distance.  The arrived into the decoys slightly right to left and five, maybe 7 yards off the ground.  All 9 stayed for good.

From up in the stratosphere, a small groups of black dots grew larger.  As they came into focused vision, they materialized as a flock of freshly-arrived lessers.  They cupped the entire way into the decoys, and most hit the ground after the shot was fired.  A quick count was determined, and the father son team from Florida concluded the morning's limit.  The sun was perfectly horizontal when we each hoisted our geese for the photograph. That afternoon found us situated in a narrow finger of swathed barley field that was bordered on three sides by a slough.  The perfect making for an eventful afternoon duck hunt.

The ducks worked beautifully that afternoon.  Everyone got plenty of shooting individually and as a group.  The mallards and pintails arrived in pairs and groups of up to about 1 dozen.   It was leisurely enough that we enjoyed watching each other pick off singles and pairs.  But again, as always, it ended way too quickly.

The final morning was calm and clear.  So calm in fact that after a dozen ducks and as many Canadas,  that had all decoyed beautifully during the first half hour, we abandoned the field spread and retreated to a slough about a quarter-mile north where the ducks had been pouring in all morning.

Having flushed two or three thousand birds when we arrived, we separated into two groups, quickly finished our limit of ducks and picked up 4 more honkers.  It was a perfectly relaxed ending to another stellar Canada hunting trip.  Guests hunting during the week ranged from first-timers to Canada, to experienced clients that had hunted other Canadian provinces, Argentina and Uruguay.  They unanimously agreed that it had been thoroughly enjoyable, had exceeded their expectations, and, too rare these days, provided alot of sugar for their hard-earned dimes.  By the time I had arrived home the next day,  two weeks were already reserved on next year's calendar.  It's that good.

Manitoba Canada Duck and Goose Hunting

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.

Rosybills

It began like many other duck hunts.  Well before daylight. In the pitch darkness.  The sounds of bird life surrounded us. An occasional whir of unseen wings could be heard, slicing through the starlit ceiling that seemed close enough to touch. And that was just it: unlike the preceding five mornings in Argentina, stars shone brightly.  Absent: the fog.  And for the first time in nearly a week, the air felt slightly crisp, seasonably cooler.  We faced towards decoys we could only sense were on the water before us, the wind to our backs.
Surely there would be rosybills this morning.

The walk to our pair of one-man pit blinds had been in total darkness along a slim, submerged rut through dense reeds. The walk had abruptly ended upwind of an opening about a half-acre in size, more long than wide.  The water was about belly deep; deeper in places.  The opening centered a 4-acre wetland.  A good, deep duck hole, heavily protected by reeds and adjacent topography.  Blinds well-concealed in a dense bed of reeds.  Decoys 10-15 yards downwind.  Five boxes of shotshells per man at ready.  Surely there would be rosybills.

If the rosies make a showing, I said quietly, let them work right into the decoys.  The first birds of the morning passed overhead, diminutive shadows far above us.  White-faced tree ducks.

Bob had told me the night before, somewhere between the brick-sized filet mignons and several glasses of Malbec wine that followed, that he had taken up duck hunting in his 50s because in addition to shotgunning, he liked the company.  I'd certainly seen his shooting prowess on several occasions while hunting perdiz, which is similar to his mainstay quail hunting in Arizona, and especially while hunting dove in Cordoba.  The distinction between dove hunting and duck hunting, I opined, manifests in the shooting working birds: decoying ducks, snagging wild birds from the air and deceiving them nearer - is the essence of duck hunting.  To greenhead purists back home, I had described, it is all about landing them among the decoys in flooded timber.  The actual trigger pulling is sometimes entirely secondary.

The world over, watching ducks work is the heartbeat of the hunt.

Chiloe wigeon!

A lone drake came in on cupped wings.  A single shot and Bob folded it.

A pair of silver teal came quickly from behind us, abruptly turned an acrobatic 180 degrees like only teal - everywhere on the face of earth - can do. Our shots dropped them on the water.  Some of ours shots did anyway.

A hectic flurry of birds through the decoys: a pair of white-cheeked pintails, a flock of speckled teal, a pair of ringed teal, a lone cinnamon.  More pintail.  Our barrels started warming from gunfire.  And then the rosybills arrived.

Twelve O'clock, let them get in, right over the blocks.

Rosy-billed pochards lord over the South American wetlands.  Hands down.  They best define duck hunting south of the equator.  By most accounts, rosybills are far from the most attractive South American duck species.  That prize is more popularly awarded to several of the teal, notably the silver or ringed, maybe to the white-cheeked pintail or to the white-faced whistlers.  Rosybills are best described as black, mallard-sized ducks.  The drakes' onyx-colored topsides contrast with white underwings and secondaries.  Its bright, rose-colored namesake is striking, even from a distance. They are strong fliers, oftentimes flying in v-formation.  They decoy as well as - or maybe better than - juvenile mallards.  They remind me especially of canvasbacks, especially when they decoy.  As table fare, they are without peer.   To duck hunters that enjoy shooting strong flying birds over decoys, they are king.  Hunters returning to Argentina or Uruguay often ask not if the hunting is good, but if the rosybill flight has yet arrived.

Bob was situated to the right and I to the left.  With the wind directly behind us, decoying rosybills would approach from out front, and run one of three patterns when they got to the decoys: swoop up to pass over slightly to the right, slightly to the left or split both sides.  Sometimes they would work from right to left, over the decoys perpendicular to the wind, providing us maximum shooting advantage.  Perfect.

The flight wasn't hectic; it was steady.  It was the kind of morning duck hunters live for; the stuff dreams are made of. It was magical.  We took turns shooting.  We selected drakes only, their bright rostrums and black bodies commanded our attention.  Singles, doubles, triples; four for fours, five for fives.  With proper timing two birds were felled with one shot; three for two.  Impossible to get a third shot off with an over and under shotgun!  Still the rosybills came.  Only the odd pair or small flock of teal or pintail lightly seasoned our morning feast of rosybill pochards.  Eighty percent of our bag, we   later determined, was comprised of rosybills.

Let them work, I whispered while watching them from beneath the shadow of my cap brim.

Sometimes flocks would circle wide or high, maybe having seen movement from our quickly loading guns, or having heard us shooting preceding birds.  Or they would make an initial pass a little too high, too left or too right.  Patience.  We let them work.  Motionlessly.  We watched them work.  Savored each play the morning offered.  They might swing over either end of the marsh, or appear to have left entirely.  But they'd eventually come back and into the decoys.  Without hesitation; fully committed.  The way ducks are supposed to do.  Time and time again: right into the decoys.

Heads up, Bob!

Too little warning, too late.  Bob had been concentrating on his side, and I had been working on my side of a large flock of rosybills.  The second of my pair, a large drake, landed solidly on his mounted gun, inches in front of his nose.  An awkward silence followed.  Then we laughed.  Had to time it just right to pull that one off, I said.  Paybacks are hell, he replied.  We laughed again.

Out front, low over the water.  Rosybills continued to decoy.

I connected on each of the last 7 cartridges fired, doubles and a triple, and decided it was enough.  Besides, I didn't want to risk ending the perfect hunt with a miss.  Or three.  I handed Bob my few remaining shells.  A magnificent yellow-billed pintail drake, with a sprig that looked like a falcon, decoyed left to right and was felled with Bob's last shot.  Our hunt had ended.  And still:  rosybills.

In dozens of great Argentina ducks hunts, few rivaled that morning.  Sure, plenty of shot ducks, every shape and size.  That's standard for Argentina and Uruguay duck hunts.  But rarely do rosybills make such a perfect showing.  I don't really hunt ducks in Argentina; I hunt for that one, perfectly magical experience: rosybills.

Ready for your first or next duck hunt of a lifetime? Learn more about Argentina duck hunting with Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com. Related Links: Argentina Duck Hunting, Argentina Duck Hunting Photo Gallery, Uruguay Duck Hunting, Guided Argentina Hunts, Guided Duck Hunts

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com