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

September Beginnings

September's always been my favorite month.  I was probably in my teens before realizing that Labor Day Weekend was not a national celebration of Mississippi's dove opener. Still seems like too much of a good thing to be purely coincidental.

During the pre-hunt rally of a prominent annual dove hunt in North Delta, one of our gracious hosts once commented that no one in attendance was there by accident; that a friend or family member had sincerely wanted them there.  It's true.  However simple the pageantry, or extensive the preparation, surely the truest essence of September dove hunting is family, close friends, and the kind of camaraderie that can only be experienced in parched fields become gray-streaked with mourning doves.

If there's anything better than spent gunpowder lingering in the humid air that very first afternoon, it's the smell of bacon-wrapped dove breasts over a bed of hot charcoal. One of my grandfathers used to slowly sauté doves in a spicy concoction of worcestershire sauce (woostershire being the proper enunciation), butter, lemon juice and black pepper. My mouth waters just thinking about it being ladled onto a plate of rice.  Using the exact recipe it's never as good as remembered, and I always wonder why.

I learned to shoot on a dove field.  The inception of a lifestyle.  I remain mindful of the truly great men that indoctrinated me properly into wingshooting; that instilled the virtues of shooting flighted birds, and spending times afield with those that matter most. Those 2 inveterate sportsmen always finessed their 12-bird limits early and retired to nearby shade.  Never missed the Ole Miss pre-game broadcast.  They'd nurse a beer, watch us youngsters render our own limit, or try, quietly reminisce past times or cuss the game. Old retrievers laid at their feet, panting.

If anything rivals those hallowed days, it's watching my own children's beginnings.  From the shade, I see my sons developing into capable shots.  Into vested conservationists.  Years ago they selected Delta from the litter, and now she is finally showing her years.  Bearing witness as a sacred torch passes from my predecessors' hands into theirs is a fine privilege.

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com

Blanco

Rosybill Pochards (Netta peposaca) are king of South American ducks.  The drake rosybill is synonymous and inseparable with Argentina duck hunting in my mind.  I first became fascinated with them years before ever Argentina duck hunting, while reading about them, seeing photos duck straps heavy with a morning's take.  My first Argentina sighting many years ago: the red fleshy knobs of the drakes' bills contrasted with onyx-black plumage was instantly recognizable from across the wide lagoon as they raced towards our blind.

The French Connection: Spring Snow Goose Hunting in Quebec Canada (Greater Snow Goose Hunting)

Pat and I travelled to Quebec Canada in late-May 2010 for what became one of the best goose hunts either of us have ever experienced.  Greater snow goose hunting in Quebec is a far more rewarding experience than snow goose hunting anywhere else in the world.

Going to Quebec is like going to France in many ways. It's like stepping into another world and culture with the architecture, mannerisms and of course the language which is more French than English. On the mighty St. Lawrence River, I almost expected to see war canoes, enactments of The French and Indian War and the Last of the Mohicans in this area steeped in history. Ramsey and I flew to Quebec City, Quebec and entered another world, another adventure and a promising destination for future clients to enjoy as we did. I must admit I was pleasantly surprised by this trip and wish I could have stayed longer. It easily ranks among the top 5 or 6 destinations I have been to in my world travels.

Ocellated Turkey Hunting: In Edzna's Shadow

It was a hunt I'd wanted to make since seeing an Ocellated turkey the first time. The cerulean spots for which the bird is named, and the bronzed tip and gold saddle, make the bird among the most strikingly beautiful.  I expected Mexico. But the adventure was unlike anything I expected; it was like being immersed in the pages of a National Geographic.  A week spent ocellated turkey hunting in Edzna's shadow is one I'll long remember.

Mazatlan Mexico Duck Hunting Valentine Day 2010

Came home more relaxed than I've been in years.  This definitely qualifies as a favorite "duck hunt".  You'll kill more birds in South America than on this Mazatlan Mexico duck hunt, but the limits are generous and you'll shoot plenty.

Cinnamon teal, blue-wing teal, green-winged teal, whistling ducks (black-bellied and fulvous both), pintail and the almighty Ramzilla, as it's refered to in certainly discreet circles: the northern shoveler.  My blind was fortunate enough to shoot our 20-bird limits daily. The weather was a perfect mid-50s in the morning and mid-80s in the afternoon. Never broke a sweat, never got cold, and thankfully wasn't experiencing the 8-inch snow that fell the night of our departure.

Argentina Duck Hunting Report 2009: Dry with HOT barrels

It's true: In 2009 Argentina experienced a horrific drought, maybe the worst in 100 years. And according to the news media, a flu epidemic swept through the streets of Buenos Aires, infecting every man, woman, child, tango dancer and parakeet in the city of over 13 million. I visited pursuant to my twentieth-something Argentina duck hunt, and I really didn't know what to expect. Called the doctor ahead of travel for some flu meds and antibiotics over the holiday after reading the WSJ, hearing first-hand from a group that got sick while hunting in the southern BA province, and hearing from clients with packed bags that had heard likewise, that flu was inevitable. Loaded an extra supply of Sweet Lucy for good measure.

Landed in BA after a near-sleepless night despite plenty of $5 beers and an Ambien. That bum knee only 61 days post surgery wouldn't get comfortable. I almost admitted to myself that the orthopedic surgeon had been right when he advised against duck hunting in Argentina. Almost.  The dry weather had us hunting way north of our usual area. The drive to the estancia took twice the normal time, a brutal 6 hours. The landscape was parched.

After we'd arrived we quickly ate a late lunch of empanadas, changed cloths and caught the last hour of dove hunting a short drive away. It was good to be out of the truck, in mercifully cold air, away from a supposedly flu-ridden city, and under a great flight of birds. Five boxes of shotshells quickly evaporated. It suddenly felt great to be hunting in Argentina again.  And then the trip took an interesting turn.

Duck hunting is duck hunting the world over. I expect the unexpected. Always. But when the wind is at your back on a gorgeously clear, cold morning while standing in a blind in foot-deep water and have only 8 ducks to show after nearly an hour's worth of duck hunting in Argentina, well, you start to seriously ponder what specifically (of the many) of your egregious transgressions have so upset The Man Upstairs. Comments from the long-time client, friend and PT with whom I shared the blind, I can assure you, did nothing to make the situation more bearable!

We soon learned that the blinds in the grass had shot well but that we'd not heard the vollies because of wind direction.  Puck had removed his ear plugs because he thought he misunderstood hearing that another blind had 78 and was out of ammo. Seven or Eight? Nope, you heard right.  Moments like that, you understand that duck hunting really is duck hunting the world over, that location is everything, and that you best get your butts to the better blind. Quickly. Within the scant 30 minutes of moving, we amassed a respectable 43 with a fair amount of white-faced tree ducks to boot. Argentina, baby.

The following morning was pure magic.  A short walk across shallow water in a marsh with a good hard bottom, lead into a wake of duck you could hear but not see - wings beating and slicing the air; quacks, whistles. With the opening in the grass out front, the wind was quartering slightly into our faces from left to right. Despite the low full moon and dark silhouettes of ducks, I refrained from shooting early. I really don't shoot that well in low light anyway. Besides, it was amazing just watching, listening, absorbing such magnitude of ducks.  It never gets old.

Yellow-billed pintail and speckled teal dominated the morning and the entire week, with a good mixture of Chiloe wigeon and white-cheeked pintail and, to a lesser extent, the occasional red shoveler, cinnamon teal and rosy-bill. In fact there were only two rosy-bills my blind scored on the entire trip and no one even saw a silver teal this time, it was just an unusual Argentina duck hunt in the respect.

The shooting started slowly enough with the acute angle from our backs and distance at which the ducks decoyed, but quickly improved. For the most part it was singles and doubles with one shooter or the other defending their respective side of the blind. The two exceptions to this I can remember were a flock of 4 teal and a massive flock of Chiloe wigeon. So steady was the flight that at one time I rested for a cup of coffee and watched my hunting partner work them over alone.

About 2.5 hours later the shooting commenced, we were completely out of the allotted 5 boxes each of shotshells, it was not quite 10 o'clock, and we had accomplished a shooting feat that will be tough for us to repeat, but rest assured we'll try: we missed the all-time lodge record by 4 ducks, and exceeded my Argentina duck hunting personal best by 46.

The remainder of the week-long hunt was anti-climatic, just your typical world-class Argentina duck hunting during mornings. We shot doves during the afternoons near roosts. One roost in particular that I paced at about a quarter-section had what I'd guess to be a good half-million birds using it. A couple of clients got as ambitious as to shoot a couple cases of shells, but most of us shot a case or far fewer shells, worked on percentages or angles, and visited in between shooting spells.

A pleasant surprise happened mid-way through the week during an otherwise typical afternoon dove hunt in Argentina. Right about the time I'd tired of shooting doves the wild pigeons arrived. Icing on the cake. Ended up shooting "just one more box" 3 or 4, maybe 5 times before calling it quits.  Finally left my position in the field nearly intoxicated from the acrid smell of gunpowder. Not that I complained.

Related Links: Argentina Duck Hunts, Argentina Dove Hunts

Ramsey Russell's GetDucks.com