By Doug Leier

The next time you find yourself kicking cans in the shop, killing time at the gas station or coffee shop with the crew, I ask you to raise a question about favorite ducks.

No doubt the wood duck would garner a share of votes, and the pintail has subtle grace and definition–that pointed tail distinguising it from the other ducks. Maybe a vote or two will crop up for the blue-winged teal, accompanied by the rationale of, “those buggers are fast and hard to hit” … and they are!

The mallard, particularly drake mallards, would likely land at the top of the list for many hunters. The greenhead truly is second to none in North Dakota when you consider about 40-50 percent of all ducks taken are mallards, and about two thirds of those are drakes.

It’s a testament to the mallard’s plentiful population, solid reputation as a good eatin’ duck, and coloration that allows easy differentiation between drakes and hens. Let’s face it, there’s plenty of shovelers and late in the season the drakes are fairly easy to distinguish from hens, but most hunters will take a mallard over a spoonbill, given the opportunity.

A recent study involving thousands of ducks banded in North Dakota and other Central Flyway states and Canadian provinces produced information for biologists and hunters alike to dispel some of the myths of mallard production. One such discussion regards the production of mallards in North Dakota and Canada, as many hunters assume brown ducks that lack full color in late September and early October were raised locally, while field-feeding November mallards with all colors in place are transient late-coming migrants.

The study indicatec a solid majority of banded mallards shot in North Dakota early in the duck season were also banded in North Dakota. After Oct. 28, the proportion of birds recovered in North Dakota that were banded in Canada increased, but local birds were still well represented.

What that means is a lot of North Dakota-raised mallards are still in North Dakota in late October, despite the increased likelihood of shooting a mallard that’s on its way down from Canada.

Hunters in search of picturesque plumaged drakes might assume that the ones with a full set of full-curled tail feathers and not a pinfeather are “big northern mallards, down from Canada.”

That might have been the case a few decades ago when a much greater proportion of the Central Flyway’s mallards nested in Saskatchewan and Manitoba, instead of North Dakota. In the last 20 years or so, due to overall loss of duck breeding habitat in Canada, and a temporary gain in North Dakota with a wet cycle coupled with the peak of the Conservation Reserve Program acreage, North Dakota has attracted a much greater proportion of mallards.

While old hunting stories don’t change much over time, hunting dynamics do. These days, a plump grain-fed greenhead that decoys just before deer season could just as well have been born and raised over in the CRP across the slough, instead of hundreds of miles north on the Canadian prairie.

When you stop and think about it for a second, you’ll realize a drake mallard looks pretty much the same, whether it was raised in Canada or North Dakota. In fact to shoot another hole in the myth, the young-of-the-year North Dakota birds just might even have a slight edge in size and coloration because the nesting mallards stop earlier here than farther north migrating mallards setting the stage for earlier production and longer growth period before the hunting season.

I’ll also acknowledge that local mallard migration does take place and most waterfowlers have experienced many a cold front that pushes some local birds out, with migrating ducks filling in the void several days. It’s little nuances like this that give duck hunters something to kick around over a cup of coffee as they anticipate their next outing in the Prairie Pothole Region of the Midwest.

Leier is a biologist with the Game and Fish Department. He can be reached by email: dleier@nd.gov

Waterfowlers dream of the days where the stratosphere opens up with dropping ducks.

One crisp fall morning in the recent past, I was sitting at a counter waiting on breakfast in Lawton, North Dakota. We were at Doris’ Café, which happens to be attached to the only gas station in town. In my opinion it is probably the last place to get a good breakfast for fewer than five bucks. If you’ve ever been there, you’ll remember it for it’s uniqueness and old-fashioned style. Outside, yellow and brown leaves danced past the gas pumps along the asphalt parking lot. It was like a staged scene from the movie, American Beauty.

A few of the local farmers were mingling near the front door in the bright sun and Dorris was behind the counter. As I sipped on weak coffee, I took note of how Dorris was prepping our breakfast. This isn’t weight watchers, this is a real hometown breakfast. She was frying our eggs in bacon grease, white toast covered in butter, and stirring fresh soup all while smoking a cigarette. This is my kind of place and I would not have rather been anywhere else for breakfast.

“I feel like we should be talking about some important aspect of duck hunting.” My buddy “The Professor” said, breaking the silence. We had been sitting in a decoy spread earlier and had picked up to get breakfast. I don’t recall how many birds we had in the back of my truck, but I imagine that we had a few.

“What do you have in mind there Hot-shot?” Asked Chris Coffey, a friend from the University of North Dakota with a smile.

“How about decoying ducks? Since every time I come to hunt ducks in North Dakota, it seems like you boys take some awfully long shots.” Replied the Professor who was up hunting with the two of us from Kansas.

“Long shots?” Asked Chris.

“You see, we’re a bit different down in Kansas. Around Thanksgiving, the time the mallards show up, my friends and I hunt man made reservoirs. On bright, sunny days with clear blue skies and a cool breeze, most of our shots are under twenty yards,” he explained.

“Clear skies?” Asked Chris.

“Yes. Clear skies. I believe that sunny, windy days are the best for decoying mallards. Good weather for them to see the decoys I imagine. There are days when I question whether or not these birds have even been shot at before,” replied the Professor with a smile.

“Fresh birds.” I muttered, mostly to myself, staring out the window taking in the autumn day.

“Have you ever been duck hunting during a sun shower?” Asked Chris.

“No. I don’t believe so.” Remarked the Professor.

“Well, a few years ago when I was still in high school in Bemidji, I always hunted ducks on a silver-dollar sized beaver pond. Due to a creek draining into the pond it was chalk full of wild rice. 

Now the pond did not hold a lot of birds all the time, but when the weather turned, the mallards sought shelter from the big water in that pond. Plus, during busy times like opening day of the duck season, birds would go there for shelter as well. One day it was partly cloudy and it began to down pour with the sun shining. From seemingly nowhere, flocks of mallards began to trickle into the pond, all of which aimed for my decoys. I was in the process of retrieving the last drake mallard of my daily limit by the time the rain ended. It was the best fifteen minutes of decoying birds I have yet to experience and that is why I think that sun showers are the best time to decoy ducks.” stated Chris.

“Huh? They had good visibility with water on the windshield? Interesting.” Remarked the Professor with a smile.

Just then, Doris plopped a plate with bacon, eggs, and toast in front of me and my attention was drawn to the breakfast. But for just a moment, I paused to capture the scene in my mind that accompanied the story. Even with breakfast merely inches in front me of, I wish I could have been at the beaver pond, with my duck call in hand, the day the mallards came into the decoys during a sun shower.

I wouldn't trade my waterfowl past for anything

I met Dave Easton in the fall of 2000 at the Phi Delta Theta fraternity house on the University of North Dakota campus in Grand Forks. Dave had a burning passion to pursue game in the outdoors and a Jeep. I had three-dozen mallard floaters and knowledge of waterfowl passed down from my father and relatives. Together we were poised to make a great team.

Dave grew up in Colorado were there was few opportunities for him to hunt ducks. His own father was more of an upland hunter who brought Dave to western Nebraska and local game farms to harvest pheasants. To this day, I have yet to encounter an individual who was more excited to experience new ways to hunt and fish.

I was just a freshman and Dave was a sophomore. Before the duck season began, we had agreed that we would hunt together as much as possible. Dave had hunted ducks the season before with a couple older guys in the Frat, who at the time rented a house off-campus. These older Phi’s were kind enough to allow the two of us to store our firearms and the decoys at their home.

It was a time in my life that I will always remember. I was 19 years old, and living on my own for the first time while making new friends. Best of all, I was just forty-five minutes East of some of the best duck hunting in the Central flyway. If I could re-live one duck season, it would be my first fall in North Dakota.

On weekdays, Dave and I would leave the UND campus in the early afternoon after our classes were completed. Once the guns were picked up, yours truly would be riding shotgun in the Jeep, while we coasted west down highway 2 towards the prairie potholes.

Whether or not you that have traveled down highway 2 in North Dakota, I will give you my re-cap. You pass the Grand Forks airport, then the Grand Forks Air Force Base, Turtle River state park, and the ‘big fan’ bridge just before Petersburg. Once you cross the bridge have left the Red River valley and are now in the prairie pothole central.

Those afternoons, Dave and I would just drive around and jump shoot ducks. Gas was cheap, and I had never seen any place like it. It seemed as though every slough contained birds. Coming from Minnesota where my childhood hunts were mostly filled with ‘empty skies’, I thought that I was in paradise.

Dave, the Colorado kid, none the wiser, was thoroughly enjoying the ability to hunt plentiful game with a new friend. Every turn on those dusty gravel roads contained new experiences for the both of us. Species of ducks, first doubles, triples, leg bands and the bag limits that had eluded me through my early years of waterfowl hunting.

Dave and I would occasionally wake up before daybreak and set out decoys on several small potholes that we had become fond of. We rarely shot our limits over these sets, but we enjoyed seeing the sunrises that many of our fellow college students missed.

Back on campus, Dave and I would clean plump mallards, gadwalls, teal and the occasional diver in the girl’s bathroom of the Frat house. This is also where we cleaned the perch and northern we pulled through the ice in the wintertime. In the kitchen, we would mix duck breasts with any spices we could find and share them with our Frat brothers.

Our good friend Phil Bettenburg occasionally joined us on our duck hunts and the three of us go on a fishing trip every summer to this day. In the latter years of college, Dave and I discovered field hunting for ducks and geese along with many new hunting partners. Some experienced, some not. By the time we both graduated and parted ways we had learned a ton about waterfowl hunting through those experiences.

Towards the end we did not hunt as much together as I would have liked. Goals and opinions changed, and educations needed to be completed in the classroom, not just the outdoors. I would not trade those memories of the carefree early years for anything.

On one crisp October afternoon, Dave shot a nice drake mallard just west of Petersburg, North Dakota. I, being a good friend and the one with waders on, retrieved the bird for him. To my surprise it was banded! At that time I had only seen two other banded birds harvested.

That mallard was banded in North Dakota at the J. Clark Wildlife Refuge. It was 12 years old when it met its fate at the hand of Dave’s steel 2s. Traveling up and down the flyway on that old North Dakota bird, the Avise bird band is a great memento and a true jewel. Dave’s band now hangs on my lanyard, and I think about those days every time I glance down at it. Dave gave it to me because he says that he never cared as much about the band as I did. He was more into mental aspects of the hunt, memories and experiences. That is something that any waterfowl can respect and a tribute to the importance of our early waterfowl memories.

Nebraska duck hunting is full of opportunties, including an early teal season

Ever since I heard of the early teal seasons held by states south of Minnesota and North Dakota, I have wanted to participate in one of these hunts. When I first started hunting with my friend J.D. from Omaha, he told me tales of hunting these little ducks in September. Finally, this fall my schedule was clear enough for me to make it down to Nebraska for the second weekend of their season.

Thursday afternoon raindrops bounced off the hood of my Chevy truck as we cruised west on Interstate 80 out of Omaha. JD was sitting shotgun, Chris was in the back seat, I was driving, and Stella was in the kennel in the back. The windshield wipers danced to and fro. I was pumped to have the opportunity to harvest a few ducks in September, before my home state of Minnesota’s waterfowl season opened.

When we arrived at the area we were going to hunt, the rain had died a little but there was still heavy cloud cover. The three of us checked out a few wetlands that J.D. has hunted since his youth. We were looking for bird numbers as well as water levels in these places. Every wetland with the right water level held birds.

It did not take much scouting for us to figure out a spot for a quick evening hunt. We sat and watched as we put together a basic game plan for the morning. Teal are small ducks and do not require a lot of equipment to hunt in September. That afternoon, we carried a decoy bag with 2 mallards and 18 teal decoys inside. Throw in a spinner and a handful of shells and we were good to go.

The evening flight wasn’t very strong that afternoon but we managed to shoot four Blue-wings. It was a good first duck hunt for my father’s year old black lab Stella. She got to make four retrieves and get accustomed to duck hunting in a controlled setting. I shot my first early season teal.

Grilled bacon wrapped teal was on the menu at our hotel room Friday night. That morning we had been provided with a much stronger flight of teal on the other side of the marsh. Three of us had harvested a limit and were back at the truck by 9:30 am. Seven Blue-wings and five Green-wings were the take. All had naps, including the puppy Stella.

Not surprisingly, Saturday morning we had company in another wetland, which was large enough for two groups. We heard shots from other hunters in the area as well and the birds were moving around. Another 12-bird limit was taken, nine Blue-wings and three Green-wings. We were back to the hotel a little earlier then the previous day, no thanks to poor shooting from yours truly.

Chris had to get back to Omaha for a wedding that afternoon. J.D. and I scouted and caught the Huskers football game that evening. Believe it or not I was the only person in the bar not wearing a red t-shirt. After the game, we celebrated the Big Red victory with another round of grilled duck.

The following morning we traded flocks of teal decoying into a shallow marsh as they fought a strong wind. Stella was steady and we shot a limit by seven thirty. Like the dog work, my shooting had improved since our first hunt. I harvested three teal with as many shots on the way to filling my daily bag.

I listened to the Vikings football game on the am radio as I drove home, and reflected on the hunt. It felt pretty good to have already harvested a few ducks in mid-September. I have always enjoyed hunting teal, and believe that I will continue to take advantage of the opportunities they provide in other states.

It was right around first light when I ventured outside of our sleeping quarters at J. Clark Salyer National Refuge Headquarters near Upham, ND last week (in early September). I noticed the picnic table was still full of grills, empty plates of goose, and some empty beer cans. Luckily, I packed it in a bit early the night before and at that moment I was glad I did. The morning was perfect; a slight cool in the air, no clouds, and not a breath of wind. I will admit I was pretty anxious that morning. We were scheduled within a half hour to participate in a duck banding project. I had seen it done on television before so I knew what was coming, but I had the jitters to see it for myself.

Gradually, one by one the gang from the West Dakota Waterfowlers chapter of Delta Waterfowl (Minot, ND) was coming out the door at “The Barn”, where we slept the night before. All the while, the parking lot in front of our place was starting to fill with arriving vehicles. There was going to be quite a crew this morning it appeared. USFWS employees, Delta Waterfowl chapter members, a Bird Flu crew from the Univeristy of Minnesota, wives, kids…all walks of life stood around the parking lot. I was beginning to wonder when this would begin, and shortly thereafter one of the refuge managers came over with a bit of concern on his face. “I’m not sure if it’s going to go off this morning,” he explains in a quiet voice. “Yesterday some raccoons messed with the nets and it didn’t go off, and lately the birds have been spooky. The closer it gets to sunup, the less of a chance at a successful netting.” I looked over my shoulder and saw what appeared to be a sun struggling to make an appearance over the marsh to the East. “Just my luck” I thought to myself with a grin.
 
BOOOOOOOOOOM! I could hear in the distance. What sounded like the start of 4th of July sent everyone in the parking lot scrambling to their vehicles. Within moments, around 15 vehicles pealed out of the parking lot in a single file motion. Without explanation everyone knew that it was the sound of the nets going off at the banding site. It was only a half mile or so from the headquarters, so we didn’t have far to go.

As we came down the road we could see a few people running around and jumping on the large net in the distance as ducks were piling out of the opening in the net. As we approached it appeared that things were under control and there wouldn’t be much time wasted in getting started. Todd Grant, of the US Fish & Wildlife Service, reached into the net and picked out a drake mallard.

As he reached down to demonstrate how ducks are to be handled and the banding process, he was quick to notice that this bird was already sporting some jewelry. In fact, it was double banded. After a short joke and some laughs (which I unfortunately missed while getting my camera out of it’s case), he proceeded with another duck. “Hold the duck right where the neck meets the breast, this way it won’t choke the bird. If the duck is flopping all over and pooping on you…you’re not holding it right. If it’s sitting still and pooping on you, you’re holding it right.” And they weren’t kidding on the poop either (do I detect a future episode of Dirty Jobs?).

The process was pretty efficient that morning. The ducks were taken out of the nets and separated into sex and species. There was 2 different stations where the volunteers take the ducks to get banded. As they were banded, they were inspected for various information such as whether or not it was a young or mature bird. One-by-one, everyone in the group was given a turn to band their own duck. The USFWS employees were patient and courteous, and full of knowledge on the project. There was so much to take in and the kids had an absolute blast.

After each bird was banded, it was then taken over to the group studying avian influenza (Bird Flu). There was a group of a half dozen from the U of M. that was partnered with the US Department of Health. They took swabs of the orifices of each individual duck to be sent off to be sampled. After they were swabbed, they were immediately released back to the refuge marsh. This process went pretty quickly as we emptied the net in just a couple hours.

Afterwards, the groups stuck around for awhile trading stories and then everyone said their goodbyes. Some kids were going back to school, some of us heading back to the office. You could feel the enthusiasm and the feeling of reward in the air, and the migrant flights of lesser canadas that flew over that morning reminded everyone the fall was around the corner.

Turn back the clock about 16 years ago to the fall of 1992 – the year I got my first duck band. I could go on about some exotic story of where it came from and where it had been taken, but that duck was banded at J. Clark Salyer Refuge (and the field was only 5 miles away). But since that time, I’ve been interested in seeing for myself where the bands came from and how’s it done.

Duck bands have and always will hold that mystic quality to them. A welcome surprise that tells a story of a duck’s past. From now on, duck bands that I encounter will always make me ponder the possibility it came from our net.

The day ended up with 225 ducks being caught in the net, and one coot was released. As one of the banders stated, only around 30% of the ducks get caught in the nets. And given the recent circumstances, they were happy with the results. I’m really hoping I get the chance to participate in this again, and I have a deeper respect for the future of ducks.

I want to thank the West Dakota Waterfowlers Delta Waterfowl Chapter in Minot, ND for allowing me to tag along with your group. I also want to thank the staff at J. Clark Salyer Refuge and the USFWS for their courtesy and hospitality.

There's more than canvasback hunting on Lake Catahoula

The Internet is a beautiful thing. It has given me hunting opportunities I only dreamed of as a young boy paging through outdoor magazines wishing to hunt ducks in the exotic places featured in the stories. So… when I got the chance to hunt waterfowl on Louisiana’s Lake Catahoula how could I say no?

My good friend Matt Jones has been in contact with a great man, a true waterfowl hunter known only in this article as “Duckster”, for many years on various hunting websites. Duckster and his hunting buddies have a comfortable duck camp on Lake Catahoula with a beautiful view of the lake. Matt is a taxidermist at the Sportsman’s Taxidermy Studio in East Grand Forks, MN and wished to travel to Louisiana to hunt full-plumage ducks. Joining him would be the owner and operator of Sportsman’s Taxidermy Studio Jim Benson, Matt Vanderpan of Grand Forks and myself.

In North Dakota, hunters have been blessed with an abundance of waterfowl. I like shooting mallards in fields as much as the next guy, but every once and awhile I like a change of scenery. One thing I believe North Dakota hunters need to do more often is visit other states to pursue waterfowl and see how truly blessed they are.

When the four of us arrived at Duckster’s hunting camp on Thursday afternoon it was dark. Waves from Lake Catahoula quietly swept up against the shore and the stars shone extra bright against the Southern sky. It was the last weekend in January and the last weekend for waterfowl hunting in Louisiana. Pork chops, sausage, white beans, rice and fresh brownies awaited us. By the time I would return to the North, I would understand the true meaning of “Southern hospitality”.

The duck camp was a haven where people could relax and enjoy themselves. Duckster only had one rule for us Northerners, “Do not wash the caste iron pans with dish soap.” Other than that, anything went. It was my kind of place.

On the wall of the duck shack there is an article about the 1985 duck season forecast. “Duck Shortage Means Shorter Season” is the title of it. The paper has turned yellow but the message is clear. Droughts across the prairie and changes in farm practices had resulted in less than ideal breeding conditions. Fortunately today the duck populations indicate “liberal” hunting seasons. As waterfowl hunters we must still keep one eye on conservation to keep the topic from the 1985 article from repeating.

Duckster had informed us that the water levels on Lake Catahoula were about twelve feet higher than normal. The abundance of water had spread a lot of the ducks out into the rice fields. Hunting had been slow the last couple days, especially for puddle ducks.

Friday morning we awoke to fresh biscuits and a plate full of sausage and bacon. Duckster was kind enough not to wake us weary travelers until coffee was brewed and breakfast was ready. Outside it was calm with the familiar summer sound of crickets chirping. I was glad to be in a more comfortable weather.

After gear was loaded into a duck boat that rested upon a trailer we headed to the lake to launch. The four of us Northern boys rode in the boat while Duckster drove his tractor that pulled the boat. It reminded me of going on hayrides as a kid to pick out perfect pumpkin for carving.

Hunting canvasbacks in style

After an easy ride across the calm water to a hole surrounded by flooded treetops we slipped into a floating blind. I was highly impressed by these floating blinds; they are probably the slickest structures I have ever hunted ducks from. Already set in front of us was a mix of mallard and pintail decoys. In the mix there was also several dozen bleach jugs with the ends painted black to mimic resting Canvasbacks. The five of us quietly awaited the morning flight.

The ducks that flew Friday morning did their best to stay clear of our decoys. The lack of wind did not help our cause either. Most of the ducks did not fly, and rested instead on large rafts in open water bays. That is hunting.

We did manage to take a single canvasback before we broke for lunch back at the camp. The wind was going to pick up towards evening and we would surely hunt again. On the way back Duckster checked one of his “trot lines” that was set the previous day. It was a twenty five-hook set but there was only one catfish on the line. It was my first experience checking a trotline.

As we drove across the lake we could see the sun reflecting white off of thousands of rafting canvasbacks. There were so many birds that they almost appeared to be snow geese. Wide eyed, Matt Jones leaned over and whispered to me, “This must be what Lake Christina and Heron looked like years ago in Minnesota.” Today Lake Catahoula in central Louisiana winters between 150,000 and 200,000 canvasbacks.

By the time the sunset across Lake Catahoula, signaling the end of the first day of hunting, several firsts had occurred in my life. It was the first time I had been to Louisiana, the first time my hunting party has taken a limit of Canvasbacks, and the first time I had shot a duck in January.

I awoke on Saturday morning to the smell of fresh biscuits, sausage and bacon. Even after feasting on boiled crawfish, corn, and potatoes the night before I managed to scarf two biscuits and multiple pieces of bacon. Staying at Duckster’s duck camp on Lake Catahoula in Central Louisiana was like being royalty.

On this particular morning, the second of our three-day trip, we would be hunting in a Cyprus swamp named William’s Lake. Duckster, our friend from the South, has a permanent blind and another duck shack there. The sky was spitting light rain and the temps were in the mid-20s. We let the two Ford pick-ups warm up for awhile before heading out with a single boat in tow.

A quick, twenty-mile drive brought us to a locked gate, which was the only access I know of to the private Cyprus swamp. It was still dark, but I could make out ghostly outlines of flooded Cyprus trees wrapped in Spanish moss at the boat launch.

The five us loaded gear and guns into the duck boat, and Duckster backed it down the launch into the quiet water. By the poise Duckster had on the boat landing, and the way he kept his boats rigged, you could tell this was not his first voyage into the swamp. Duckster tied a rope to the trailer, which was also attached to the boat. By doing so when he backed the boat into the water, it did not float away. What I cherish the most from new hunting experiences are the little things like that which can be applied to waterfowl hunting everywhere.

A nice bag of canvasbacks

Duckster slowly maneuvered our boat through the trees in the predawn darkness. It was exciting and eerie to be in place I’d never see before in any light. Before we reached the blind we made a quick detour to the duck shack, which could only be accessed by boat with the high water levels in the area. The shack had no electricity or running water. Duckster had earlier decided that as “Northern Boys” we should probably stay with the comforts of the camp at Lake Catahoula for our first Louisiana trip. Our next trip however, may be a different story.

Just before shooting time we pulled the boat into the boat garage attached to the back of the blind and climbed up onto the shooting platform. As I loaded my scattergun I heard the cries of distant wood ducks in the trees surrounding the swamp. Shortly afterwards wood ducks began to fly. Singles, doubles, and little flocks flew, staying out of our blind’s reach, knowing instinctively the safe passages through the trees.

Duckster explained to us that wood ducks are one species of duck that are born and raised in Louisiana. Sure most wood ducks are migratory, but some have been around those Louisiana waters since the opening day of the season, making them just as wary and sly as our own local mallards back home.

Unfortunately, neither the weather nor the birds co-operated that soggy morning. Around ten we left the blind, stopped at the duck shack and took a walk for a different view.

Duckster led us down paths through the woods where he has walked with his father and other family members for years. Like North Dakotans, there are deep-rooted family traditions in Louisiana when it comes to hunting and fishing. The terrain we walked was very similar to ours as well. If I hadn’t known better we could have been in Northern Minnesota, except for the unique tracks left by the Armadillos.

Along the way Duckster pointed out some of the better spots for harvesting squirrels and deer. Louisiana has both a fall and spring squirrel season. For some reason squirrel hunting is not as popular in the Midwest as it is in the South. I believe that the South has more of a tradition of hunting and fishing for substance. Duckster told me one of his observations while visiting the North was, “Seeing all the critters running around.”

The five of us hunted that afternoon and the following morning back on Lake Catahoula. We shot a couple more birds and ate terrific home-cooked food. Memories were made and good times were had. Duckster apologized for the lack of decoying birds, but it was not necessary as we were all very satisfied with the trip. The experience of being part of the last day in the Louisiana duck season, the company, beautiful scenery, and pleasant weather were enough to keep me satisfied.

Author at the age of 16 holding the 2-man bag for the night

When I look back at the hunting and fishing memories throughout the years, I can really tell how much it influenced the blueprint of my life. I can remember my first walleye, largemouth bass, pheasant, and duck to name a few like it was just yesterday. But more than just the creature itself, what often sticks out most is the place. And there are only so many places that are so, well, perfect in every way that you look forward all year to returning. And one of those places towards the top of the list was Dead End Slough.

If I were to paint the perfect setting, environment, and ingredients for a duck hole, this place had it all. It was a small 3-4 acre slough in the Devils Lake region that seemed about as far away from everywhere like so many places I enjoy in the state of North Dakota. To get there, one had to make a 30-mile minimum drive from the nearest hotel. It wasn’t a place that you could easily give directions as it requires a lot of turns, curved roads, prairie trails, and a 400 yard hike into the middle of a field. It got the name Dead End Slough because you felt like you were driving forever only to end up at a dead end with a 3-mile slow retreat to get back to where you started off gravel. The slough was surrounded by cattails and during the years we frequented it back in 1993-95 (during the beginning of the wet cycle), it was around 6-18 inches deep. It was generally round, but a point stuck into the middle from the south end like the shape of a fortune cookie. The water had a variety of weeds that the ducks liked and had a lot of open holes. No matter which direction the wind blew, we could use that point for cover and create a hole for the ducks to fill. And oh boy did the ducks fill this slough.

I  understand that hunting is more than just the kill, it’s the sites, smells, friends and family, and at times when the cold front came through just right, you could almost taste it in the air. But this place was just one of those places that hailed ducks every time we stepped into it. It didn’t matter if it was a bluebird day or a nasty Canadian clipper; the ducks came from everywhere. It was at Dead End Slough where it dawned on me how ducks use certain water as a transition slough to and from their morning and evening feed.
I remember the first time we stumbled upon the place. We questioned whether or not we were doing the right thing by taking this bumpy prairie road in the first place. When we reached it, I can remember the cussing and “I told you so’s” that flew around the truck. But wait…”did you see that? About a dozen ducks just locked up and dropped in like falling stars. Look, there’s more too!” We sat there and watched a constant flight of ducks dropping in about an hour before sundown. And soon after as more came, some flew off and started dropping into a stubble field ¾ of mile to the East. The birds came and went by the thousands; the excitement was unbearable.

We learned how to take our time and shoot drakes at an early age

The next morning we drove down that dead end road and parked by a small clump of trees. 3 of us carried our guns, gear and a decoy bag each over our shoulder. After that long 400-yard hike to the NE we found ourselves at the middle, west end of the slough, and we could hear a few ducks scatter upon our arrival. At first we were concerned about the fact that only a few dozen ducks left the slough when we saw thousands the night before. “They have to come back, there was just too many not to come back” we kept telling ourselves in confidence. “Let’s just setup and see what happens.”

The sun was just starting to paint the sky to the east and it was starting to reflect on the water. We didn’t know when we first started to toss out our duck floaters that there was a point in the middle. When it showed itself in the light it was like an artist painting the perfect setup for a would-be framed and matted print. We immediately decided to abort our current plan of setting up on the west end and move our setup to that point.

The infamous point at Dead End Slough

With our waders on we were standing in about 12 inches of water and surrounded by cattails. They were thick enough that you could mold a perfect blind and that was just about as enjoyable creating as anything else during the hunt. The wind started to pick up, it was 20 minutes to shooting time and the ducks were already pouring into the slough. We did some last minute adjustments and opened a hole to the NW where we expected the approaching ducks to land into the SE wind. We loaded the guns and looked at the watch. And for the next 60 minutes we took turns picking out the nicest drake in every flock until we had our 3-man limit. After that we just sat and watched that slough fill like the picture of the infamous Claypool Reservoir photo. I had never felt so close to nature as that morning. We had ducks all around us and many within a few yards. When we finally decided to leave, there was a deafening sound as thousands of ducks lifted at once, some almost retreating right into us. For the next 3 years, my hunting buddies and I returned to that slough only to be surprised again on how “automatic” it was to hold mid-morning ducks.

The famous Claypool Reservoir photo taken in 1956

The year 1996 spelled the end of Dead End Slough. A local guide leased up all the grounds including the section engulfing the slough. It left a pain in the gut and a lump in my throat to see a place I held so close to my heart disappear. That carrot dangling in front of your nose that you have to accept is just out of reach. I didn’t grow up in the existence of commercial hunting so I wasn’t in a position as a kid to afford such a place, nor did I really understand it. The slough was priceless, but I soon learned the reality that someone else thought otherwise. It was gone, and we picked up and moved on to find another place to startup new memories.

This story does have a happy end, however. Years later, when the snow goose migration became so stalled in Canada on waterfowl opener, we decided not to return to our ritual around J Clark Sayler in NW ND. Instead of pursuing snow geese on opener like the family did for decades, we headed to the Devils Lake Region in pursuit of ducks. On the night before opener during scouting I thought what the heck, I wanted to show my brother and father where my friends and I used to see an endless supply of mallards. After my five-year absence, I once again took that prairie trail towards Dead End Slough. When we reached the end of the trail, sure enough, it was raining ducks. And the bright sign was posted right at the end of the road that made the decision easy that it was again out of reach and that our time would be better spent elsewhere. But just for the sake of trying, I drove down that familiar driveway of the landowner just a couple miles away.

After a 20-minute talk in catching up on old times, I asked if the land was still being leased. “Yes, it’s still leased but I tell ya what. He’s not going to be around there this week so go ahead and hunt it in the morning. I can only let you on tomorrow though, I hope you understand.” I about fainted like some dramatic scene in a movie. I can’t even begin to describe the excitement that came over me. After about a dozen thank you’s we hopped back into the truck and headed back to the hotel. I was overjoyed with the thought that I could actually go back to a place that had been only a legend for years. It was no longer a myth, it was going to be reality.

The last morning we shared at Dead End Slough

We hunted that slough for the last time that opener morning. I didn’t want it to end, but it had to. But I was fully satisfied. The chance alone to share that place that I call Dead End Slough with my family ended another important chapter of my life. For those of you who know of such a special place, you know what I mean. And maybe some day I will have the chance to slip on my waders and step back into my waterfowl heaven again, and I’m hoping to have my son at my side so he can further understand who daddy really is.

Having gone every hunting seasonexcept for last, without having a dog to hunt with of my own, I came to the conclusion that a gun dog is something that everyone should have the opportunity to have. Sure I have hunted with others who bring along their dogs when we hunt together. But there is nothing that compares to having your own dog retrieving the very birds that you harvest.

Last season was a good year for my black lab “Rory” and me. We started Rory off shooting some blue-wing teal right away on opening day. She did well so to fill the bag of ducks I had the opportunity to harvest a nicely plumaged drake mallard to fill the bag for the day. I haven’t seen too many drakes with that color so early in the season. It was a nice way of ending Rory’s official first day of hunting. All that work during the winter and summer seemed too have paid off. I was one happy waterfowler walking across the CRP donning chest wader with a bag of decoys strapped to my back, gun in my left hand and the dog heeling on my right.

Little did I know that was just the start of another great season. My self and a couple of friends were hunting a large slough where mallards were starting to concentrate the following weekend. This would be the first time that she has had more than one gun shot over her. Rory worked flawless. The birds seemed to be working a bit harder than I anticipated. The first couple of mallards decoyed really well. I let the other guys take the first shots, they came up short, so I had to finish the work that they had started. This happened a few more times. The second to the last drake that I needed to take in order to fill my limit happened to give us a 20yd fly-by, the other two missed their shots once again and with a shot of about 35yds the drake folded cleanly and dropped into the standing cornfield we were hunting against. I gave Rory her command and in a few minutes she returned with the plump drake with jewelry around its foot. Not only was it her first band, but mine also. The guys just shook their heads when I brought it over to them. Nate and Steve you better practice up on your shooting skills for this up coming season!! The next couple of birds that were bagged were 45yd-crossing shots. The last mallard for my bag was one that seemed to sneak through my shot pattern on the first two attempts, the final shot hit him, but not to hard. He flew two hundreds yards out into the slough and dropped stone dead in the thick pigweed. In watching Rory I knew she had seen it go down. I sent her. It took her quite some time to get out to the area, with a 15 mph cross wind. As she approached the area where the bird went down she swam down wind and circled around the area twice before catching the scent and getting the bird. What a retrieve for an 11month old pup!! After 15 minutes she had the bird in my hand and a snicker bar in her mouth. The final bird to fill my limit was the drake Canvasback. What a magnificent shot it was. The flock of 5 birds came out of nowhere; I swung on the lead bull and pulled my trigger and the third bird back (which happened to be a drake) skipped across the water. Again the retrieve was made perfectly. What a way to end a memorable day afield.

Goose hunting with Rory was a bit interesting this year. Seeing that she was only eleven months old in October she was a bit undersized for the residents we harvested in October and November. On one occasion we were hunting a small complex of sloughs that the geese usually loaf in during the day. The sloughs were almost completely dried up. This made it very difficult for us to get into. Nothing like dragging the canoe full of decoys and a dog across numerous fifty-yard mud flats to get into the area we usually hunt. With a lot of work we finally got into the spot. Setting up the three dozen duck decoys and half dozen Canada decoys was no easy task in two feet of gumbo mud and three inches of water. With not having that many mallards getting up when coming into the slough I figured that we would have a rough day. Boy was I wrong!! After getting the decoys set out, hiding the canoe and getting situated in the reeds we were ready. It wasn’t five minutes into legal shooting time that I heard a couple of lone honks. It seemed that they were coming our way. It was still hard to see, but I had a good idea that they were coming from the north. It didn’t take them very long to cover the half-mile to where we were waiting in ambush. All I had to do was give them a couple of clucks and it was all over with. With only 3” 3’s I was concerned. The Winchester Supremes did the job. Now came the interesting moment, Rory retrieving the big birds across the mud. It was more of a drag than a retrieve. She just wasn’t big and strong enough yet to carry the big birds in her mouth and walk across two feet of gumbo mud. She got them to me though. About fifteen minutes later we filled our limit of canadas when a single came out of the stratosphere to meet its maker, when a string of Hevi-shot 4’s met up with him. The bird landed only twenty feet away, which made it an easy “drag” for Rory. We ended the day on that note. Rory had many more days where limits of mallards and geese were collected throughout the season.

Hunting pheasants with a dog is something else to watch and be a part of. I have only on a few occasions been able to do that. Most of it was done in CRP. The pheasant hunting that we usually do is the late season variety where we tromp through the edges of frozen sloughs in search of the elusive rooster. With Rory being smaller and a ball of fire this was something she was built for. It is just amazing watching her weave between my brother-in-law and my self and the thickest cover imaginable. Then we she starts to speed up and start pouncing you know that something is about to happen. The rooster erupts and the shots are fired and the dog looks at you like you are a lunatic for not knocking down a bird. Hey what can I say, when I’m used to those in your face canadas and mallards, not a crossing shot at 25 yards. We did bag some pheasants during the later part of the season, so not all was lost.

It is an amazing thing to have the dog that you trained out in the slough, wheat stubble field or CRP taking part in the past time that you love so much. If only you could have seen my smile when she fetched up her first duck, goose and pheasant. Everyone should be able to have the same feeling.

Now that Rory is pretty much full grown at seventy pounds and stills has the drive that won’t quite, we are looking forward to another great season in the vastness of the North Dakota Prairie!

ht path from us the prior evening. There were so many birds we didn’t worry about disturbing a few the night before. We put out about 400 decoys, a collage of windsocks, shells, rags, and goose magnets. We got into the blinds this morning, and spent a long time making them disappear. At first light, the scout flocks started to make their runs. With the help of a couple ecallers, small flocks of snow geese started appearing from the south of us. There wasn’t too much wind, so I expected a lot of circling by the geese in route to our landing zone. Boy was I wrong. Juveniles don’t have the patience or the knowledge to check out a decoy spread, to them the dinner bell is ringing. The birds would “shuck” into the spread so fast you had to let them circle. And once one started shucking, it’s like it turned into a race as to which goose would land first. This made for mostly clean harvests, with an occasional cripple which we ran down. As the morning ends we start picking up the spread, only to be bombarded with yet more geese. At this point I can only laugh, is this goose heaven or what?

Kenny Z said that he first “discovered” the honey hole when he was 16 years old. Now it is 39 years later, and he is still hunting the same spot.

There aren’t the numbers of birds around that there used to be. But, hey, shooting the birds is only half the fun. The favorite honey hole is a spot where five hunters ranging in age from 35 to 58 can camp, have a few beers, sing Hank Williams songs, and re-tell the wildest stories about those great hunts of years gone by.

I have only had the privilege of hunting with Kenny and the Boys at the honey hole for about five years. I have hunted with Ken for 20 years, but didn’t get an invitation to the honey hole until just recently. Kenny’s other guests include his hunting partner since high school, Mike Ferber, Grant Wilson, a work colleague, and Grant’s brother-in-law Corey.

The honey hole is actually a complex of four to six individual sloughs depending on the amount of summer rainfall. The area does seem to hold water even in very dry years. Half the site is a public hunting area the other half is private land with a 40 acre pond.

Kenny and the Boys first started camping on the site about 15 years ago. It was then that Ken got a ticket for camping in the parking area of the WMA. Somebody complained and the game warden drove 40 miles just to give him a ticket. Kenny thinks it was because the warden had a few run-ins with other family members over the years and was delighted to write out another citation to one of the clan.

After receiving the ticket, Ken found out who owned the land across the road and asked him for permission to camp on the field entrance across from the WMA parking lot. There were two primary benefits of talking to the landowner. First, permission was granted to camp across the road. Second, Ken got to know the farmer well enough that the farmer gave the Boys permission to put their tent camper inside a Quonset hut overlooking the WMA.

The Quonset was like camping in heaven. It was big enough to pull the camper and other vehicles inside. It kept the howling northwest winds at bay and, of course, shed any rain that might fall. It allowed the Boys to sit around outside the camper on the concrete floor of the hut and talk about what hunters talk about. The only drawback to the Quonset was that it was a little too far from the water’s edge of the adjacent slough.

The Boys had use of this hut for two or three years. But unfortunately, a few years later, the farmer decided that he didn’t need this Quonset and tore it down.

Fortunately, he did have another Quonset on the west side of the WMA. This also was a nice refuge. However, there was one major problem. It was a good quarter mile from any road and was approachable only through plowed or harvested fields. The last time the hut was used, the Boys almost didn’t get out of the field on a nasty, rainy Sunday afternoon. They stayed a little longer than they should have for that last mallard on the Sunday following the season opener. By the time they got things organized and broke camp, the morning’s drizzle had turned into a steady downpour. Disaster loomed just beyond the edge of camp. If they could not get out of the field, it meant walking a mile to the farmer’s house and asking him to get one of his tractors to get them out of the mud. It also meant tearing the farmer away from the televised Vikings game and possibly risking any more access to his property.

It was a slow, treacherous pull through the greasy Red River valley black dirt to get the pickups and camper out of the plowed field. Every 75 yards, Grant, who was hauling the trailer, would have to stop and unpack the mud around the trailer tires so the wheels would turn.

The Boys finally got out of the field. They looked like potato pickers on a muddy day. But, at least they made it.

Even though they made it out and avoided inconveniencing the farmer, they would never get to use that Quonset again. It seems that the farmer’s nephew found that the Quonset made a great spot for doing what a teenage boy and girl like to do on a cold winter’s night in the valley. While the kids were doing their thing inside the car with the motor running, the motor on that big pickup got a little too hot and started some straw on fire under the truck. By the time the kids realized what was going on, it was too late. The pickup became engulfed in flames and it got so hot in there that the Quonset began to melt down. So ended the life of another Quonset hut and a great camping spot.

The Boys looked adversity in the eye and went in search of another spot within the section where the wetlands complex is located. They inquired of the farmer that owns the other half of the section adjacent to where they had been camping. He didn’t have any Quonsets and his old farm place was in the process of falling in on itself. But, he did have the sweetest little camping spot that five duck hunters could ever want. It lay between the WMA and the farmer’s private 40 acre pond.

The edge of the pond is only 75 feet from the camper that the Boys use. The wooded edge of the wetland provides a windbreak from the west and north winds but is open to the to the warming rays of the early fall sun. It is a short ATV trip from camp to the WMA where there is a relatively short haul down to the edge of the cattails. And, what’s best is that the grassy camping area has a firm foundation where it would have to rain like the days of Noah to keep the hunters from getting out of the site and out to the main country roads.

An added benefit to this site is that, when the wind is just right, a hunter with a good shooting eye can pass-shoot geese heading for the decoys across the pond from camp. Old dead-eye Kenny Z. did just that on a recent trip to camp. Those old geese think they are safe passing over the tent and the guys out on the grass cleaning the morning’s bounty. But, they are wrong!

The anchor of the base camp is Ferb’s dilapidated old 14-foot camper. He spent a $1,000 bucks on her. She may not be much to look at, but she is loved. Physically attached to the trailer, by way of duct tape, is the Happy Hut. The Hut is a portable 10-foot by 20-foot white plastic tent that is sold to cover vehicles. It is assembled on the camping site before the trailer is maneuvered into its position at the open end of the tent. The tent is then nudged closer to the camper. A little heavy plastic and duct tape seals up the space between the tent and the trailer. A doorway is added to the tent along with a 25,000 BTU propane heater. And, “voila,” it’s home sweet home.

One good flashlight will light the whole Happy Hut because of its white walls. But, a flashlight will use up batteries. So, cords are run to a little generator. It powers three lights and the portable CD player. Sometimes, the Vikings game can also be watched if the portable TV happens to work that day.

Kenny and the Boys are in heaven with their little honey hole – four duck sloughs a short walk away, a roof over their heads, good food to eat, their favorite beverages in hand, and Hank Williams on the CD. And, of course, no “honey-dos.”

Some of the Boys are getting a little old, now. They are getting bald, a bit crippled, and don’t stay up as late singing those Hank Williams Jr. songs as they used to. They won’t always be able to go to camp. But, they will have their memories of their favorite honey hole and their favorite songs.

Why must you live out the songs that you wrote?
If I’m down in a Honky-Tonk
Some ol’ slicks tryin to give me corrections
I’ll say leave me alone
I’m singin all night long
it’s a family tradition

Family Tradition – Hank Williams, Jr.

Small spread of mallard decoys

Christmas season has come and gone yet again, with plenty of memories to crown the year. This will be a very memorable Christmas for people all over the country who’ve never had a white Christmas before. On the weather channel, I saw some areas in the Gulf Coast of Texas received between 4-12 inches of snow. Heck, an area along the north end of Mexico got snow which they hadn’t received in well over a century. Was it fate that it came on Christmas day?

By now you’ve more than likely returned some of your gifts; the pants that were too short, the sleeves on that sweater were too long, that pair of boots one size too small. All too often Christmas is surrounded by the material things that we give or receive that somehow makes the day special. What I truly wanted for Christmas this year didn’t come in a box, there’s no need to wrap, and you can’t find it on Ebay. What I wanted was one, only one, plump greenhead.

So we set out on our journey bright and early. My hunting partner, Scott Terning (a.k.a. Deltaboy) was just getting over the stomach flu. The night before he wasn’t even sure if he’d make it, so I figured we’d start at 7 am and go from there. When I dialed that morning he picked up on the first ring, he was ready.

The goose season had just closed the days prior, so at this time of year I can get my B-52 friends off my mind. Ice fishing season had just gotten started, but I couldn’t get into that mode until my Christmas wish was fulfilled.

In pursuit

We shoved off around 20 minutes to sunup. I had an area scouted that was holding just enough mallards to make the morning interesting, if they decided to move. At this time of year the birds typically only move once a day, whether that’s the morning, afternoon or evening is the real question. This morning was very serene. There was barely a breath of wind, there was low clouds overhead, and there were scattered flurries about. With the exception of the wind, the morning felt “ducky”, so we were pretty excited.

We pulled up to our spot around daybreak, or so it seemed through the clouds. We intended to get to our spot by foot. But since we brought a canoe to handle any cripples, we made full use of it to haul our gear. We threw in our guns, our ammo bags and 2 full decoy bags. I walked along shore with my video camera and tripod, I didn’t want to miss this morning on film. As we were in route to our spot, we startled some small pockets of mallards holding along shore. They way they flushed with the white background looked incredibly beautiful.

Scott Terning scanning the horizon

Finally, we got to our familiar shoreline, the natural cover we intended to use. We began to toss out our first decoys into the water. Even though it was 15 degrees out and the water looked about a few degrees from freezing, I felt unusually warm in my waders this morning. About a dozen decoys out I looked up and saw a few dozen mallards flying overhead. A few of them even locked up and headed towards us only to flare from the idiots tossing out plastic ducks from shore on Christmas.

After we finished, we gathered the remaining gear, hid the canoe and got nestled in the surrounding driftwood. I can’t reiterate enough how beautiful the morning was. There wasn’t a sound to be heard except for the occasional honk from the few hundred geese ½ mile down or the constant bald eagles screeching overhead. I really could care less at that point when the birds came, I was thoroughly enjoying the day.

Scott sporting his limit of the day

For awhile, things were pretty slow with the exception of a few divers buzzing up and down the water. Then, a couple mallards dropped down off the decoys. Scott looked over and said he was going to get a little closer for a shot. A few minutes and a couple shots later a giant greenhead hit the water with a splash. Scott wasted no time and grabbed the canoe and headed out to retrieve the bird. “There’s no way I’m losing the last duck of the year.” Scott replied. I couldn’t agree more.

Scott got on the duck about 10 minutes later as it had drifted way down the line. In the effort, he managed to spook a few hundred geese which weren’t ready to feed yet and settled back down on the other side. Well we’ve got one down…still mine to go. I layed back in the sand and snow and closed my eyes. The screeching eagles circling overhead was very relaxing. I just took it all in. Immediately following a high shriek, I was startled to hear the sound of whistling wings.

Chris sporting his Christmas present

I  looked up and sure enough, there were 5 mallards passing by. I had just enough time to find my Winglock in my slough of calls around my neck and put out one single quack. That was all that was needed as a drake and a hen dropped out of the 5 and swung over me. As they flew out about 30 yards they quartered, then locked up and came right at me, wings just scraping the water. With an easy 20 yard shot I folded the drake…yes! No canoe was needed for this retrieve, 15 steps later I had a giant mallard in full plumage in my hands. This was my limit that morning, this was what I came for.

We put the guns down, and casually picked up the decoys. The birds were starting to fly, but there was no need to shoot more. Santa (or you may call Benelli) had already folded and wrapped my present along the shore that morning. The scenery and surroundings were almost too pretty to leave, but with an amazingly understanding family waiting by the tree back home, it was time to go. I won’t forget my Christmas of 2004 any time soon.