Thanksgiving of 2012 was the last time I hunted from a boat. I, along with my brothers Chris and Mike, decided to start the holiday season that year with a trip to the marsh to kill some ducks.
Long before sunrise we were at Utah Lake’s American Fork boat harbor, our aluminum boat was loaded with gear, and we were heading out to the lake. I was positioned in the front of the boat, with Mike in the middle and Chris in the back driving. Waves started splashing in, and Chris seemed to be enjoying the prospect of me getting wet.
As the waves began to increase in size I moved to the center of the boat to make it harder for the waves to get inside. This was a bad choice. The combination of the weight shift, a sudden wave, and a lack of power from the small motor led to the boat’s bow lifting straight up, allowing water to enter into the hull, and eventually sinking and flipping the boat. I was shocked.
We were calm at first, holding on to the sinking boat, and trying to round up our decoys, guns, and other equipment that was quickly floating away. As waves began to crash around us, Chris realized if we tried to save our stuff, we wouldn’t be able to save ourselves.
“We have to make a swim for shore,” he yelled.
At best guess, we were about 500 yards away from shore. Not an incredibly far distance, but with three layers of clothes, near-freezing water, waders weighing us down, and constant waves crashing around us, it might as well have been miles.
We saw headlights on the shore. Chris started blowing a whistle, and Mike and I started screaming for help. What could the person on the shore have done? Nothing. We were just looking for a savior of any kind.
Our dog, Sunny, swam over to me and tried to use me as a resting spot. As she pushed down on my shoulders, my head went down, and I was completely submerged. I tried to swim back up but felt like the lake had a grip on my ankles. After what seemed like minutes of struggling, I freed myself from the dark abyss and once again tasted oxygen, but for the first time in my life I thought I was going to die.
I tried to lie on my back, but the waves splashing on me threatened to once again send me below the surface. My brothers were using a floating chair to stay up and help propel them through the water. They began to get further and further away as I slowly treaded my way through the water with no lifejacket and no flotation device. I called out to them, fearing I was going to be left alone to drown in the waves. They didn’t stop and didn’t return my cry. I went on alone.
Minutes passed, and my breathing became heavier. My arms and legs grew weak, and I started to sink. But before I went under, the ground stopped me. I looked up, and I was just a few yards away from the shore.
We went back later in the day and retrieved what we could. We got the boat, both my brothers’ guns, and one blind bag. All in all, we were lucky, but none of us have been motivated to get that motor working again. So now we just walk.
Fast-forward to today. It is around 4:30 a.m. when we arrive at the head of the trail that will eventually take us to this morning’s location. We put on our waders, load up a sled of decoys, strap on our guns, and begin our trek.
I throw some decoys over my shoulder and follow my brothers through tall reeds, over fences, and eventually to a river. We enter the river and start heading downstream. The river bottom is soft and eager to welcome our boots into its deep mud. It’s a slow and steady journey.
After what feels like miles, we decide to set up — well, Mike and I do. We are both a little out of shape, and at this point, pretty much any spot looks good. We set up our decoy spread, find a hiding spot, and wait for the ducks to fly in.
Hunting on public land is its own kind of beast. Places to harvest waterfowl are hard to find and harder to get to. Stupid fellow hunters are also something we have gotten used to. But this morning would prove to be something special.
About 10 minutes before shooting hours permit fire, the first shot of the morning echoes through the marsh. A few more follow. Chris yells, “[It’s] a little early.” It will prove to be one of the more tame things yelled from our duck blind.
Before I continue, let’s talk a little about shotguns. A hunting shotgun uses shot shells, which are a large number of small pellets that create a wide spread to hit birds in flight. It is not designed for long-distance kills. This is what we’re using.
The morning sun comes up on the horizon, and a wigeon duck appears over our decoy spread. After four shots it falls, and our dog happily swims out to get it.
Looking around the marsh, ducks are flying, and everything is pointing to one memorable morning. A flock flies in and looks to be at least moderately interested in our spread. My brother Mike gives a small call, and the three of us look down, not wanting our faces to be seen. And then, shots fire. Not by us, and certainly not by anyone who has a chance in hell of hitting anything. The flock is at least 200 yards up in the sky — out of range for whoever took aim. The birds scatter and fly away.
This happens again and again and again. It gets to a point where it’s more laughable than infuriating. After what is probably the 25th time these amateurs fire at what they can’t hit with their shotguns, Mike breaks.
“Really?! Really?! Why don’t you just try again? You almost got that one,” he yells.
It’s just that the real fun of duck hunting doesn’t come from the actual shooting of the ducks — it comes from the game. The whole point is to trick the ducks into flying into your decoy spread so you can achieve a clean kill. That’s the sport of it. Just shooting at high passing ducks is not challenging and ruins everyone else’s hunt.
At this point the only chance we have of getting a bird is if the flock completely bypasses the other group’s spread that lies just downriver to us. Finally it happens. A group of about ten birds come and start working our spread. They circle once, twice, and are about to descend when suddenly more blasts come. Just as they are about to fully commit to our decoy, they are shot at from another blind.
It’s been one of those mornings. This is not our first bad hunt, but the thing that makes this morning so annoying is that there are ducks everywhere. Every minute another flock emerges and seems willing to work decoys before they are scared off and scattered by unskilled hunters. It comes with the territory of hunting here or anywhere.
There’s always something to complain about when duck hunting. There are too few ducks, too many stupid hunters, too much walking, or a too close to death experience. Maybe that’s just part of the hunt, the fun, and the challenge.
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It’s Duck Hunting Season
(Photo by Jameson Clifton)
December 11, 2014