When the last decoy is shelved and all the remaining duck hunting paraphernalia finds their proper off-season resting places, I love the ensuing deep breath that follows a long waterfowl campaign.
And, after adding deer many years ago to the fall’s pursuits, I need a “season’s over” stop sign. It isn’t the killing of animals that drives me, rather the opportunity to go that I am looking for most. And when I can’t go because the law says so, there’s a strange sense of relief, born more out of exhaustion and hypothermia, than anything.
Self-inflicted is how the Good Wife puts it, reminding me that no one’s holding a gun to my head to make me go. But the time to participate in these incredible sports, to be a part of the outdoors — either alone, with family and friends, or a good bird dog — is fleeting, especially with a long winter ahead. And while December offers chances for another goose, grouse, duck (the two-day upcoming (joke) split), and deer (archery, muzzleloader, and late antlerless), it’s also time to thaw out by a roaring fire, count blessings, and relive a few moments that are as fresh as a morning scrape. Like a recent duck hunt with my son that, after several “duck-less” outings, ended with eight mallards in less than a half hour and the two of us standing around, sort of bewildered, until Nate mumbles, “Dad, did that just happen?”
Regardless the success to this point, December makes me remember why I’ve been kicking that gong solidly since, well, snow melt, really: it’s the memories. Surely a bag of buck backstrap will help ease the pain, but if I’m being totally honest, that pain is forgotten when remembering the hunt that brought the meat to my plate in the first place. After all, you can’t take any of this with you — trophy mounts, meat in the freezer, all of our “stuff” that enabled the harvest — but the memories, as they say, live on.
Looking back to turkey season, it was another one for the books. The hunts with Nate and Audrey will stick out in my mind because of the hustle to get in position in time to call two beautiful gobblers. Running across a field, looking back at who were once toddlers tripping over knee-high cornstalks only to see camo-clad adults, I fought back a few tears hoping they’d remember these days when I am long gone, knowing I’d surely never forget them, regardless if a bird was taken.
A busy spring and summer of deadlines precluded much fishing, though I managed a few brook trout, a couple nice browns, and some dandy bass and bluegills.
Considering waterfowl, highlights included shooting geese while dodging cow pies in a pasture owned by some wonderful old friends, and a solo duck camp in a tiny UP cabin, paddling through long, remote bogs to chase mallards and ringnecks. There were many chances to watch my middle-aged Lab, Ruby, do her thing on the occasions I hit something. She even had a few retrieves far enough I needed binoculars to see if she had the bird — that dog is one strong swimmer.
I shared many blinds with my duck hunting buddy, finally home from school and gainfully employed, watching a once gangly teenager now become a tough, knowledgable, and effective duck hunter. And not just a shooter, but a true waterfowler. The boy I used to drag out of bed to go dragged me out of bed on the last frozen day even though chances were bleak. We never fired a shot but enjoyed being in the cold, snowy, muddy elements one last time.
I shot and missed some beautiful birds, and continued — after 40 years — to find new aspects to enjoy about the sport, like hunting over five new cork decoys carved by a new friend. One of my favorite hunts was near the end, on a pretty lake I bass fish during June. Never fired a shot but had a ball hovering over the heater and feeding PB&Js to Ruby, who had a polar fleece coat wrapped around her neck but didn’t seem to mind.
Deer season has been awesome, having never taken two bucks in one year. The first was a bruiser during bow, the best part being how close he was, maybe 10 yards. I was blessed with another nice buck in firearm season, and the most exciting part was grunting him in to 30 yards and making a solid (and humane) shot with a new rifle that belonged to an old friend’s father who’s passed away. There were two “almosts” on giants that I’ll never forget, and an exclamation-point ending to firearm when Nate shot his first buck at a dear friend’s property, an opportunity I’ll always be grateful for and a hunt I’ll never forget.
Right now, I’m hunting a memory still unwritten, one last big doe. While I do not hunt these animals to “fill the freezer,” I grin every time the wife asks me to thaw a bag of burger for stew or venison taco salad.
Culinary awards are the ultimate byproduct, especially for a guy who considers everything from woodcock to wood ducks to venison roast a delicacy.
But it really comes down to the experience, the memories that bind sportsmen to their beloved game, hunting buddies to each other, hunters and their bird dogs, parents to children. A chance to remember the impossible shot on a tall mallard and a layup missed over the decoys; the ensuing laughter after the salmon that broke off at the net; the buck that circled downwind and bolted, and the one that didn’t; a daughter’s first turkey, and an elderly father’s last buck. We remember.
I pray you have been equally blessed with sporting opportunities this year, and can take a few moments to recall and remember, storing those snapshots away for the long winter ahead.