“My wife don’t like me to hunt alone at my age and I could use a good pair of eyes in the blind anyway if you wanna hunt with me today,” the Old Duck Hunter said to me. I accepted the offer.
Almost as if by feel, he maneuvered the battered boat powered by an antiquated whining outboard through dark winding cypress-lined channels, remembering the twists and snags after more than 70 years running this river backwater. Ahead, something lifted from the water with whistling squeals.
“Wood ducks roost over yonder,” he acknowledged, nodding his head in the direction of the unseen sounds. “Probably what you heard. They always get up early in the mornin’.”
A good pair of eyes? He didn’t need eyes. He “feels” ducks.
Through the pallid moonlight, several dark shapes sputtered across the water to escape the approaching boat. They kicked up spray with their feet running for safety.
“Coots. They’s plenty around here,” the Old Duck Hunter commented. “Always flock up around this bend. Don’t nobody really fools with ’em much.”
As a twinge of scarlet colored the east, the Old Duck Hunter nimbly docked his boat under the floating blind. We climbed into a blockhouse surrounded by decoys. From across the swampy lake in this river backwater, a stout breeze nipped our faces, causing a shiver as we waited for the sun to show itself.
“They call this the Pothole Blind,” he said. “It don’t look much like a pothole now. It’s huge compared to years ago when it weren’t nothin’ but a wide spot between trees in the swamp. Now, it’s a major creek channel. I kilt my first duck here as a boy with a borried old side-by-side shotgun more than 70 years ago. See ’em stumps? They was green and alive back then.”
The Old Duck Hunter built this blind, a shooting platform floating on pontoons, nearly 50 years earlier and hunted in it every winter since then. Chicken wire walls raised to the height of a man’s eyes held pine and cypress branches covered in Spanish moss and other plant material for camouflage. A plywood roof partially covered the backside, providing some shelter from the elements. Four hunters could stand, giving each one ample room to shoot. Two benches offered comfort. A small heater kept the biting chill at bay.
“My daddy used to hunt this spot,” the Old Duck Hunter said. “He used to take me when I was just a child. I played in the bottom of the old blind he built whilse he shot ducks with my uncle. They rowed a wooden rowboat out chere.”
As the rising sun kissed the horizon, it backlit woody skeletons of gnarled old cypress trees shrouded in fog. Wood ducks whistled down the tree line. They weren’t interested in our decoys. A small flight of ducks, perhaps teal, rocketed down the swampy lake well out of range.
Beneath a rumpled, faded camouflaged hat, two slate gray eyes, now hidden behind thick bifocals, scanned the fog of today and penetrated the fog of time. What were they seeing? Were they reaching across the decades to long ago hunts and other misty mornings? Even mediocre hunts tend to morph into great adventures after seven decades.
“Here come two. Keep down,” he barked.
Where? I couldn’t see them. So much for my good pair of eyes!
Two ducks whizzed past the blind well out of range until the Old Duck Hunter pulled out a battered wooden mallard call and began playing a tune only a duck can comprehend. Two dots over the trees made a wide sweeping arc and headed directly for us.
“Keep still. They’s comin’ this a way,” he ordered.
As the ducks flared over the decoys, we shot. I missed three times. Next to me, the Old Duck Hunter’s ancient double barrel belched once, bringing down a drake mallard, the first of six ducks it claimed this morning. We would have ducks to eat tonight.
A good pair of eyes indeed. I didn’t even see the ducks until they flashed in front of the blind.
Sometimes, the old magic still beats a good pair of eyes.
John N. Felsher is a professional freelance writer who lives in Semmes, Ala. He also hosts an outdoors tips show for WAVH FM Talk 106.5 radio station in Mobile, Ala. Contact him at [email protected] or through Facebook.
