And three mallards for Christmas Dinner
By Tom Bryant
A brisk wind was blowing out of the northeast. It had a little bite to it and felt good after the unseasonably warm weather we had been experiencing. Paddle, my yellow Lab, and I were in the backyard loading up the boat. As a matter of fact, Paddle was already in the boat, ready to go. She looked at me whimpering with excitement, wanting to do what she was bred for, go duck hunting.
For me it was the best of all worlds. Tomorrow, duck season would come back in after the early teasers in October and November. Those few short days were just enough to get hunters wired with anticipation for the real season in December. And if that excitement wasn’t enough, it was only six days until Christmas. It’s a wonder I wasn’t in the boat whining with Paddle.
We had a good plan. Early in the morning around 4 o’clock, I was to ride up to Hyco Lake, boat in tow, launch at the landing on the north end, duck hunt at our special spot until noon, then motor down to Bubba’s cabin and wait for him to show up toward evening. Bubba’s cabin is located on a creek tributary and sits high on a ridge overlooking the lake. The view in winter with all the leaves off the trees is spectacular. Beginning at the cabin and meandering down the ridge are steps leading to a boathouse and dock where I would moor my little duck boat for the duration of the hunt. Bubba has a big johnboat that we planned to use for the rest of the weekend.
It was rare that Bubba missed an opening day, but his textile mill needed him; and try as he might, he couldn’t get away from an important conference call. I would miss his company, but sometimes I enjoy the wild all by myself, and as long as Paddle is along, I rarely get lonesome.
My boat is a little Armstrong Wigeon model. She’s only 12 feet long with a 4-foot beam, almost like a layout rig and extremely stable, impossible to turn over. She’s rated for a 10-horse kicker, which will get her up on plane quickly and zip across the water like a little speedboat. With decoys, hunting gear and dog, the little boat is comfortable, and I’ve spent a lot of time in her, pursuing the noble waterfowl. I had already hooked her to the Bronco and was making sure that the fuel tank was full when Linda, my bride, came to the back door with the message that Bubba wanted me to call him back as soon as I could. Wonder what’s going on with that boy, I thought.
The decoy spread I planned called for six mallards — hens and drakes, three black ducks, and a couple of Canada geese thrown in just for good measure. I was using my L.L. Bean cork decoys, although they weigh a lot more than the molded plastic models I use when I’m shooting impoundments. On the water, the Bean decoys look more like real ducks. I picked out the ones that I had just had repainted by the Decoy Factory in Maryland. They looked great, and if any ducks were flying in the morning, I was sure they would pay us a visit.
It didn’t take long to finish loading the rest of the hunting paraphernalia, then I went inside to give Bubba a call. Paddle refused to leave the boat and would probably stay there until we left in the early morning if I let her. That little dog was excited.
“Hey, Bubba, what’s up? I’ve got the boat all loaded and I’ll be trucking out ‘o here at 4 a.m. You sure you can’t go?”
“Man, I wish. But duty calls. It also looks as if I can’t get there until late. You know where the cabin key is. Let yourself in and I’ll be there as soon as I can. Steaks and all the fixings are in the fridge. Why don’t you go ahead and grill ’em and I hope to be there in time to help eat ’em. Remember, I like mine rare,” he said, laughing.
“I think this is nothing but a ploy to get me to do all the work,” I replied. “If I’m real hungry, I might eat your steak as well as mine.” After a little more conversation about supplies and timing, we rang off and I resumed my efforts getting ready.
I slept in the guest room that night, so as not to wake Linda when the alarm clock woke me. By 4:30, Paddle was in her favorite spot, sitting in the passenger’s seat, and we were on our way to the lake and another great adventure.
A half moon was breaking through a low overcast, providing enough light to help in launching the boat; and in record time, I had the little Wigeon tied to the landing dock. I parked the Bronco and trailer next to a fence bordering the gravel lot and was surprised to see that mine was the only vehicle there. I thought for sure there would be more hunters, especially since it was opening day of the late season.
The motor fired on the first pull, and I eased away from the landing area, made the turn south and poured on the juice. Running at night in a little boat has a thrill all its own, but it also has dangers that accompany the experience. Constant vigilance to avoid floating debris and other boats had me on the lookout for anything unusual on the horizon.
Hyco Lake is a deep-water lake and was built in the early ’60s by Carolina Power and Light Company (now Duke Energy Progress) as a cooling reservoir for their generating plant. Migrating waterfowl use the lake to rest on their way south and are quite prevalent during cold snaps up north. I was hoping the recent snowfall around Maryland would hurry a few my way. Last duck season, Bubba and I discovered a 30-foot-wide water ditch that runs about a mile to the power plant. The canal is used to get cooling water to their generators. It was cabled across to keep out big boats, but our little crafts had no problem getting under. On the east side of the ditch is an opening that leads to a sheltered area of water, almost like a small lake. This is our honey hole, the spot we would later name Black Duck Paradise.
The run to the ditch took about 40 minutes, and a grey tint was in the eastern sky as I hurriedly put out the decoys: mallards in a bunch and geese and black ducks off to the side. I pulled the boat into a small slough, and Paddle and I hunkered down under alders that grew on the bank right to the water. We made it just in time to legally shoot and had just got settled with shotgun loaded when whistling wings could be heard right over us. I didn’t dare look up but watched Paddle as her head moved with the flight of the ducks. I could tell that they were circling, so I blew a soft chuckling welcome on my duck call. That did it.
They came in low, right in front, wings locked, big yellow legs down like landing gear. It was a classic. Three shots and three big mallards for Christmas dinner. I sent Paddle to retrieve, and she was in the water like an otter. I stood up grinning. It was going to be a great season. PS
Tom Bryant, a Southern Pines resident, is a lifelong outdoorsman and PineStraw’s Sporting Life columnist.
