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The final minute of the final hourSubmitted by Phillip NewmanSpectacular. Not exactly how you would describe my first season hunting waterfowl…if you're counting the number of birds harvested. Disease. If I had only known I may have been more careful in the marsh, or not gone at all. 
It all started two years ago when my oldest son began going duck hunting with my brother-in-law. I had always enjoyed pheasant hunting and maybe some rabbits from time to time, but sitting in a swamp in the cold wet stink mud, all the extra camouflage gear, steel shot, decoys, boat, etc. well I just figured that duck had to be the most expensive game meat per pound that you could chase. I was content to stick with pheasants. Then my son Brad drew a swan permit, and a career change allowing me more time was about to change my outlook on hunting. With Brad's acquisition of a swan tag in 2004, I wanted to become more involved and help give him the best chance possible at filling his tag. The first outing was the youth duck hunt. Despite how old, my wife says I act most of the time, I was still too old to carry a gun. I didn't really have a clue at this point what this whole water fowling thing was all about. But we loaded up and headed to Farmington Bay for some pass shooting. Its not that I had never seen a duck fly before, but until I was looking at one and watching a bunch of kids trying to bag a couple of these feathered mini rocket ships did I realize how fast they really were. Brad shoots on a trap league and at 15 yrs. old is no slouch when it comes to shooting, I had a new respect for the challenge offered while duck hunting. After a couple of hours and nearly two boxes of shells, and only one duck in the bag, things were really starting to slow down. I took a walk down the dike and watched all of the fathers with their kids. Boys, girls, 12 up to 16, all of them just enjoying the beautiful autumn day, some more successful than others, but all of them winners. For my boys sake I decided I would give this thing a try. I wasn't able to go out on opening morning of the regular season due to my work schedule. Some good friends of mine informed me that the swan hunting didn't get real good until into November anyway. Much to Brad's dismay I convinced him it really wasn't a good idea to go out hunting for a while until the weather turned colder. Thanksgiving was getting close and a good friend, Brett called and offered to take us out hunting. We began to plan for the big swan hunt. I asked Brett what we would need, (still being clueless of what was about to happen). He said that we would need waders and camouflage clothing. I went to the local sporting goods store on a quest for equipment, (I would have protected my wallet better had I known). Several hundred dollars later and a rather smart-aleck comment on the cell phone by Brett, we were almost ready to embark on a journey. When I questioned Brett about his loyalty as a friend, mostly because I felt he could have warned me what I was getting into, Brett simply replied "I'll let you learn the hard way, like I did". Fast forward 54 days. Disease. Exactly how I would define the obsession I now had with getting up in the pre-dawn hours to make sure we had arrived at our hunting spot for the day and the decoys were set and we were ready for that magical minute to arrive when the proclamation said we could start shooting. Nearly two months had passed, almost every weekend was spent out in the marsh and during the Christmas break for the kids 3-4 days a week were spent hunting. I couldn't get enough of it. And it all came to a climax in the form of January 15, 2005, the end of waterfowl season in northern Utah. The whole season was rough, or so I was told by those who remember better waterfowl seasons. Stories of shooting a limit of ducks and a goose or two inside of the first couple of hours of the day were all just stories to me. Brad and I had experienced none of this. In the last two months we had hunted a lot. We had definitely hunted far more than we had killed. Which, was okay with us because we just enjoyed being out. Since New Years Day we had spent 4 unsuccessful days at Farmington bay. Sun up to sun down with out any birds harvested. So for the last day of the season we decided to get out of the valley and head for the Uintah Basin. Myself, Brad, Jason, and Quinn, were armed only with a hand drawn map sketched by a friend, 4 shotguns, and the 108 lb. Labrador known fondly as Toerk, and an unnatural desire to throw steel shot from the barrel of a scattergun in the general direction of any number of various species of waterfowl. We left the warmth of our beds and were on the road for a 2½ hour drive by 3 a.m. Arriving in Ft. Myton around 5:30 a.m. we stopped for some clarifying directions at a local convenience store (provided of course by a local farmer). Six o'clock found us overlooking a beautiful section of the Duchesne River with a fantastic view of the stars in the pre-dawn light. Being unfamiliar with the area we drove along the road checking out the area developing a plan of attack to hunt this little section of promise. We found two other hunters just getting out of their truck and chatted with them a little about the area. We decided to go back a couple of miles to an area that had a side road that led to a bend in the river. As we got out of the truck the thermometer read a balmy 13 degrees. Our spirits were high as well as the goose bumps as we put on our waders and a couple of extra layers of clothes. Jason and I decided to pack the decoys down river a bit to find a place to set them up and the boys could take the dog and jump shoot their way down the river. Twenty minutes later we were setting up a dozen goose decoys and a small spread of ducks along a slow section of river partially crusted over with ice. With the sound of shots being fired in the distance, and having seen some geese headed down the river earlier, the boys decided to continue jump shooting down the river for a while and Jason and I sat back quietly to see what the morning would bring. The sunrise was amazing and soon we heard shots being fired from Brad and Quinn. Jason turned to see a pair of Buffleheads flying over the trees toward us and downed one of them. With Toerk gone he headed out into the river to retrieve his own bird. After he returned and we were chatting quietly watching the horizon seeing several flights of what looked to be greenheads. Jason heard wings and out of the corner of our eyes we saw a trio of ducks rocket just over the tops of the trees just behind us, too late for a shot. I headed up the river a ways to check to see if they put in around the corner. No luck, but in the short hour since we had set up we had already seen more action than the previous 4 days of hunting had produced and we were feeling on top of the world despite the chill in the frosty morning air.
When I returned Jason wanted to see what was around the bend just down from us. He had only been gone a couple of minutes when I heard a musical chorus of honking in the distance. Almost immediately I heard Jason's flute begin talking to those winged visitors from the north….This is what we had come for. |
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