A dunk hunt — and meal

I ate the whole bird myself and I didn’t feel bad about it.

With two busy teens and two busy adults in the house, there are times when you make some food and if others are passing through you offer. Otherwise, fend for yourself.

This bird was a wood duck from last season. My modus operandi is to pluck, clean, and then freeze from a light brine. I think the deep freeze could keep them good like this until the next ice age. But this duck was defrosted and waiting in the fridge for a special occasion — to share.

I pulled into the dark parking lot for Goose Pond to discover three cars already there. I felt too crunched for time to pursue “Plan B.” Hopefully at least one car was a bowhunter and if the others were fowlers there’d be room further down the shoreline for me or, an invitation to join a vigil.

Since there was only one way to find out I hoisted my gear and set off.

No one was at my preferred spot, perfect — no negotiations, and just enough time to toss out my decoys before settling on my bucket for the 6:42 a.m. start of shooting time — 30 minutes prior to sunrise. With an underhanded swing, the decoy traced a parabolic arc into the dark and then CRUNK: skitter-skitter-skitter. It was at that moment I realized I messed up.

I didn’t account for ice. The pond was frozen.

I jumped in and commenced breaking the sheet. The ice was more than just a glaze. At a quarter inch of ice in two feet of water and one foot of muck, I had my work cut out for me. I smashed a perimeter and then broke the center sheet in half to push each slab under the main sheets.

A shot sounded to my north. “Rat’s!,” I muttered, or something like that. I was burning into shooting time. Some minutes later I was on my bucket, sweaty but satisfied that the open hole looked attractive and my battery-powered splashing decoy added nice ripples. Ducks flew overhead as I adjusted my face mask and hat on my wet forehead.

Since the wood duck was thawed, its clock was ticking and I was getting antsy. This event or that activity kept scuppering my plans. Last Sunday night I could wait no longer, and I had no takers. Lucky me, kind of.

The pressure cooker did quick work, some time under the broiler perfected the look. The sides were our canned applesauce and popcorn from the stovetop, humble but real. It was four days to Thanksgiving and this meal had the appearance of something a bachelor Norwegian farmer outside of Lake Wobegon would have fixed for the big day. Probably with a fresh tin of snus for dessert.

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Ducks coursed from the Cedar River in small groups, mostly threes and fives. A flock of 20 made two passes at my spread, but found reasons to keep moving. The nearby shots to my northeast and northwest confirmed the locations of my unknown confederates.

Duck migration is stimulated by photoperiod for some and freeze-out for others. Bluewing teal are the earliest seeking the south. Their journey begins in late August into September. Early hunters usually bag birds that haven’t even set their beautiful breeding plumage. Canvasbacks reliably begin migration in mid-October. Then there are ducks that need frozen lakes for encouragement, think mallards and greenwing teal. This morning they were the latter.

At sunrise the flying activity diminished, reports from distant guns lessened. My coffee thermos rested in the bucket. Hot coffee sounded so good, especially since my earlier sweat was now manifesting power cooling effects. But I couldn’t do it. Ducks were still tracing the sky and I didn’t dare risk that one opportunity I might get because I was holding a cup of coffee instead of my old wingmaster.

A peak of rising sun spotlighted the north shore and then just as quickly flat leaden light returned as the sun struggled up into clouds. A nuthatch foraged and called good morning. A bald eagle lumbered past, from my left to right. It flew low and slow over my decoys. They weren’t scared of it. The eagle showed no interest in them. This was turning out to be a dandy morning.

At 8 a.m., I had to go. An appointment awaited and the magic hour had passed anyway. No matter if my gamestrap went unused, it was a glorious morning. Nature’s restaurant didn’t open for me today, so-be-it. Man’s freezer allowed me to enjoy last year's bounty for this Thanksgiving time. Something for which I am grateful.

Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.

John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D. teaches at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board, and is a member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America.