A wet and wild duck hunt

Nancy Sinatra never wore chest waders.

Most of a recent duck hunt included things I didn’t expect. A big part of what makes the great outdoors “great” is the unknown, the serendipity.

If I wanted it all laid out I’d go golfing.

The plan was to stalk a farm field drainage, a creek too small for the maps but plenty big for loafing ducks. I know, when you think of duck hunting, “Grumpy Old Men” comes to mind but that they’re inside a camouflaged boat instead of an ice shack.

But ducks love small rivers and creeks. While puddle ducks like mallards will raft together on a lake overnight for safety, they will fly far afield to feed, especially in picked cornfields.

Instead of flying all the way back to the roosting site, any nearby steam will do for rest and digestion. It doesn’t take much water to attract a puddle duck.

I set out to prowl up one of those ag field streams. The creek in question was brimming with ducks during a spring outing. I marked my mental calendar for the fall.

The appointed day arrived. It wasn’t a special day, but it was duck season and I had some free time. So weather be darned, I was heading out.

The rain was steady, not too cold, but plenty wet. Thankfully, fowlers are naturally prepared for rain in the bind. So equipped with my camo rain jacket and chest waders, I felt downright bulletproof. What I failed to fully consider was the effort to walk to the little creek. It was much more of a march than a walk.

Nancy sang, “You been a’messin’ where you shouldn't ‘ve been a’messin.’”

Tall grasses tripped my feet which were made clumsy by the waders. Blown down corn made the tidy rows a comedy of thwarted movement. And a steep hill, made all the steeper by wearing anti-alpine gear.

I knew from the feeling of my clothes underneath all my waterproof protection that I was soaked. It was sweat from the inside rather than rain from the outside. A surprise all the same.

Nearing the top of the prominence I came across fresh diggings. Some looked like those made by burrowing animals, like a groundhog. And some appeared like those made by a coyote trying to dig out a burrowing critter.

On one pile, I spied a curious sight: a snake wriggling like it was trying to burrow. It seemed a bit late in the year for a snake, and the markings were unrecognizable — an almost violet-black skin with yellow spots. The oddest of all was that the snake had legs.

My feet halted and my mind did a double-take. “That’s no snake,” I thought. Turns out it was a salamander, an eastern tiger salamander. The first I had ever seen in the wild. That ambitious climber seemed a long way from a wetland. But salamanders can live 12 to 15 years, so who am I to judge what a salamander does with its free time?

Finally the drainage ditch was at hand. With steep sides and unusually straight runs it was clear the hand of man augmented the architect’s original work.

The water in the lower stretch was too deep to wade, a series of old beaver dams saw to that. Instead of prowling up the stream bed, I needed to parallel the water course on the bank. And far enough from the bank that I could actually walk without providing another showing of the comedy, “How Not To Be Sneaky.”

I listened as much as I looked. Loafing ducks enjoy discussing a recent meal as much as people. Only the wind or random songbirds made reports. At vantage points, I’d pad to the bank’s edge for a peek — hoping to see a sign of ripples or more. The pattern repeated.

On what may have been the fifth peek, I startled a pair of wood ducks. Proof of concept.

One duck flew straight away and I drew a bead. The other stayed low, only to emerge to my right.

How did I know this? Because I made a mistake of the first order: I looked for the second bird before I completed the shot on the first. It was only a glance, but enough so that when my eyes retrained on the bird straight out, it was gone.

The excitement of springing birds overwhelms the senses, vision narrows and sounds disappear.

Now I heard the wind and random songbirds again. I saw the whole of the creek and farmland before me.

“You keep losing when you oughta not bet,” Nancy sang.

Upstream the water reduced to a trickle, too little water for a duck. The recent rains hadn’t replenished the creek. I was surprised to learn there were no beaver dams to hold the water it had.

My instincts were right to seek midday ducks in a stream. My choice to forgo reconnaissance was regrettable. Flushing a pair of ducks was a sight, but my sight also betrayed me with a wandering eye. I learned salamanders can climb a steep hill and the Hoary vervain is a late bloomer.

“And what he knows you ain’t had time to learn.”

Well Nancy, I did learn a lot. And for sure next time I’ll be leaving the big waders at home when what I really need are, “boots a made for walkin’.”

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

John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D., of Marion teaches U.S. history with an emphasis on environmental issues at Linn-Mar High School and sits on the Linn County Conservation Board