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December 25, 2002
Pete Ottesen, Stockton Record
Getting an early start
The primary task of being a duck hunter is not shooting, but seeing and listening.
So, to start becoming a duck hunter, you don't need to carry a shotgun. Instead you listen to the marsh come alive before dawn -- the chatter of ducks, honks of geese, peeps of shorebirds, gutteral sounds of herons and bitterns and the beating of wings of blackbirds rising from dense tules.
You step from the soggy path and into a flat-bottomed boat, and try and let your senses take it all in. You don't talk, so your awareness of nature becomes keen. Then your ability to see silhouettes of creatures against the sky improves.
My grandson, Zack, received his initiation to duck hunting just after Thanksgiving. At 8 years old, his eyes and ears were working overtime and, if his excitement is any indication, duck hunting will become ritual as his years increase.
He lives in Olympia, Wash. -- hardly a rustic farming setting -- where hunting traditions are not easily passed on from generation to generation. So, when he went with me to the grasslands of Merced County, to stay overnight in an ages-old cabin and gaze at the memorabilia that covers the walls, it became a totally new experience for him.
He saw pictures of his father on the wall -- when he was 8 -- among a collection of photos of generations of Danish hunters, decoys, paintings, duck calls, an old deer head and many stuffed waterfowl. He walked on an uneven floor that has sunk over the years, discovered a 1950-vintage refrigerator laden with food and an old circular bed that Rosebud -- my black Lab -- claimed as her domain.
''Grandpa, what is this thing,'' he asked, holding up a wooden duck call.
''Blow on this end and see what happens,'' I said.
After a few attempts, Zack produced a raspy ''quack,'' a sound that was foreign to his ears.
''You take that with you in the morning,'' I said. ''When I blow on a duck call, I want you to blow, too.''
The wake-up call came all-too early, about 4:20 a.m. and there he was, with the duck call laying on the pillow next to his head.
''Time to get going,'' I said. ''Oatmeal is hot and the ducks won't wait.''
We were joined by John Struve, 79, known as ''Cousin Mallard'' to all the hunters who come to the hallowed marsh. Indeed, we are second cousins and he is an inspiration to me. He hunts every day with vigor and anticipation, as if he were possessed by the wetlands and all its creatures.
The great moment arrives and we depart for the blind. Zack, with his duck call firmly in hand, walks briskly on the soggy bog. The night is pitch black, with only the sounds of birds breaking the silence. The marsh has a unique smell, too, something Zack noticed right away.
''When it smells just right, the birds like it,'' I assured him.
About then, a flock of red-wing blackbirds sprang from the rushes, causing Zack to ask, ''What was that?''
''Don't be scared,'' I replied. ''Those were blackbirds that we disturbed from their roost.''
At the trailhead I carried Zack to a flat-bottomed boat, filled with decoys, and proceeded to pull him to a wooden, stand-up blind I described as ''the castle in the pond.'' Rosebud swam along side the boat, tail wagging and voice whining, in anticipation of the hunt.
I placed Zack and Rosebud in the blind and then put out the decoys. Cousin Mallard came along with even more dekes and his much larger retriever, aptly named Tank. The old master gave his approval to my decoy spread and we climbed into the blind to prepare for shooting time. Birds were on the wing.
From our lofty, concealed position, we watched the moon's glow being replaced by a rising sun, and silhouettes of birds transformed into resplendent colors flashing against the sky. We scanned the tule marsh and the purple mountains to the west. Zack's eyes were wide and he searched in all directions for creatures he never knew existed.
''I know why you like to duck hunt, Grandpa,'' he said. ''There's so much to see and we're right in the middle of it. It's so wild.''
A south wind rippled the surface of the pond and ducks, mainly green-winged teal, wigeon and mallard, flew above. It was the moment of recognition. Duck calls sounded, guns fired and a pair of birds crumbled and hit the water. Dogs leaped out of the blind and each made a retrieve, as if they had divvied up the kill.
They each returned to the blind, proudly delivering a duck to the waiting hands of their masters. We were grateful for the gifts of nature, a fact not lost on the young lad.
''Are they good to eat?'' he asked.
''They are wonderful to eat and we'll prepare them tonight,'' I said. ''We only take what we intend to eat, nothing more.''
Later I explained to him that Native Americans and early pioneers used to hunt wild game because there weren't any supermarkets. They not only hunted their own birds, they cleaned them and cooked them, too.
''You mean we're doing what the settlers used to do?'' Zack asked. ''That's really cool.''
The hunt was a success, measured not merely by a limit of birds, but by Zack's enthusiasm for the whole hunt. He waxed about seeing all the birds, listening to the water beat against the decoy boat and blowing a duck call.
Seeing his reaction gave us old-timers a boost, too. Zack's display of genuine emotions spilled over us, as if it were our first day on the marsh, as well.
Ottesen covers the outdoors for The Record. Mail: P.O. Box 900, Stockton, CA 95201. Phone: 546-8282. Fax: 547-8187. E-mail: sports@recordnet.com
Pete Ottesen, Stockton Record
Getting an early start
The primary task of being a duck hunter is not shooting, but seeing and listening.
So, to start becoming a duck hunter, you don't need to carry a shotgun. Instead you listen to the marsh come alive before dawn -- the chatter of ducks, honks of geese, peeps of shorebirds, gutteral sounds of herons and bitterns and the beating of wings of blackbirds rising from dense tules.
You step from the soggy path and into a flat-bottomed boat, and try and let your senses take it all in. You don't talk, so your awareness of nature becomes keen. Then your ability to see silhouettes of creatures against the sky improves.
My grandson, Zack, received his initiation to duck hunting just after Thanksgiving. At 8 years old, his eyes and ears were working overtime and, if his excitement is any indication, duck hunting will become ritual as his years increase.
He lives in Olympia, Wash. -- hardly a rustic farming setting -- where hunting traditions are not easily passed on from generation to generation. So, when he went with me to the grasslands of Merced County, to stay overnight in an ages-old cabin and gaze at the memorabilia that covers the walls, it became a totally new experience for him.
He saw pictures of his father on the wall -- when he was 8 -- among a collection of photos of generations of Danish hunters, decoys, paintings, duck calls, an old deer head and many stuffed waterfowl. He walked on an uneven floor that has sunk over the years, discovered a 1950-vintage refrigerator laden with food and an old circular bed that Rosebud -- my black Lab -- claimed as her domain.
''Grandpa, what is this thing,'' he asked, holding up a wooden duck call.
''Blow on this end and see what happens,'' I said.
After a few attempts, Zack produced a raspy ''quack,'' a sound that was foreign to his ears.
''You take that with you in the morning,'' I said. ''When I blow on a duck call, I want you to blow, too.''
The wake-up call came all-too early, about 4:20 a.m. and there he was, with the duck call laying on the pillow next to his head.
''Time to get going,'' I said. ''Oatmeal is hot and the ducks won't wait.''
We were joined by John Struve, 79, known as ''Cousin Mallard'' to all the hunters who come to the hallowed marsh. Indeed, we are second cousins and he is an inspiration to me. He hunts every day with vigor and anticipation, as if he were possessed by the wetlands and all its creatures.
The great moment arrives and we depart for the blind. Zack, with his duck call firmly in hand, walks briskly on the soggy bog. The night is pitch black, with only the sounds of birds breaking the silence. The marsh has a unique smell, too, something Zack noticed right away.
''When it smells just right, the birds like it,'' I assured him.
About then, a flock of red-wing blackbirds sprang from the rushes, causing Zack to ask, ''What was that?''
''Don't be scared,'' I replied. ''Those were blackbirds that we disturbed from their roost.''
At the trailhead I carried Zack to a flat-bottomed boat, filled with decoys, and proceeded to pull him to a wooden, stand-up blind I described as ''the castle in the pond.'' Rosebud swam along side the boat, tail wagging and voice whining, in anticipation of the hunt.
I placed Zack and Rosebud in the blind and then put out the decoys. Cousin Mallard came along with even more dekes and his much larger retriever, aptly named Tank. The old master gave his approval to my decoy spread and we climbed into the blind to prepare for shooting time. Birds were on the wing.
From our lofty, concealed position, we watched the moon's glow being replaced by a rising sun, and silhouettes of birds transformed into resplendent colors flashing against the sky. We scanned the tule marsh and the purple mountains to the west. Zack's eyes were wide and he searched in all directions for creatures he never knew existed.
''I know why you like to duck hunt, Grandpa,'' he said. ''There's so much to see and we're right in the middle of it. It's so wild.''
A south wind rippled the surface of the pond and ducks, mainly green-winged teal, wigeon and mallard, flew above. It was the moment of recognition. Duck calls sounded, guns fired and a pair of birds crumbled and hit the water. Dogs leaped out of the blind and each made a retrieve, as if they had divvied up the kill.
They each returned to the blind, proudly delivering a duck to the waiting hands of their masters. We were grateful for the gifts of nature, a fact not lost on the young lad.
''Are they good to eat?'' he asked.
''They are wonderful to eat and we'll prepare them tonight,'' I said. ''We only take what we intend to eat, nothing more.''
Later I explained to him that Native Americans and early pioneers used to hunt wild game because there weren't any supermarkets. They not only hunted their own birds, they cleaned them and cooked them, too.
''You mean we're doing what the settlers used to do?'' Zack asked. ''That's really cool.''
The hunt was a success, measured not merely by a limit of birds, but by Zack's enthusiasm for the whole hunt. He waxed about seeing all the birds, listening to the water beat against the decoy boat and blowing a duck call.
Seeing his reaction gave us old-timers a boost, too. Zack's display of genuine emotions spilled over us, as if it were our first day on the marsh, as well.
Ottesen covers the outdoors for The Record. Mail: P.O. Box 900, Stockton, CA 95201. Phone: 546-8282. Fax: 547-8187. E-mail: sports@recordnet.com
