Last Day Duck

The weather was about as “ducky” as one would want. It was the last day of the 2023 waterfowl season, and our group had just struck out to hunt. It was verging on warm as the temperature struggled to get below 60 degrees. As I saw the light rain and fog cutting in and out, I smiled a little at the corner of my mouth. We had all the ingredients for a good hunt, but would the ducks play their part? 

Over the preceding evening, I worked this question and others over and over in my head while our group chatted and regaled tales of prior Texas duck hunts. With the closing of duck season now down to hours, our group mourned another season gone too soon. Why does the season end just as the ducks arrive? Why don’t we get just one more week? Why does our youth duck season happen the same weekend as youth deer season? Why does it feel like other states are beating us regarding duck hunting? Will anything be changing soon?

The rain was hitting my cheek as I stood shin-deep in muddy bliss. I needed to focus on the sky as the emergence of morning moved at a glacial pace. Our quarry could drop any moment, giving a narrow window for success. As any waterfowler knows, complacency can ruin a good hunt. Be it guns, ammo, waders, or attention span, all aspects of duck hunting require your full attention. The ducks have the upper hand in the late season. I would swear some of them even know it.

Our ears strained through the fog and drizzle to hear the beautiful sound of wings ripping through the air. Sitting against the tall phragmites, our limited spread of decoys worked well in the stillness of the pond. We decided to go with a spartan set of decoys due to two main factors: first, it’s near impossible to retrieve these decoys in a heavily silted pond; second, we believed the ducks had seen everything a hunter could have thrown at them as they migrated south. If less is more, then we were the kings of minimalism this morning.

Opening shooting time had passed when our guns started talking, sluggishly at first, having had a few singles pass the spread, never to fly again. Then, the moment came. It was like someone had turned on a duck faucet. The faucet wasn’t open full on, but a steady stream of teal, wigeon, and gadwall graced us with their presence. The game bag began to fill nicely. Smiles, laughter, and exclamations of “shh, there is a group working” became commonplace. Sure, ducks didn’t blot out the sun this morning, but we didn’t care. We were glad to watch our winged companions circle us, flirting with decoys and coming within range to shoot.

The waterfowl spigot began to cease its steady flow, becoming a trickle later that morning. Our group started to focus on our misses rather than our successes. Our excuses ranged from too much lead, not enough lead, not shouldering the gun correctly, sitting vs. standing while shooting, or even late shots that should not have been taken in the first place. Little did we know the diamond that waited for us on the water.

Call it boredom, the need to move, or a divine push, my desire to pick up some of the ducks drifting toward the reeds was more than I could bear. I gathered our quarry since these birds were easily visible and approachable from the bank. Pushing through the reeds, I snagged the bird off the water using an extending decoy retriever. This was no ordinary wigeon. The wings appeared normal, but the head and chest were exotic. Flipping the bird over, my eyes grew wide with excitement. To my dismay, the location where I had picked the bird up made it highly unlikely that I was the shooter.

“Who shot this bird?” I shouted, trying to mask my excitement.     

“I am not one to usually call duck shots, but I am pretty sure it was me.” said our lucky prize winner.

I could not contain my exhilaration anymore. 

“You need to come see this bird… It is the strangest duck I have ever seen,” I said.