Hoping for ducks moving ahead of the snow storm, we planned our typical late season puddle duck/diver hunt at one of my favorite spots this morning. This is a big tidal bay, above several sets of "reversing falls" into which a lot of whistlers often pile on an east wind and rain or snow, especially once the fresh water has all frozen. It can also hold big numbers of black ducks. On the rare occasions that all things cooperate, we get both, occasionally with geese mixed in.
Today things did not cooperate. The storm was about 8 hours later than we needed, leaving us with flat calm, a so-so tide, and nothing to make ducks move. At dawn we watched the usual flight of black ducks fly head overhead from still unfrozen fresh water to our west to more open ocean east of our bay. Over the next 2 hours we watched them reverse this course as they flew back in smaller groups. One small group gave us a half-hearted look and two quacks from about 40 yards in the air.
A few divers finally started to fly so we redeployed to the official Cosmic Whistler Point, in hopes we'd be sitting there when the tide turned and the wind swung east to move the birds. That never happened, but we did have a few small groups of passing whistlers give us a little attention but keep going. We finally fixed that with some strategic decoy redeployment, and pulled in a few pairs, but they stayed shy and landed on the long side. One of our group took a pair of buffleheads. I dropped one drake whistler that fell into a hard running tide, giving Thor the Wonder Lab an opportunity to strut his stuff on a LONG retrieve. Not bad for a non-quite-2-year-old. (He's still a pain-in-the-ass in a canoe, but a hell of a water dog once you get there.)
Unfortunately the mature drake turned out to be a Barrows, which is a protected species in Maine and required a call to the warden. Since it is generally acknowledged that telling Barrows from Commons on the wing is not possible, there is no penalty for accidentally taking one, so long as they are promptly reported and turned in. It turned out the warden was in our area and asked me to meet him where a main road crosses the tidal river below the Bay, so I had a lovely paddle (eagle, seal, nice view of one of Maine's loveliest tidal rivers) followed by a pleasant chat. It turns out the warden was one I run into occasionally closer to home and a pretty serious waterfowler himself. We agreed it had been an awfully slow season, that the number duck hunters is dwindling, that a warming climate sucks for duck and deer hunting, and that it would have been a lot better with a little snow and wind. He thanked me for "not just shoving it in the mud like most guys do", and I think he was glad to be dealing with me instead of the horde of desperate deer hunters out on the last day of muzzleloader season. He never even asked to see my license or check my shells and shotgun plug, so I guess my reputation must be intact.
My buddies took a couple more buffies while I was out, probably stirred up by my paddle. We packed it in soon after, 11 hours after leaving home. As we paddled in, the snow started and the wind swung east. When we crossed the bridge over the river on our way home a steady stream of whistlers was flying from the ocean over the highway and back into the bay. Timing is everything, they say.
I'd be back tomorrow am if Maine allowed Sunday hunting. Does that make me dedicated, a little twisted, or both?
Today things did not cooperate. The storm was about 8 hours later than we needed, leaving us with flat calm, a so-so tide, and nothing to make ducks move. At dawn we watched the usual flight of black ducks fly head overhead from still unfrozen fresh water to our west to more open ocean east of our bay. Over the next 2 hours we watched them reverse this course as they flew back in smaller groups. One small group gave us a half-hearted look and two quacks from about 40 yards in the air.
A few divers finally started to fly so we redeployed to the official Cosmic Whistler Point, in hopes we'd be sitting there when the tide turned and the wind swung east to move the birds. That never happened, but we did have a few small groups of passing whistlers give us a little attention but keep going. We finally fixed that with some strategic decoy redeployment, and pulled in a few pairs, but they stayed shy and landed on the long side. One of our group took a pair of buffleheads. I dropped one drake whistler that fell into a hard running tide, giving Thor the Wonder Lab an opportunity to strut his stuff on a LONG retrieve. Not bad for a non-quite-2-year-old. (He's still a pain-in-the-ass in a canoe, but a hell of a water dog once you get there.)
Unfortunately the mature drake turned out to be a Barrows, which is a protected species in Maine and required a call to the warden. Since it is generally acknowledged that telling Barrows from Commons on the wing is not possible, there is no penalty for accidentally taking one, so long as they are promptly reported and turned in. It turned out the warden was in our area and asked me to meet him where a main road crosses the tidal river below the Bay, so I had a lovely paddle (eagle, seal, nice view of one of Maine's loveliest tidal rivers) followed by a pleasant chat. It turns out the warden was one I run into occasionally closer to home and a pretty serious waterfowler himself. We agreed it had been an awfully slow season, that the number duck hunters is dwindling, that a warming climate sucks for duck and deer hunting, and that it would have been a lot better with a little snow and wind. He thanked me for "not just shoving it in the mud like most guys do", and I think he was glad to be dealing with me instead of the horde of desperate deer hunters out on the last day of muzzleloader season. He never even asked to see my license or check my shells and shotgun plug, so I guess my reputation must be intact.
My buddies took a couple more buffies while I was out, probably stirred up by my paddle. We packed it in soon after, 11 hours after leaving home. As we paddled in, the snow started and the wind swung east. When we crossed the bridge over the river on our way home a steady stream of whistlers was flying from the ocean over the highway and back into the bay. Timing is everything, they say.
I'd be back tomorrow am if Maine allowed Sunday hunting. Does that make me dedicated, a little twisted, or both?
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