Steve Horswell
Member
For your reading pleasure. From time to time I will post additional adventures...SRH
Tales of the Old Crony---Back in the Saddle Again!
I wasn’t sure until the last minute that he’d actually set foot in the canoe. I’d been surprised earlier in the day when he’d agreed to accompany me on an afternoon duck float. I knew he suffered from a low threshold of adventure. I vividly recalled him swearing off future float trips even though the details of those earlier outings had become somewhat blurred in my mind. Perhaps the passing years had softened his memory. Or it might have been a touch of Old Timer’s.
The earlier trip had, like many of our adventures, commenced with straight backs and high hopes. It had been one of those great, late fall days with clear skies, little wind, and unseasonably warm temperatures. It had also been his birthday. What could be better a birthday present for The Old Crony than a guided duck float?
The plan was very straight-forward---the birds we shot off The Lake in the morning would seek refuge in remote patches of water in the afternoon. We’d float three miles of The Creek that sees few if any duck hunters; putting in at one bridge and taking out at the next bridge downstream. All-in-all, we should be headed for home in a couple of hours, three at most.
We launched the canoe in the early afternoon with little fanfare if you disregard the ten foot bank we had to climb down to reach a backwater of The Creek. The first hundred yards or so were also quite uneventful. At that point, however, the backwater disappeared into a maze of willows. We debated whether to head back upstream to find another channel to The Creek or to bushwhack through the maze. In retrospect, it’s apparent that the unseasonably warm weather had begun to adversely affect The Old Crony’s memory---he thought it was my suggestion to cut through the willows. Nonetheless, undaunted, we embarked to find a way through the labyrinth.
Although The Old Crony swears it took an hour, we emerged from the brush a few minutes later only slightly worse for the wear. He settled down a bit as I got the canoe into the water and seated him up front to ride shotgun. The creek itself was in fine shape---water up to the top of the bank and just the right amount of current. If memory serves me, the first ducks flushed just out of range about a half mile from where we launched. Heartened, we continued downstream in search of more.
Coming around a slight bend, we were confronted by a large beaver dam. We crossed the beaver dam without difficulty but were faced with another challenge---a nearly dry creek bed consisting of a series of puddles connected by trickles. Faced with the challenge of pressing forward or retreating back upstream, we did what all intrepid duck hunters do---we kept on going knowing that the situation could only get better.
I’m a little foggy on the details from the remainder of the trip. I vaguely recall that all the ducks we saw from then on flushed far in the distance. They were, no doubt, alerted to our presence from the noise the canoe made as I dragged it the remaining couple of miles to our take-out point. I also remember looking back upstream in the twilight and seeing three trails on the mud---one from the canoe and two from where our butts had been dragging.
To be continued…
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
Tales of the Old Crony---Back in the Saddle Again!
I wasn’t sure until the last minute that he’d actually set foot in the canoe. I’d been surprised earlier in the day when he’d agreed to accompany me on an afternoon duck float. I knew he suffered from a low threshold of adventure. I vividly recalled him swearing off future float trips even though the details of those earlier outings had become somewhat blurred in my mind. Perhaps the passing years had softened his memory. Or it might have been a touch of Old Timer’s.
The earlier trip had, like many of our adventures, commenced with straight backs and high hopes. It had been one of those great, late fall days with clear skies, little wind, and unseasonably warm temperatures. It had also been his birthday. What could be better a birthday present for The Old Crony than a guided duck float?
The plan was very straight-forward---the birds we shot off The Lake in the morning would seek refuge in remote patches of water in the afternoon. We’d float three miles of The Creek that sees few if any duck hunters; putting in at one bridge and taking out at the next bridge downstream. All-in-all, we should be headed for home in a couple of hours, three at most.
We launched the canoe in the early afternoon with little fanfare if you disregard the ten foot bank we had to climb down to reach a backwater of The Creek. The first hundred yards or so were also quite uneventful. At that point, however, the backwater disappeared into a maze of willows. We debated whether to head back upstream to find another channel to The Creek or to bushwhack through the maze. In retrospect, it’s apparent that the unseasonably warm weather had begun to adversely affect The Old Crony’s memory---he thought it was my suggestion to cut through the willows. Nonetheless, undaunted, we embarked to find a way through the labyrinth.
Although The Old Crony swears it took an hour, we emerged from the brush a few minutes later only slightly worse for the wear. He settled down a bit as I got the canoe into the water and seated him up front to ride shotgun. The creek itself was in fine shape---water up to the top of the bank and just the right amount of current. If memory serves me, the first ducks flushed just out of range about a half mile from where we launched. Heartened, we continued downstream in search of more.
Coming around a slight bend, we were confronted by a large beaver dam. We crossed the beaver dam without difficulty but were faced with another challenge---a nearly dry creek bed consisting of a series of puddles connected by trickles. Faced with the challenge of pressing forward or retreating back upstream, we did what all intrepid duck hunters do---we kept on going knowing that the situation could only get better.
I’m a little foggy on the details from the remainder of the trip. I vaguely recall that all the ducks we saw from then on flushed far in the distance. They were, no doubt, alerted to our presence from the noise the canoe made as I dragged it the remaining couple of miles to our take-out point. I also remember looking back upstream in the twilight and seeing three trails on the mud---one from the canoe and two from where our butts had been dragging.
To be continued…
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
