Steve Horswell
Member
For your continued reading pleasure. From time to time I will post additional accounts of our trials and tribulations...SRH
Tales of the Old Crony---Ducks Fly Faster
The Flight had come down the week before and the ducks had really been working. They were mallards and bluebills with a few greenwings thrown in for good measure. To hear the experts tell it, there were more ducks that year than there had been for over a decade. Indeed, the last few days had seen us burn more powder than we had for several seasons combined. Nonetheless, our bag had not swelled proportionally.
The two of us had hunkered down side-by-side in the boat, seeking what little protection from the wind the low, willow-covered bank behind us afforded. It was one of those cold, windy days that follow in the wake of the Alberta Clippers that roar through these parts in November. I’d made the half mile run from the boat ramp at 5:00am through inch thick ice to secure our preferred place. He arrived about an hour and a half later.
Anticipating that this would be The Day, I’d brought five dozen of my best decoys, a combination of mallards, pintails, bluebills, and goldeneyes. When it came time to set up, however, I’d deferred to his long-acquired wisdom; the only decoys riding at anchor in the hole I’d broken were thirteen of his ancient blocks. Because my “young legs can stand the cold better", I’d already made one trip to re-position, knock off the ice, and untangle their much-knotted lines. Shortly after I stumbled back to the boat, a fissure opened in one of the relics and it sank until only its head was visible. Foolishly, I remarked that maybe it represented a whole new concept in feeder decoys. He accused me of sabotaging his priceless spread and made several disparaging statements regarding my pedigree.
He quieted down and stayed that way until a half dozen greenwings had materialized out of thin air. They roared in, set down in the decoys momentarily, and were on their way again before we could gather our wits let alone our guns. Shouting, “And don’t come back!” he had fired a parting shot a good ten yards behind the last bird. And then he got on his high horse.
“Ducks fly faster nowadays,” he declared. “‘Course, they’ve always flown too fast for you! Used to be, ducks were so slow I’d shoot behind the last one to hit the leader. Now, they’re so fast I need radar to see them.” Feeling a sermon coming on and hoping to keep it short, I didn’t rise to his challenge. I merely mumbled that the gun was catching on my coat, slowing my mount, and causing me to shoot high. Years of experience have taught me it’s best to avoid debates with this avarian expert, for my companion was that veritable fount of fowl facts, the Old Crony himself.
And, as often happens when things don’t go as planned, he began to expound on one of his theories; in this instance it was a variant of the Great Conspiracy Theory. “As you know,” he went on,”ducks have been down for years. Revenues from the sale of licenses, stamps, shells, and guns plummeted correspondingly. The Government and Big Business were getting desperate but, rather than improve habitat and reduce predation, they hired genetic engineers to breed ducks with improved survival traits. They redesigned ducks’ wings so they’re more maneuverable and fly faster, making them harder to hit. On the off-chance anyone does get a bead on one, they bred them with Kevlar in the feathers and mandated lightweight steel shot so the pellets would ricochet off.”
I started to disagree, thought better of it, and merely shook my head.
“You think this is all coincidence…what more proof do you need?” he challenged and proceeded to list his incontrovertible evidence. “First it was pricey mandatory steel shot. Missed shots. Recently it’s been expensive bismuth and tungsten. More missed shots. Now, gun companies are expanding their 10 gauge lines and introducing spendy 3 1/2” 12 gauge shotguns. Still more missed shots. The result has been soaring profits for ammunition and gun companies. The only people who haven’t profited from these armor-plated, stealth ducks are the hunters. I tell you, if there were any Commies left, I’d say it’s a Communist Plot.” He continued on in this vein, coming up for breath occasionally, invoking various holy of holies along the way: the IRS, global warming, and fluoridated water. After what seemed an eternity but was probably about ten minutes, he wound himself down.
Years of hunting with him told me that now was when he was his most dangerous with gun and wit, being both warm and alert at the same time. And while his paroxysm did improve his shooting somewhat, it was still not enough to turn a slow day into a barnburner. By the time the sun was sinking (had we been able to see it through the gloom), he had knocked down only a couple of ducks. I had managed to get one. Tired and cold, I didn’t dispute him when he claimed I had only tipped it and that he had delivered the coup de grace. All three lay on the ice just beyond the decoys.
We collected our gear, taking care to tuck everything into its proper place (he’s a stickler for neatness), pushed out to gather the decoys, and, finally, broke ice to retrieve the ducks. He looked them over closely and smoothed a stray feather here and there, wincing as he did so. Turning, he handed them to me saying, “You take these. You like duck better than I do. Besides, your fingers are younger than mine.”
To be continued…
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
Tales of the Old Crony---Ducks Fly Faster
The Flight had come down the week before and the ducks had really been working. They were mallards and bluebills with a few greenwings thrown in for good measure. To hear the experts tell it, there were more ducks that year than there had been for over a decade. Indeed, the last few days had seen us burn more powder than we had for several seasons combined. Nonetheless, our bag had not swelled proportionally.
The two of us had hunkered down side-by-side in the boat, seeking what little protection from the wind the low, willow-covered bank behind us afforded. It was one of those cold, windy days that follow in the wake of the Alberta Clippers that roar through these parts in November. I’d made the half mile run from the boat ramp at 5:00am through inch thick ice to secure our preferred place. He arrived about an hour and a half later.
Anticipating that this would be The Day, I’d brought five dozen of my best decoys, a combination of mallards, pintails, bluebills, and goldeneyes. When it came time to set up, however, I’d deferred to his long-acquired wisdom; the only decoys riding at anchor in the hole I’d broken were thirteen of his ancient blocks. Because my “young legs can stand the cold better", I’d already made one trip to re-position, knock off the ice, and untangle their much-knotted lines. Shortly after I stumbled back to the boat, a fissure opened in one of the relics and it sank until only its head was visible. Foolishly, I remarked that maybe it represented a whole new concept in feeder decoys. He accused me of sabotaging his priceless spread and made several disparaging statements regarding my pedigree.
He quieted down and stayed that way until a half dozen greenwings had materialized out of thin air. They roared in, set down in the decoys momentarily, and were on their way again before we could gather our wits let alone our guns. Shouting, “And don’t come back!” he had fired a parting shot a good ten yards behind the last bird. And then he got on his high horse.
“Ducks fly faster nowadays,” he declared. “‘Course, they’ve always flown too fast for you! Used to be, ducks were so slow I’d shoot behind the last one to hit the leader. Now, they’re so fast I need radar to see them.” Feeling a sermon coming on and hoping to keep it short, I didn’t rise to his challenge. I merely mumbled that the gun was catching on my coat, slowing my mount, and causing me to shoot high. Years of experience have taught me it’s best to avoid debates with this avarian expert, for my companion was that veritable fount of fowl facts, the Old Crony himself.
And, as often happens when things don’t go as planned, he began to expound on one of his theories; in this instance it was a variant of the Great Conspiracy Theory. “As you know,” he went on,”ducks have been down for years. Revenues from the sale of licenses, stamps, shells, and guns plummeted correspondingly. The Government and Big Business were getting desperate but, rather than improve habitat and reduce predation, they hired genetic engineers to breed ducks with improved survival traits. They redesigned ducks’ wings so they’re more maneuverable and fly faster, making them harder to hit. On the off-chance anyone does get a bead on one, they bred them with Kevlar in the feathers and mandated lightweight steel shot so the pellets would ricochet off.”
I started to disagree, thought better of it, and merely shook my head.
“You think this is all coincidence…what more proof do you need?” he challenged and proceeded to list his incontrovertible evidence. “First it was pricey mandatory steel shot. Missed shots. Recently it’s been expensive bismuth and tungsten. More missed shots. Now, gun companies are expanding their 10 gauge lines and introducing spendy 3 1/2” 12 gauge shotguns. Still more missed shots. The result has been soaring profits for ammunition and gun companies. The only people who haven’t profited from these armor-plated, stealth ducks are the hunters. I tell you, if there were any Commies left, I’d say it’s a Communist Plot.” He continued on in this vein, coming up for breath occasionally, invoking various holy of holies along the way: the IRS, global warming, and fluoridated water. After what seemed an eternity but was probably about ten minutes, he wound himself down.
Years of hunting with him told me that now was when he was his most dangerous with gun and wit, being both warm and alert at the same time. And while his paroxysm did improve his shooting somewhat, it was still not enough to turn a slow day into a barnburner. By the time the sun was sinking (had we been able to see it through the gloom), he had knocked down only a couple of ducks. I had managed to get one. Tired and cold, I didn’t dispute him when he claimed I had only tipped it and that he had delivered the coup de grace. All three lay on the ice just beyond the decoys.
We collected our gear, taking care to tuck everything into its proper place (he’s a stickler for neatness), pushed out to gather the decoys, and, finally, broke ice to retrieve the ducks. He looked them over closely and smoothed a stray feather here and there, wincing as he did so. Turning, he handed them to me saying, “You take these. You like duck better than I do. Besides, your fingers are younger than mine.”
To be continued…
© All rights reserved. Steven R Horswell 2015
