Death of a Duck Hunter

As I sit to write this evening, cold air whips through my little neighborhood. It's biting at the heels of tired workers who fumble towards the threshold of their home’s front door. They run quickly to escape the work week and the breath of early January. There’s no sun to be seen, it has been overcast for several days now. A front is rolling through tomorrow and I tell myself that I should get the boat hooked up and the decoys loaded. I should clean out the old snack wrappers from my blind bag and charge the dog’s collar. Pre-hunt routines usually calm me this time of year. My checklists safeguard my otherwise wandering mind. 

Boat, lights, lifejacket...check. Decoys…check. Gun, bag, boots…check. Dog…check. Every stage of the hunt brings a new mental checklist to the forefront and with it typically comes a steady ease that holds me firm till first light. 

I should be doing a lot of things right now to prepare for a morning on the water, but I’m not. I know there’s not much awaiting me out there aside from lonesome work.  

There is lots of speculation, commentary, and general complaining regarding the state of duck hunting today, especially here in the South. For those unfamiliar, the quality of duck hunting in many parts of the country has steadily declined over the past few years, at least that seems to be the consensus among most hunters. Where you used to kill 1000 ducks in a season, you may only kill 500 now. Where you used to kill 100 ducks, you may now only kill 30. Where you used to kill a measly dozen ducks, now you might not even see one. You get the point, there are still ducks to be hunted, just not as many down this way it seems. 

This may not be true everywhere, but for many it is a tough reality to accept, one that most likely will not change any time soon. The migratory nature of ducks makes them an unreliable source of joy come wintertime. More so, the various factors influencing migration add to its volatility and make duck hunting increasingly untrustworthy and the duck hunter increasingly hostile. Blame it on the weather, changes in agricultural practices, population swings, or whatever your favorite conspiracy of the week might be. I have done my share of complaining and will not antagonize you with anything more, but one thing remains bleakly undeniable, hunters continue to eat themselves out of house and home in pursuit of the ducks that stay feasting in the far North. 

Experiencing this frustration firsthand, I have observed some disturbing trends within myself as the ducks continually miss our annual rendezvous. Perhaps you have seen a similar trend in yourself, though I pray you haven’t. 

The joy of duck season that I held so dear in my youth now seems stale and wrinkly. The routines that used to calm and steady my mind now bring dread and a foreign loathsome feeling. The excited jitters at the sound of the 4:00 am alarms now come out as a long and hot exhale, similar to the sound your dad makes when you tell him you broke something on his truck. I still look forward to duck season and I still have some joy in the hunt, but it all seems so labor intensive now and I never used to be bothered by that. 

This evening, duck hunting feels like a heavy load to carry instead of a delightful joy given to men. Maybe that is due to my own deteriorating attitude or my sinfully pessimistic inclinations, but I have seen even the most zealous hunters come to terms with the economy of passion. 

Diminishing returns are a real thing and as a grown man with divided interests, my energy feels more precious than ever. As a teenaged duck hunter my stamina was not too phased by dwindling yields. Now, every hunt feels taxing and expensive. I’m too young to feel this way. I ought to still be hopeful, but like the Israelites wandering the desert, I have become too occupied with what lies behind, rather than the good that might be ahead (see Exodus 16:3). 

Oh, that 2014 would return and the mallards with it! 

Perhaps I am too dependent on the ducks. My younger self would roll his eyes at this hunter so down and ready to surrender to the slowness of the season. I fear that part of me is near death. 

There is death that leads to either damnation or salvation, but there is also a lesser death that all people must wrestle with through the course of life, duck hunters included. This type of dying occurs when enthusiasm burns up, dries out, or dwindles to nothingness.  When I analyze the current state of duck hunting in my area, the helplessness I feel to make any meaningful change, and the lack of urgency I once felt for the sport I am faced with a dreadful conclusion that I do not want to accept…

I fear the death of this duck hunter is imminent. 

That part of me that produced so much drive and desire, where has it gone? What happened to the prideful boy that believed if he just hunted hard enough things would work out? I haven’t seen him around the duck blind in a while. 

Have I lost all enthusiasm? No, but it does feel weakened. Have I resorted to selling my gear and investing elsewhere? No, but the thought of what my collection used to be worth is quite enticing, even if I could get a fraction of it back. Will I still go duck hunting? Yes, but maybe not quite as intensely. 

Despite all this dreary pondering, I do have much to be grateful for. Recently, I joined my dad on a duck hunt back home in Middle TN. Some of my earliest memories of duck hunting were down at Dyson Ditch on Cheatham WMA. We drew a quota hunt for the weekend of New Year’s Eve and I was desperately hopeful for what it might produce. Our blind was a short walk from the parking lot and overall a pretty easy hunt. The flooded corn with timber ringed around the field edges made for quite the waterfowl scene. 

At day break we saw more ducks than we had seen during any other hunt so far this season. High flyers, moving from the sub-impoundments back to the refuge for a day of loafing and waiting for the boys in camo to head back home, but at least we were seeing ducks. A few of the other blinds knocked down singles here and there, while me and dad just watched from our corner of the field. 

I had yet to kill a duck all season and was itching just to pull the trigger. About ten o'clock I saw a single above the clouds with his wings cupped. He dropped like a rock and soon made his way to the little field where ours and our neighbors' blinds were hidden. Hail calls rang out from every corner of the field except ours as the lone greenhead sailed round and round looking for sanctuary. 

Deciding that our corner spread seemed like a quiet and restful place to stop he rounded the field once more and banked towards our blind. 

“You better shoot him now”, dad whispered from his side of the blind. A couple shots thumped against my shoulder and the mallard lay dead on the water. We shot him when his feet hit the corn tassels and then it was quiet all over again. 

That was the only duck we killed that weekend, the only one I have killed all season, but it did something very important for me. It got me excited. I felt my heart bump around inside my chest. 

All it took was one greenhead and two orange feet to remind me why I love duck hunting. While the glory days of duck hunting might very well be over for many hunters across the country, I think there is still much reason to be hopeful. I do think it’s time we change our expectations, adjust our priorities, and enjoy the hunting we are allowed (however pitiful it might seem at times). In doing so, we might find a renewed peace in the hunt and simpler joys that don’t hinge on pile pics and overly praised “limits”. 

There are many days when the death of this duck hunter seems imminent indeed, but I am encouraged to know that he isn’t quite dead yet. 

For that, I will rejoice in the God who gives new and fulfilling life to all aspects of my being. His name is Jesus Christ. Praise Him!