By James H. Phillips
We had rigged our decoys, returned to our blind and now awaited dawn’s graying light and, hopefully, the first flight of ducks.
We were hunting a small pond where on scouting trips in previous days I had seen a smattering of ducks. Not enough ducks to promise a banner shoot, but enough to make a hunt interesting. The weather is nearly ideal — a light mist coupled with low clouds. It will be a damp and dreary autumn morning, the kind non-hunters abhor.
I AM ACCOMPANIED by my son, Justin Phillips. It marks my 57th duck season — and my first duck hunt this year. Waterfowl hunting has been both my passion and my obsession all my life. I have journeyed the length and breadth of the North American continent in pursuit of ducks, from the small sloughs of Saskatchewan to the expansive mangrove lagoons of the Yucatan, from the cold, rocky coast of Maine to the warm tule marshes of California.
As we sat in our blind awaiting legal shooting time, I give thought to dawn — a special time for duck hunters. In no other form of hunting does the birth of day hold such special, complex significance.
First, there is the matter of law. Waterfowl hunters generally are allowed to begin shooting a half hour before sunrise. The latter, a precise minute set by astronomical observation, is when the sun first peeks above the horizon. But on a clear day, when the eastern sky turns from gray to pink to yellow, it often is light enough to shoot 45 minutes or so before sunrise.
On this morning, we are seated in our blinds 10 minutes before legal shooting time. Because of low clouds, full daylight will be slow to arrive. We wait.
I check my watch.
“Two minutes to go,” I say.
My companion checks his watch. “Mine say we have five minutes.”
“We will use my watch,” I jokingly reply, pulling shells from my pocket to load my shotgun.
It is still quite dark.
AT THIS TIME of day, each minute can be critical, and this is especially true for us. On my scouting trips I have seen on this pond only wood ducks and mallards. Wood ducks fly earlier than mallards, often presenting only a brief window of opportunity.
I have seen clouds of wood ducks leave their roost when the eastern sky is only faintly gray, a full 10 minutes or more before mallards take wing and long before shooting time. When hunting wood ducks along Shenandoah River in western Virginia one morning, I counted the number of ducks that flew past my decoy rig — and the number that decoyed. Over 80 percent landed in the decoys, including one flock of more than 20 wood ducks. All but two — one wood duck and a lone hen mallard — visited my spread before legal shooting time.
This morning’s dense cloud cover will prolong dawn’s gray dimness, giving us hope for early woodies. I once read in a scientific paper the amount of light needed before wood ducks took wing. (The biologist used a light meter to measure the luminosity.) It isn’t much.
Minutes pass. Gunning is legal by whichever watch we consult. We stare at the dark, brooding leaden sky, but see no ducks. The air is damp and chilly; the light mist continues.
As we sit in silence, I ponder the unanswerable question: why do wood ducks fly so early in the morning? What evolutionary advantage does it give them over, say, mallards which generally begin taking wing at least 10 or 15 minutes later? Conversely, why do mallards fly later? What advantage does this afford them? I have never read a biological explanation for the differences in flight time.
Hooded mergansers, small, fish-eating ducks, do not fly until full daylight. This is easy to understand. They are sight feeders that dive underwater and need enough light to see the fish they hope to catch and eat. It would offer them no advantage to arrive on their feeding grounds when it is too dark to see their prey.
I FIND WARMTH in the fact we probably will never know the answer to the wood-duck vs. mallard flight-time question. This gives me comfort. I do not wish to know all of nature’s secrets. I treasure the mysteries of the outdoors. A life without mystery would be stupifyingly dull. This insight, I hasten to add, only came to me in my later years. In my youth I wanted to know everything about ducks, believing this would help me outwit them.
My biological reverie is suddenly broken.
“Twelve o’clock!” Phillips barks.
A lone mallard approaches from the east. Phillips jumps to his feet, shoulders his shotgun and fires one round. The duck crumples and cartwheels to the water, landing about 20 feet in front of our blind.
It is 15 minutes after legal shooting time.
A few minutes later, as if to disprove everything I have just related, a late-flying pair of wood ducks come over. Phillips rises and fires, hitting one. But it does not fall.
A short while later a small flock of mallards appears. They begin circling. Four of the ducks break from the main flock and fly overhead within range. But we do not fire. We hope to lure the bigger flock. But they do not toll. All fly off without a shot being fired.
Three more woodies soon come over high. Phillips fires, but nothing falls.
We remain until 9:30 a.m., then decide to call it a day. We pick up our decoys and walk toward our vehicle.
We have seen around 20 ducks. Our total bag consists of one juvenile drake mallard. It is not a banner hunt, but on the first outing of my 57th season, it is enough. My spirits soar, knowing more bountiful days lie ahead.
