The Price You Pay…
As the dog-less father of a young duck hunter
The second day of Wisconsin’s youth duck hunt broke with a definite chill in the air. It wasn’t necessarily cold, mind you, but it certainly was cool.
The overnight temperatures had dipped down into the 40s, necessitating jackets and long sleeves at dawn. All around my home the hardwoods are quickly changing color, oranges and red and umber are filling Mother Nature’s palate as she paints another masterpiece for the season. Frost warnings are being issued on the late evening newscasts. Cold hasn’t entered the picture just yet, but it is knocking at the door.
The day before we’d gone to a certain lake where early season shooting is often good; our two boys had banged away some and managed just two ducks. But we sat in the blind and watched a little sliver of a moon give way to the morning, overcast skies took hold, and we looked out at the water. The feeling of autumn wrapped around us and gave a welcoming hug as we sat there. “What’s better than this?” my father-in-law said. Indeed.
But this is today, a different day. Remember, it’s cool, nearly chilly. And my son and I are standing beside a different spit of water, a small pothole not far from where we reside. My boy had wanted to jump some potholes to see what was about. Here he’d managed to knock down a wood duck nearly 50 yards out from shore, its body bobbed about out there. We could see it. It was a good shot really. Truth is, the duck had nearly gotten away, and would have if not for the steady hand of the boy.
Now, Jack stood to the right, holding his shotgun and smiling. He knew it was a good shot. His grin was one of success. I could see the pride in his eyes.
This is where the beauty of the season ends, and it ends rather abruptly, because I stood to the left, in my underwear - boxer shorts really - because I was about to go swimming in order to retrieve the duck in question. My grimace was one of impending discomfort, and possible pain. My skin was goose bumped and red. I was standing in the woods nearly naked, and nobody wants to see that.
Despite the coolness of the day I was going to launch my incredibly pale and expansive body into the water that in a few short weeks will be ice covered, for the sake of picking up a duck. Not a sizable duck mind you, not a mallard, not a great eating duck, but a wood duck. A wood duck when breasted out is about the size of two chicken nuggets. I looked at the pile of hunting clothes lying at my feet and wondered how I kept getting myself into these situations. How and why?
Was I afraid to go swimming in this cold lake? Yes. Actually, I was. But I thought I’d rather drown myself than watch my son drown, that would be too much. I told my son the key to the Jeep was on the dashboard and edged out from shore.
For those of you who have driven past little potholes of water that are filled with muck and grime and filth and cattails and wondered if those bodies of water are also filled with slime and ooze - yes, yes they are. I waded through things I’d rather not think about and through stuff I cannot describe, before eventually getting deep enough to actually swim. Once I got into the deep water chills came up from the bottom and began to ice down parts of my body I’d prefer not be iced.
I’m not sure if I swam with purpose or from panic, but I did swim deliberately and without hesitation, out to the duck and back. I tried not to get any of the water in my mouth, but I probably did. Stuff clung to my body.
Back in the shallows I waded through the blackened bottom mess that I’d swirled up going in and stepped onto shore. At least if I died now there would be a body to bury. I actually thought that. For real.
My son came over and grabbed the duck. “Thanks Dad,” he said, not bothering to look at me. I can’t blame him, it wasn’t pretty.
I dressed and got into the Jeep. And we drove to the next pothole.
I was hoping there wouldn’t be any ducks there.
Darrell Pendergrass lives in Grand View.