We all know the type. Maybe it’s you, most likely it’s your old man or, perhaps, a grandfather. The one who is stuck in the “good old days.”
“God almighty this is heavy,” doing my best impression of Atlas carrying what only could have amounted to the weight of the earth in magnum L.L. Bean cork decoys on my back. I halfway followed, halfway fell toward Dad on another duck hunting trip. Of course, the walk would have been easier if we had headlamps, instead we used our 25-pound handy Maglites – you know, just in case we got assaulted by a deer during our walk, we had some form of close combat defense. This was my indoctrination into the sport, some would call it an addiction, of waterfowling. As many of you fellow members of the club who spend too much money on decoys and turn their heads at any body of water while driving, I’m sure you had some sort of mentor. Someone who taught you the ways of fowling. My mentor was my Dad.
We all know the type. Maybe it’s you, most likely it’s your old man or, perhaps, a grandfather. The one who is stuck in the “good old days.” The one who has a tattered jacket he’s worn hunting for almost 40 years, longer than you’ve been alive. If memory serves me right, Dad bought that jacket in 1983, a Columbia wading jacket that’s frayed on every pocket, sleeve and button. Naturally, Dad bought his from a mail order catalog, I would need to do more research to find out if Mom was aware of this purchase or not before it arrived on the doorstep. Knowing Dad, he most likely went to his old faithful tactic of “I don’t know where that came from, must’ve won it,” technique. The jacket is in what we call now “Old School” camo and pairs well with what can only be described as his mini-howitzer that he shoots. Mom is aware of that purchase, as she bought Dad a Spanish Eibar 10-gauge side-by-side for their anniversary one year. I suppose that it’s his own version of Nash Buckingham’s “Bo Whoop.” It’s worn down over the years, doesn’t break as easily as it used to but still knocks them down. I’ll never forget coming back from a hunt on a local Wildlife Management Area and someone asking, “Man who was shooting the cannon over there?!” Obviously, to Dad’s ears, nothing sounds sweeter than the notes of a duck call being blown from a hand-turned wooden duck call or his Glynn Scobey goose call. In fact, I don’t think he even owns any polycarbonate or acrylic calls. Don’t even get him started on the Mojo’s, swimmers or splasher motorized decoys, nothing attracts ducks better than wooden or cork decoys.
There is something nostalgic about hunting with older gear. A nod to the duck hunters of the past that surely must have caused Dad to be stuck in his ways. While I used to joke on Dad for his inability to join the 21st century and start wearing breathable waders, use headlamps, shoot a 12-gauge auto or even just get a new Stanley thermos instead of the rusted (adds to the flavor, apparently), dented up (so he knows it’s his), poorly insulated after time (makes you drink the coffee faster) one that he has used for more than 20 years. As I, dare I say it, get older, I think I’ve started to realize why he hasn’t traded those things out yet. These aren’t just random pieces of gear or equipment, each one of those items holds memories attached to them. Each worn-out, abused and faded piece of gear he has also includes years of memories and hundreds of hunts attached to them. Hunts with former Navy buddies, friends he made in the blind and memories with past dogs. Stories and hunts that will come to mind when he puts his finger through a hole in a pocket of his coat. Of course, every true duck hunter knows that you should never really be warm, have hot coffee or be that comfortable – that would just make it too enjoyable.
I’ve noticed over the years that Dad has a slight preponderance for the mid-hunt siesta. But now I think that when things are slow in the blind, he just tucks his hands into those somewhat still warm, worn-out pockets of his and dreams of days gone by. As Gene Hill once wrote, “The thing we build that lasts longest is memory.” After 40 years of chasing ducks, I am sure Dad has built up plenty of memories to get him through all our slow days. But isn’t it funny that while we enjoy those dream mornings with the sun and wind at our backs and getting limits by 8:30, the same stories we go back to are those miserable days where it all went wrong? Those days where, you know, you may or may not have happened to walk five miles through the woods with 800 pounds of cork decoys on your back and 50 pounds of Maglite while getting “positively reinforced and motivated” to walk faster. I know anytime I see those decoys, I’ll immediately be 12 years young again, following Dad to our spot, just happy to be along for the ride.
These old pieces of gear become a part of us, they become part of the experience and create a lifelong bond. As they say, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree – don’t matter how hard the wind is blowing – and I as a look at my own gear, I notice my favorite wader pants are about four different shades of color, none of them remotely the original color; my favorite hat is about two more strands from completely coming apart and my own Stanley thermos has started to build up its own specific flavor-adding patina. I hope that one day if I’m able to raise my own duck hunting addict, they will say, “Geez Dad, is that jacket from the 2000s or something?” Like an old baseball glove, Dad’s old jacket may not be the newest or the best, but it just fits — and I’m starting to notice how perfect mine is too.
Small Water Waterfowling: Potholes, Flooded Timber, Rivers, Streams, Beaver Ponds, Wild Rice, Small Lakes, Farm Ponds & Temporary Floodings The North Atlantic, the Great Lakes, the Gulf Coast, the waves and the wind and the ducks – there’s no doubt that big water holds a lure for waterfowlers unlike any other.
But when it comes to actually shooting ducks and geese over water, the action is on the small places – the inland lakes, the ponds and potholes, the floodings and creeks and backwaters. Day in and day out, that’s where the ducks are, and that’s where Chris Smith takes you. Buy Now
