The whitecaps slapped at the ice shelf as the imposters danced on the waves. The “red legs” arrived from the north, lured by the open water. Old time waterfowlers nicknamed hearty late season mallards red legs. These mythical migrants appeared to be larger in size and were easily identified by their vibrant breeding plumage—glistening green heads, bright yellow bills, dark chestnut breasts and their tell-tale reddish-orange feet. As the legend is told, when the lakes begin to turn hard and icy winds gust from the north, the red legs are not far behind!
While most Wisconsin sportsmen and women were serving in the orange army perched ten feet up in deer stands, a powerful low-pressure system was making its way across the Midwest. Along with it, the promise of strong north winds and below freezing temperatures. As the front whipped across the state, open water was becoming a hot commodity. Knowing the window on late season duck hunting closes fast, I planned to head out the next day.
Mallards in Flight by Lee Leblanc, oil on canvas, 23 x 17 inches. Simpson Galleries, LLC
Driving north, I began to worry that I had missed my opportunity. Each lake that I scouted had a layer of ice and the marshes were frozen solid. I had not seen a bird in the sky. Should I retreat to the comforts of home? A hot cup of coffee and a warm couch? No, they must be somewhere. I pushed farther.
Pulling up to a familiar spring-fed lake, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the majority of the water was still open. A thick ice shelf had formed around the perimeter of the lake. As each minute passed, the ice crystals were multiplying and would eventually choke out any open water. Within a day or so, it, too, would fall victim to winter’s icy grip.
Exiting my truck, my eyes watered and my core trembled as the arctic air engulfed my body. Some large white birds caught my attention on the far northeast corner of the lake. Scanning with my binoculars, I saw it was a group of majestic tundra swans. I watched as the huge birds tipped their massive bodies up and plunged their long necks into the crystal-clear water to forage for snails. With frozen fingers, I slowly adjusted the center focus dial. Mixed in between and around the snow-white giants, I caught the glistening shine of iridescent green heads appearing and then vanishing as they dabbled in the shallows. Late season mallards! This was the “X”! This was where I needed to be!
Heading back to the truck, the silence was broken by the soft whines of Pilot, my youngest Chesapeake who, kenneled in the back seat, was ready for action. I let him out and he quickly marked a few trees while I pulled on my waders and bundled up. I dragged the loaded skiff across the ice shelf. At the edge, the ice splintered and cracked before yielding to my weight and I dropped into the knee-deep open water. My skiff floated next to me. “Kennel up,” I commanded and, with a massive leap, the brown bomber took his place as first mate in the front of the skiff. We set our course toward the swans.
Crossing the lake, my cheeks burned and Pilot’s ears flapped. The steady wind from the north was relentless. With every dip and pull of my paddle, the water slapped at the bow of my ancient skiff, its spray instantly freezing on my parka. Moving closer, the swans were the first to notice my intrusion. With their trademark canvasback-like angular heads and long necks, the visitors from the Arctic became alert and erect, watching my every move. At 75 yards, they had had enough. Using the water as a runway, they were cleared for takeoff. Their huge white wings and coal black feet slapped at the surface as they lifted off.
The large group of mallards followed suit and were quickly airborne. Their raucous quacks of discontent filling the air. As fast as the sky around me had come alive, within minutes I was left starring at a barren horizon.
Nearing the far shore, the ice shelf looked to be around 3 inches thick and extended about 10 yards from the shoreline. Arriving at the jagged wall of ice, I carefully stepped out of the skiff. Once again, I found shallow water with a solid bottom. Using my boat for stability, I began to unwind and place my stool—mallards with various head positions, some geese for visibility and a few black ducks for contrast. I made sure to leave plenty of space between my decoys. That, coupled with a nice landing zone, left me confident that any returning ducks would pitch right in.
Wading back to the ice shelf, I told Pilot “OK,” and he hopped up on the ice. I slid the skiff onto the ice and followed behind. The shoreline was thick with golden marsh grass swaying in the wind. Near shore, a large, uprooted willow was the perfect hide. Its broken limbs, splayed out in all directions, would provide overhead cover from prying eyes. The skiff vanished into the grass, and so did I.
I uncased and loaded my weathered shotgun. Pilot eagerly took his spot seated to my left side, eyes to the sky. His pose was that of a classic American retriever waiting to do his job as they have for generations. His is a breed that was developed to hunt waterfowl under the most adverse weather and water conditions.
I scanned the spread. The vintage Herter’s blocks tugged on their lines, begging to be set free. As if on cue, Pilot’s ears perked and his blocky head snapped to the left. Looking high in the air, his amber eyes were focused on a single duck that was rapidly losing elevation. The bird circled behind us. Keeping my head down, I could hear the air being cut by his wings as the huge greenhead roared overhead. A quick turn and he was into the wind for his final descent. The white undersides of his wings back peddled and his bright green head craned from side to side. As he worked from left to right, a pair of bright red webs dropped down. The big gun was mounted and swung. Opening daylight just ahead of his glaring yellow bill, wham! the bird folded. Its lifeless body now floating amongst the imposters.
Pilot, whose eyes had never left his mark was trembling with excitement. “Pilot” and the missile was sent. He sprinted across the ice shelf and, with a giant leap, was in the water moving toward his target. Bobbing in the chop, he snapped up his quarry and with a quick turn was headed back. The bird was enormous. Filling his mouth, its lifeless head dangled, and bright feet glowed as Pilot powerfully leapt back up onto the ice shelf and sat by my side. His nostrils flared and his sides heaved as I accepted the mythical migrant.
No sooner than I had stowed the bird, a group of five descended upon us from the heavens. Two were left behind. I shucked the last fired round. Pilot’s wake overcame his final mark, and I marveled at the fabled birds.
The sun hung low. Shooting time had expired. I waded into the icy gloom and pulled the stool while the swans roosting nearby gave us their song, signaling that another season was nearing its end.
At the water’s edge, I held up one of the beautiful birds. It had a heft I had not felt in a mallard before. My hand vanished in his thick down coat as I admired his bold plumage—larger-than-life glossy green head, bright white neck collar, deep chestnut breast and flaming red palmate feet. This is what the old-time waterfowlers had talked about. These were the birds that they had battled through ice and chop for. These were the late season mallards that marsh men dream about. These were the red legs!
This story originally appeared in an 2024 November/December issue of Sporting Classics magazine.