Perfection is in the eyes of the beholder. Southeastern Wisconsin is far from a waterfowl hunting destination. It lacks the open spaces and accessibility of the Canadian prairies, the expansive agricultural fields of the Dakotas, the multitude of privately managed duck clubs of the southern states.
What it doesn’t lack are thousands of acres of publicly accessible waterways. In layman’s terms, you can explore, hunt, and fish all Wisconsin waterways, barring city firearm discharge ordinances. In the era of big motor, big boat, and big spread waterfowling, a niche can be found in the hidden flooded pockets and quiet “no motor” marshes that dot Wisconsin’s seventy-two counties.
Working at a public high school, I am afforded ample time throughout the year to pursue various outdoor interests. With the temperatures plummeting and a five-day Thanksgiving break on the horizon, my attention turned toward late season mallards. While freshly picked cornfields are a best bet, access to private fields can be tough and for me there is just something about duck hunting over water.
For days preceding the upcoming break, I researched historical hot spots and strained my eyes over google earth images in the hopes of finding some late season green. Devoting the day before Thanksgiving to scouting, I narrowed my search to five areas. Three inland lakes and two rivers. I contacted the conservation wardens in the counties that I would be potentially hunting and explained my plans. What a fabulous resource, as they quickly responded answering my various access questions and offering supportive advice. Feeling confident, it was time for vacation, time to scout, and with some luck put together a safe and enjoyable Thanksgiving hunt.
The day before Thanksgiving had arrived, with my skiff in tow, I pulled out in search of some late season mallards. To my dismay, my first two stops, both inland lakes, were hard water, and more suited for cutting holes and jigging. It was still early and I scratched those spots off of the list. As I drew closer to the river that I was interested in, I could see open water. Crossing the bridge, looking south I caught movement in a side pool and a few unmistakable bright iridescent green heads. I pulled over, enabled my emergency flashers, and got out my binoculars for a closer inspection…. yes indeed….mallards! A flock of around a dozen, content, comfortable and dabbling in what looked like a recently flooded section of the river. Straining through the lenses of the binoculars, I could see what looked like a few more flocks of mallards working an area downstream. I however, could not make out exactly where they were working and how many there were.
Parking my truck on the shoulder of the road, I bundled up and slid into my waders. Unloading the skiff into the icy river, the familiar sound of glass shattering was made as the front of the skiff broke through the thin layer of ice that had formed on the water’s edge. A quick push off and I was in the current heading downriver. A hundred yards downriver, the roadside group that I had first noticed flushed in a noisy rush of quacks and flapping wings. Further down river, it became evident that extensive flooding had occurred. Looking ahead, I could see groups of birds moving in and out of what looked like flooded timber.
Paddling towards the massive oaks, ducks began to lift off of the water. First in groups of five then ten, twenty, forty, oh wow – hundreds! Steadying the skiff, I sat in awe, as I watched the disturbed birds quickly disappear downriver. It was indeed flooded timber, remnants of record fall flooding that had occurred just a few months earlier. The draw were the acorns dropped from the mighty oaks.
I made a fast paddle back upriver, all the while smiling and replaying the mental images of all those mallards. Loading up, I headed home for a restless night’s sleep. Nervous anticipation. Had others found the spot? Would they be there in the morning? After all, it was public land with some of the only huntable open water within a forty-five-minute drive of Wisconsin’s largest city.
The alarm didn’t need to go off as I put on my layers of clothes that I had laid out the night before. I’d swapped my traditional marsh grass pattern parka and hat for dark timber patterns. The yellows and the browns would just be too light amongst the dark oaks.
Thanksgiving morning at four o’clock a.m. Peaceful clear roads. Most folks had reached their destinations and after a late night with friends and family were still sleeping. Yes! Yes! Yes! I thought as I pulled up. Mine was the only vehicle on the shoulder of the road next to the river.
The twenty-degree air had a sting to it as I stepped out of the truck. Quickly, I changed into my waders, pulled on my parka, and slid on heavy gloves. I unstrapped the skiff from the trailer and slid it to the water’s edge. Carefully packed for stability, decoys in the front, cased gun to the left, and my equipment bag to the right. Pilot, my year-old Chesapeake Bay retriever, was eager as he kenneled up and found his spot between my legs facing downriver. One last push on the key fob to lock the truck, the familiar honk acknowledgement breaking the dark silence. Keys securely zipped in a side coat pocket and with a gentle push off from the bank we were on our way.
Hugging the shoreline, we traveled downriver, the gentle current guiding us towards those oaks. I’d marked the spot’s location as being by a pair of large oaks that acted like gatekeepers to the tennis court-sized open area in which we would set up. The “X” as the young guns like to call it. The exact spot in which a day before had held hundreds of mallards. A relief came over me as I stepped out into shin deep water with a hard bottom. Decoy placement would be easy. The mallard decoys, nine of which, had been carefully selected the night before. The chosen ones. The most realistic decoys in the best condition with the brightest paint schemes. For these nine imposters would be scrutinized by dozens of eyes before the decision to commit would be made.
The ancient Carstens fiberglass skiff was wedged between a group of trees and afforded Pilot a dry spot to work from and clearly see all of the action. I took my place next to and under one of the towering oaks whose sweet acorn droppings had drawn in so many hungry migrants.
As shooting time arrived, the whistling of wings could be heard as small groups of mallards cut through the crisp November air. Pilot’s eyes were to the sky with a stalking cat-like intensity as he followed the multiple groups twisting and turning, working their way through the tree limbs towards the water below. Looking down, the spectacle was unfolding for me in the mirror-like reflection of the water. I could see Pilot’s intensity and focus. I could see the large group of mallards funneling towards the decoys. The birds dropped lower and lower eventually breaking the water mirror into disrupted ripples as each bird found an open space to land in.
The mallards continued to trickle in as we witnessed a grand show. Raspy hen quacks invited newcomers to the party. Groups dropping in, feeding and splashing. As my safety clicked and I leaned forward chaos ensued. Birds which had surrounded us in comfort were now in a panic, climbing for air. Struggling to rise back up the chimney-like tunnel the oak branches had created. A late-rising drake presented himself as an easy target. A single shot left the beautiful green head floating. Pilot leaning forward, straining, waiting for the mention of his name. “Pilot” and he was off, his eyes had never left since marking the fall at the shot. With the shallow water and a quick sprint to the bird, Pilot returned to the skiff proudly sitting with his prize. I gently reached for the plump late season bird, saying my “good boy’s” and giving congrats pats. Bright green head, yellow bill, and a thick coat of down. Perfection.
The moment was interrupted with more birds dropping down through the timber. This time I picked out a nice drake as he worked his way towards the actors. The symphony of quacks and whistling wings would be broken as another shot rang true. “Pilot”, and he was off.
The scene would duplicate itself two more times. Almost as fast as we had started we were finished. The gun stowed as I took my place next to Pilot, looking into his golden eyes and reflecting on how thankful I was to have had the opportunity to experience the perfect hunt. A hunt that can be replayed in my mind as I close my eyes and remember the perfect Thanksgiving.