I
F aced this fall with some of the most stringent regulations in
history, you might think waterfowlers would call it quitsl Not
so. Across the country they are counting the hours to opening
day as eagerly as ever.
This is because a duck hunt is not just a simple sporting event.
It is a great American ritual. Its special lure lies in its secret
incantations, esoteric garments, and sacred proceedings.
The ceremony begins early in August, with the re-painting
of decoys and the camouflaging of boats and blinds, all accord
ing to a routine as immutable as a baptism. Caught up in the
spell, the duck hunter spends hours staring into sporting store
windows or practicing on his duck call.
On a late fall night the ancient ceremony will approach its
peak. To keep a date with a storm front moving down from
Canada, the hunter flees the city in frantic haste.
The shore of a hidden lake is his lodge room. In the total dark
that precedes the dawn he loads his skiff by instinct and pad
dles off. At an appropriate spot he assumes a kneeling position,
tosses out the decoys, and mutters a supplication to the gods
of the chase.
Off to the east the dawn is wrestling with the night on a mat
of low-hanging clouds. The hunter hunkers down in the cattails
to wait—and wait. At last out of the west there
comes the sussurant sound of winnowing wings.
A flock of mallards has joined the ceremony. To
the waterfowler this is living. Nothing can match
his personal excitement over a batch of feathered
beauties coming into range of his buckshot.
Cautiously the ducks look over the set. As they
flare they hear a plaintive chuckle from a call. A
half-dozen break off and come sideslipping down.
This is the climax of the ritual. No matter how
many times he has been initiated, to the water
fowler it is always a breathtaking experience. For
him no other occasion is so fraught with primeval
drama. For one awful moment there is nothing in
time but the hunter, a little stretch of wind-swept
pothole, and a huddle of wild waterfowl. For a
magic moment he looks right into the eye of
nature.
The firing of his gun is strictly anti-climactic,
like the benediction after a sermon. If he misses,
the waterfowler doesn’t care. The ducks have
fought a good fight, and he has kept the faith.
FOUR MAIN "FlYWAYS" mark the migratory routes of North
America's waterfowl — the Pacific, the Central, the Mississippi,
and the Atlantic. From breeding grounds in Canada the birds
flock down the sky trails to Caribbean winter "resorts."
THE CANADA GOOSE is to the waterfowler what
the moose is to the big-game hunter — a trophy
target. Goose populations are higher now than
they have been for many years, thanks to mod
ern management techniques.
"RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BLOCKS!" This is
the duck hunter's "home run" — when a mol
ten-d whistles by, looks over the decoys, makes
a wide, wary swing, and then comes racing
back to set his wings out in front of the blind.
