Last Duck Hunt of the Year

About as much fun as you can have with a long arm and canoe.  Buddy Bryan and I: out on the Pequea Creek this morning after the green heads and woodies and Canuck gooseye.  I would have called myself a passable to fair wing shot, but from the front of a moving boat, 30 degrees, water a few degrees warmer, well, it is a damn different, much more challenging, game.  Twice, jostling rapids knocked the gunwale into my trigger safe.  Had a good bead but no firing pin.  Is this why its called the gunwale?  That was in the first half hour.  It was a day of feeling much the amateur.  In other words, right at home, having the time of my life.  Had at least 5 occasions close enough to going in (the creek) to resign myself to going in.  But did not.  I learned too, that all those years of complaining of cold feet, I was just being a sissy, b/c TODAY I had cold feet.  And I rode (not rowed) up front on flat-open ankles for so long that when we finally took a break I was muscle-lock frozen in place with my heels caught under the seat so that if the canoe did go up, I'd still be at the bottom.  A canoe full of water weighs 2000lbs.  That's more than B currently dead lifts without at least a warm up.  Other misses (had plenty):  at least two were too far out, but I'm counting them (or not counting them depending on your view) b/c, well, still operator error.  We scared up dozens at 60+ yards, not even worth shouldering the gun, but jesus you get to see live ducks lighting from the water and maybe the only thing more beautiful than birds taking off is birds landing. When everything is right you have half a second.  Slightest hesitation and your're beat.  Missed a nice pair gawking at a Amishman's footbridge, trying to figure in the time it took to float underneath, how he built the thing.  We came around one bend and a boy was creekside, obviously duck hunting.  "How you making out?"  "I killed three ducks."  Felt extra humbled by his youth.  Luckily the water was pushing us downstream and I didn't have talk about my poor marksmanship.  Just a rock skip farther down we came to another boy and his dad, trying like hell to get something out of the water.  Huh,  a duck.  Funny, though, a white duck.  It was hung up in some branches.  We floated by and I collared the duck and flung it to the bank.  Never seen a duck so white.  Didn't even know to look for one.  Right there, there was a LOW bridge over the creek and we had to portage over.  While on the road, an Amish farmer (down that end of the county, the term is "round hat" which seems innocuous but is always said with a whisper of enmity) came up to us and said, "Boys, if'n its all the same maybe not kill the white ducks, theys sorta pets and been round here for years."  I had to apologize for laughing.  Bryan said, "No sir, they ain't with us.  We didn't shoot any ducks." "No?"  "No," I said, "I've only shot at ducks.  I have not shot any ducks." THough it was mistimed, the farmer got my joke and even seemed to appreciate it.  "how many do you have," Bryan asked?  "They's 3 or 4 of 'em"  I couldn't do anything but look at my felt-soled boots.  "no we aint with them," we said again.  Farmer went up the road and we dropped back into the stream.  The farmer and the dad had words, stern but not loud.  i didnt catch much after "not wild ducks really."  We laughed for a good water mile.  Who shoots a white duck?  Bryan said, "I sorta wondered when I saw it's orange feet."  I wouldn't have thought to put it that way, but it was verily spoken.  Bryan said, if that was an Englishman we woulda heard bitchin' and hollering, lawyers' names.  But the Amish dude, barely louder'n a whisper says, "all the same, let my pets live."  Also, true as gravity.  Round Hat now and honorific for me.  Sober as a judge, fierce as a mama, patient as a round hat.  Anyway, Don't kill the farm ducks.  Farmers don't like it.  It makes the ducks dead.  And duck hunters get a bad name.  I also Whiffed on two (mallards, not hunters) screaming right up the creek at us.  Still don't know how, but the teal shot in sporting clays makes a lot of sense 15 years later.  In fact, much fun as clay-birds are, now I see the activity for the pale shadow of sport that it is.  Putt-putt to a par 72 Eighteen.  Keep in mind that while you're hunting, you're slicking downstream though forest, field, gorge and geology.  Good bracing cold, the water making music, frosting caps of snow, hawks screeching, geese crying, minks, muskrats, deer yarding up by the dozens.  When you get to a deadfall dam you risk your neck or at least your warmth back paddling to take out and portage around the hold-up but it isn't all that bad 'cause it warms you up and when you go broad side into a rock the size of chevy only the hubcap of which you can see, just plunge you gun hand into the wet but keep a hold of the gun so it doesnt sink.  Post yourself on the rock and you're GOOD if hand-stove and a teensy bit not-hot in the finger region.  At least you got proof you did something worthwhile and your fancy gun dont look like a range toy anymore.  While I'm giving advice, wear your waders, the good gore-tex ones and down and a Filson coat and if you have any wool, wear it too.  All the fun you'll be having will keep you alive.  And if you DO knock one down, b/c you may not be good, but goddamn it you can get better at anything, well, it's okay if you lose it to the water, that second shot was to make sure no one was suffering, hunters are just unusual not cruel.  And don't leave your keys in the put-in vehicle.  You'll need 'em at take out (at the day's second covered bridge).  And then dream of the heron you played tag with all day, those long long long wings, bluer than heaven.

Happy New Year, my people.  You're my kinda people.  '13's gotta beat '12, though we had to do that'n to get to this'n.

We come on the ship they call the Mayflower/We come on the ship that sailed the moon/We come at the age's most uncertain hour and sing an American tune.