Men Plan and God Laughs

Two longtime friends share the ups and downs of duck hunting.

By Jonathan Rushing

To start with, the lodging was always questionable. At its best it was a guest room at a family member’s house, and at its worst it was an old farmhouse with more rats than heat. It was all part of the adventure.   

As a matter of fact, the accommodations weren’t the biggest challenge of the annual weekend. We often found ourselves lost, being far too masculine to require the service of a GPS. Or we were often plagued by some mysterious mechanical problem such as a fussy pickup that refused to run without fuel. Or, there was the time I grabbed the wrong gun case and arrived at the boat ramp with a deer rifle, forcing Chris to trade volleys via one shotgun passed back and forth as the gadwalls dipped in.

Although many of these weekends are worth recounting at our expense, one stands out. In 2017 we were more mature — pushing 40, no less. We had learned lessons, had better equipment and tended to be better prepared. In fact, several uncommon things happened prior to this trip: We scouted, Chris tuned up his boat and everything was fueled. We were full of superiority as we sipped coffee at the ramp before launch.

This particular morning was very cold. Chris ran the motor as I scanned the edges of the boat ditch with a spotlight, making our way toward a nearby lake. With the cold temperatures, the shallow water was locked up and the ducks were in open water.   

Reaching our spot, we plowed the boat into brush for concealment. As we tied up to a large cypress, Chris revealed another surprise — a boat blind that had been installed the night before. It sprung up effortlessly, and again we celebrated how well we were adulting.   

From there, things felt as if they were really going well. As daylight started to break, we talked with smug pride about our concealment, warmth, dryness and the fact that a few ducks were buzzing around. Chris asked if I wanted a shot of coffee before the action started. I removed my shotgun from its case, placed it against the front of the blind and turned to grab the cup.

I’m not sure what happened next. In hindsight, we’d hypothesize that a pin popped out of the blind; I had likely snagged it earlier. But exactly how my Benelli flipped over that partially collapsed top, I’ll never know. I froze, made eye contact, and asked, “Was that my …?”

Chris handed me my coffee, intoning matter-of-factly, “Yep, that was your gun.” He was never known for theatrics, but I was beside myself. And just like that, our mature façade evaporated, revealing our old youthful shenanigans huddling underneath.

We bungee-corded a paddle to a navigation pole, which required me to remove clothing and get a good portion of my body into the water to have a chance at locating the submerged shotgun. Eventually, we identified the clink of metal below, but it was impossible to snag.

Chris then launched a new plan. We would mark the tree on GPS, drive to the ramp and get the heater rolling in the truck, then return for my swim before making our way back to a warm truck. A good plan had I stopped to think about it, but I was rattled.

“I’m just going in for it, then we can make the ride to the truck,” I announced.

Chris paused, sipped his coffee and grinned.

“You think you could get that thing out with a garden hoe? ’Cause I have one in the back of my truck,” he said, his tone maddeningly calm even in the face of my emergency.

I still question if he remembered that hoe all along and just wanted a picture of me swimming in the icy January water, only to reconsider at the last moment before I dove in. Either way, the garden implement made quick work of the retrieval. And now that the frigid cold was lifting and bluebird skies were above, we took a ride in the timber scouting for the following day. No more than a few minutes in, greenheads exploded from a hole, the sign around us confirming this is where they wanted to be.

We cleaned the mud out of my shotgun, loaded it with dry shells and went to work on greenheads as they put on a late-season show silently floating into a small, secluded hole. It was a great hunt, flagged in my mind by good shooting, good company and avoiding the loss of my favorite shotgun.

And, true to form, there was one more nod to the calamitous that had always seemed to mark our adventures for future reliving. I managed to float my hat and my dignity by stepping in a root ball retrieving the first duck.