Lessons Learned

[Desert Rat]

None of us were born Ninja Assassins. Somewhere along the road we learned a lot of our tricks from others. My dad taught me some of the most lasting and valuable.

His tutoring began on the first day of the first hunt of my life. I was allowed to use my brother's pump 20 ga and my dad rousted me out pre-dawn for a duck hunt. Just him and me.

I was well drilled in safety, loading, unloading and usage of the gun so pretty much figured, "What else is there to learn?"

Dad and I ended up sneaking along the banks of the treacherous old Pecos River. After a bit, he paused and cocked his head. "Hear them?" he asked me.

I listened for a bit and sure enough I could hear a mess of ducks quacking and having a good time somewhere up ahead.

We moved off the bank and into the brush where nothing could see us and stalked our prey just by sound. When it sounded like we were in the middle of the ducks, he told me to crawl out to the bank and peek over.

Eagerly I obeyed and when I got to the edge there was a zillion ducks on the water. I looked back at my dad and whispered, "There's a big bunch of them."

To which he replied, "You better shoot."

Clearly I was being offered the first shot of the day with what I thought was a LOT of ducks on a silver platter.

Well, I didn't have to be told twice and that's when I got stupid. First thing I did was raise up on one knee for nice shooting position. I was too dumb to realize just how sharp-eyed ducks and such are.

Next thing that happened was the water exploded with a zillion ducks taking off like rockets. But not to worry. I couldn't miss a zillion ducks.

Blam, blam, blappo!

To my utter amazement, not one duck fell or even slowed down and by the time my father was able to join me on the bank, the ducks were probably crossing into Texas, 150 miles away.

I asked the $64 dollar question. "How did I miss!!!!!!!!!!!"

My father knew exactly how I missed. And being a man of few words and gentle reminders, he said, "You have to aim at ONE of them."

Before the morning was over I got the message. Don't matter if there are a zillion or what. You pick your target and nail it. Whatever happens after that is just a bonus. But "flock shooting" doesn't work so well.


Thankfully we were given more opportunities. My dad picked out ONE duck from a group and it died in mid-air......then he picked another ONE duck and it splashed down close by...etc.

I imitated his methods and started filling my own game bag. By the end of my first hunt I was a lot smarter than I was when he got me out of bed.

[ErikD]

A lot of grownups have still not learned that you need to pick out one single bird from a flock, and preferably on the outskirts so any stray shot doesn't wound a bird next to it. Sounds like you started off right DR, and I am betting your kids have learned the same.

[Desert Rat]

Originally Posted by ErikD

A lot of grownups have still not learned that you need to pick out one single bird from a flock, and preferably on the outskirts so any stray shot doesn't wound a bird next to it. Sounds like you started off right DR, and I am betting your kids have learned the same.

I think it was the first lesson I taught my son, Erik. But I was a little more brutal. When he started hunting, I handed him the gun and one bullet. He got the message and never came home empty. He's a good shot and unlike me, he has the patience of Job. He'll lie up in some ambush spot and not twitch for half a day if necessary. Deadly kid. (Except I forget he's not a kid any longer. )

[baboon]

My dad was the youngest boy out of 5. His dad passed away when he was young & they had to hunt to eat. Being the youngest, my dad was the bird dog of the bunch. He never cared much about hunting or guns, but never stopped me. We only went out twice together. Even as pumped up as I was I could plainly see he wasn't into it.

My uncle Lyle was the only one that really hunted. I think WWII changed my dad & other uncles greatly. One was buried alive twice & even cap guns weren't allowed around him. PTSD or shell shock as they called it.

[10 Bears]

Great story DR, and a lesson that needs be taught to many.

[OldBob]

It takes a while for most duck hunters to learn that and it is damn easily forgotten in the rush on a big flock coming in ... which reminds me...... Staying in a friends camp in on an island in the St. Lawrence, about 20 years ago, 3 of us. Larry and I had hunted together for years and were pretty good at getting the birds, the other guy was a "newbie" , about 3 years experience and had him a dog about 1 year old which he kept telling us was the best damn duck dog in the whole universe........ It was opening morning of the second half of a split season and we had done our scouting and knew where to be, got there way early and set out 50-60 decoys and got into the blind for coffee and the enjoyment of seeing dawn come up with sounds of ducks quacking and birds awakening.. just beautiful. Just after dawn started breaking a big flock of bluebills got up and started swinging, they spotted our set and started for them like they were long lost girlfriends, the whole damn flock of probably 200 were homing in on us like we were magnetic and were just about 20 yds out of range when the best damn dog in the world busted through the front of the blind and told those damn birds that this was his shoal and they had best leave..... they did.

[Desert Rat]

I never hunted with a dog that did anything but get in the way.

[OldBob]

I had one yellow lab that was a hunting fool....... when he felt like it. The next day he would be dumber than a sack of hammers. Youngest boy has a black lab that was real good for a couple of years , then got just pure stupid, guess he got pu**y on the brain. Yeah DR, I like dogs, but I'll hunt without if I have a choice. I guess to be fair I would have to admit that most of it is having the time to work with them and let them know exactly what you expect of them....... how many of us have time for that ?

[Desert Rat]

During that great winter of my first taste of hunting, starting with Ducks 101, my Dad constantly stressed safety first. It was a ritual for us to take the shell out of the chamber each time we got back in the truck.

After my first debacle at the mega-swarm of ducks we hit a few spots on up the river with 2 or 3 ducks here and there. I managed to down one or two as we went and at least scare hell out of the rest. So my confidence was soaring as it will in a young lad's mind. I was pretty sure I'd hit my stride and was destined to keep our family in ducks the rest of my life.

When we drove a few miles up the river and stopped to try some new spots, both of us replenished the shells in our pockets, grabbed our guns and started into the salt cedar towards the river.

I don't know how many of you know what salt cedar is. The crap is a very thickly growing plant from hell that usually grows into a jungle. It grows about 15 feet high and so thick you need a machete to get through it sometimes. Everything vile and evil lives and hides in it, especially skunks, snakes and wasps. Fortunately, it was cold enough that time of year the wasps were long since dead or hidden elsewhere. But just to make sure every trek into the cedar is miserable, this plant is covered with jicky little "leaves" almost like pine needles, except they aren't sharp. Instead they just rain down on you at every step and go down your back, in your eyes, up your nose, into your pockets...you name it.

But I digress. Dad and I fought our way for at least a hundred yards through this shit before we came to the river again. That's the way salt cedar grows. You can never tell if the spot you picked is 5 feet thick of 5 miles. I've seen both.

Anyway, our efforts were rewarded when we peaked out at the river. Frolicking in the water were several squadrons of teal.

Dad looked at me and I looked at him. Smiles all around. "OK," he says. "Lets go out together. You take the ducks north of here and I'll take the ones south."

Our only problem was 50 yds of flat sandy shore line between us and the ducks. We were going to have to cover that FAST to get in optimum range before the ducks rocketed away.

At a nod we both charged silently forward. The ducks wasted a second or two staring at us in disbelief. This bit of the river was such a bitch to get to on foot that they thought all was peace and safety.

Then they exploded from the water while we still beat feet towards them. I could read the handwriting on the wall. We were going to be in good range before they got up any speed. It was going to work.

Dad and I both skidded to a stop at about the same spot, flicked our shotguns off safety and settled on our first targets.

Then came lesson #2. (Always check rifle before shooting) His auto-loader went "click" on an empty chamber and my gun answered with its own sickening sound of nothing.

We had been so wrapped up with firearms safety that both of us had forgotten to chamber a round.

It's hard to feel much dumber than both of us felt at that moment and before we sorted it out and held operational guns again, the ducks had the gear up and were going through mach 1 in the opposite direction.

I thought, "Oh look! See the ducks! See the ducks fly away! Damn. Damn. Damn."


My father gave me a sheepish look and I hung my head as I realized the family was going to starve because I couldn't get it right.

But God loves the guy who tries. Just as we were about to walk away, there came a shrill whistle from north of us. I couldn't believe my eyes! For some bizarre reason the ducks decided to circle around and make a high speed pass right in front of us. Duck humor I suppose. Rub our faces in it.

Quick as a flash I threw up my gun and warned myself, "PICK OUT ONE BIRD.

As the birds raced by us I fired one well aimed and determined shot. At the same instant I heard my father fire twice and then the ducks soared away. What happened next I never expected. It started raining dead ducks. Seven of them dropped into the river in front of us. Color me stupefied.

Then my Dad taught me lesson #3. (You shoot it...you go get it.)

The ducks were scattered the hell all over the river and slowly floating away.
"What are we going to do?" I asked. All our other kills had politely drifted into the bank for us.

"We go get them," my Dad said and started taking off his pants.

The Pecos is rarely deep but that time of year is was cold enough to do funny things to brass balls.

When he waded into the water, I followed suit and started toward the ducks in my area. The water wasn't cold. It burned! I took a few steps forward and then backed up to look down. My legs were turning pink like I'd stepped into hot grease. My father kept going. (Crazy old man...and he wasn't even a very good swimmer if it came to that. At least I was.)

I gritted my teeth and went in again, determined to collect the ducks or die. Before it was over I had been in water almost armpit deep. Death would have been a blessing. But ultimately both of us got back to the shore with our 7 ducks.

We stood there for a moment, almost naked from the waist down and the temperature OUT of the water felt almost like a hair dryer. In a minute we were dry enough that we could squeak into our pants again and stagger back to the truck.

I was happy and hoping there weren't too many more lessons I had to learn my first day as a great hunter. But we almost had our limits and when my father asked if I was ready to go home, I almost kissed him on the lips.

It had been a rare day and one of the few in my life when I was glad to go home.

[10 Bears]

...and THAT's what retriever DOGS are used for!