Poper
Member
Late last fall, I posted a thread “Parting Shot with Dad” which briefly described Dad’s introducing me into hunting as a youngster and the disbursement of his ashes during last fall’s deer season.
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My first memory of hunting with Dad happened when I was 11 years old. At the time, South Dakota had an early “Teal Only” season. Dad loved hunting teal over decoys. I can still hear the whistle of the wind through their wing feathers as they tumbled out of the sky approaching the decoys from behind us, always sounding closer than they really were. We didn’t hunt with a dog until very recently, so we kids were the natural retrievers in the early days. Kids too young to carry a gun during hunting season made ideal bird dogs. As such, Dad bought me my first pair of too large waders, to my mother’s consternation, of course. “Don’t worry. The kid’ll grow into ‘em. Besides, I need him out there and he can’t wade the sloughs in his jeans.” I distinctly remember that upscuddle, cause money was really tight in those days. As I remember, they were patched cast-offs he paid $4 for from the next door neighbor.
Dad was an excellent wing shot and was taught by one of the best duck shooters of his day, his Dad, who used to hunt ducks with enough shells for one limit in his jacket pocket. Dad said Gramps thought that “A fellow shouldn’t need more than one shell for a duck if he picks his shots proper. Too many folks go out there and just blow holes in the sky! Besides, shells are expensive! That’s three cents every time that gun goes bang!” That was quite a few years ago, but more times than not, Gramps would bring home his limit. Some times, when he returned without his limit, he would still have shells in his pocket. “Birds weren’t cooperating, today. They know how far ‘Betsey’ shoots.” Most of the Depression Generation may have passed on, but much of their philosophy and way of life are still applicable today.
“Remember, Son,” Dad says as he raises his Double Auto to track an in-coming whistler, “Butt, Breast, Bill, Boom”, - the concussion of the shell rang in my ears, - “as you swing through the duck. Tougher to use on these teal, though. They’re all over the place. Most other flavors of waterfowl it works great. Good on Pheasants, too. They don’t have Bills, though. Beaks. Pheasants have Beaks. Same principle. Don’t forget it”.
Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember. I promise!
“Now go get that Blue Wing laying out there for me.”
Great! I get to do something ,too! I’m cold. Retrieving the dead duck floating on the slough just beyond the ‘deeks’ will help me warm up some. The water is pretty deep in this part of the slough and I’m fairly small for my age. Muddy water floats to the surface with each step bringing the smell of a bad case of flatulence. Slough farts, my brother calls them. The weather has been exceptionally cool and the water must be close to 40 degrees. As I near the bobbing duck, I see pinkish-red streaks on the light colored breast feathers. The water is getting deeper and nearing the top of my waders while I hold my elbows out at my sides and nearly level with my shoulders. The duck is beginning to drift as the wind pushes the body to my left and slightly away. Bob, bob, bob… occasionally a leg flexes weakly or a wing waves slowly. Just dead muscles relaxing or nerve synapses firing… I am reaching for the duck’s neck just beyond my reach... stretching… stretching... one… more… step... SPLOOSH! WHOA!! NOW THAT’S COLD!!! DANG IT! Stepped in a muskrat run and filled my waders! Well, damage is done. Grab the bird and get back so I can get under cover…
“Boy, we need to get you to the car quick!” Dad comes striding out and starts snatching decoys by their anchor chords. “Gimme that duck and you head back the way we came in. Follow the broken reed trail. I’ll be right behind you in a couple minutes. Get going, now! Git!”
The more shallow the water gets the harder it is to walk. Dad will be catching up soon… I’m tuckered out… these waders are HEAVY… and cold, too…hard to lift my feet out of the mud… water’s only mid-thigh deep but this is getting to be a real struggle... it hurts to breathe… rasping, dry throat burns... I’m walking on my knees now…it’s easier because the water in my waders is partly supported by the water around me… Something grabs me by the back of my waders between the suspender straps! “C’mon, boy-child! Just a few more yards to dry ground!... There! Now lay down with your head down hill. That’s it. Lift your legs and that water is going to run out your waders and up your neck to the back of your head. Up now! Let’s get to the car and some dry clothes!”
To this very day, that remains the longest, coldest, toughest walk out of any slough for me, ever. That day was also the first time I ever shared a shot of Crown Royal with my Dad after a day’s hunt. I guess I earned it the hard way.
Many years later we shared my next shot of Crown Royal. I was 19 and left for Lackland AFB the following morning.
Poper
_______________________________________________________________________________
My first memory of hunting with Dad happened when I was 11 years old. At the time, South Dakota had an early “Teal Only” season. Dad loved hunting teal over decoys. I can still hear the whistle of the wind through their wing feathers as they tumbled out of the sky approaching the decoys from behind us, always sounding closer than they really were. We didn’t hunt with a dog until very recently, so we kids were the natural retrievers in the early days. Kids too young to carry a gun during hunting season made ideal bird dogs. As such, Dad bought me my first pair of too large waders, to my mother’s consternation, of course. “Don’t worry. The kid’ll grow into ‘em. Besides, I need him out there and he can’t wade the sloughs in his jeans.” I distinctly remember that upscuddle, cause money was really tight in those days. As I remember, they were patched cast-offs he paid $4 for from the next door neighbor.
Dad was an excellent wing shot and was taught by one of the best duck shooters of his day, his Dad, who used to hunt ducks with enough shells for one limit in his jacket pocket. Dad said Gramps thought that “A fellow shouldn’t need more than one shell for a duck if he picks his shots proper. Too many folks go out there and just blow holes in the sky! Besides, shells are expensive! That’s three cents every time that gun goes bang!” That was quite a few years ago, but more times than not, Gramps would bring home his limit. Some times, when he returned without his limit, he would still have shells in his pocket. “Birds weren’t cooperating, today. They know how far ‘Betsey’ shoots.” Most of the Depression Generation may have passed on, but much of their philosophy and way of life are still applicable today.
“Remember, Son,” Dad says as he raises his Double Auto to track an in-coming whistler, “Butt, Breast, Bill, Boom”, - the concussion of the shell rang in my ears, - “as you swing through the duck. Tougher to use on these teal, though. They’re all over the place. Most other flavors of waterfowl it works great. Good on Pheasants, too. They don’t have Bills, though. Beaks. Pheasants have Beaks. Same principle. Don’t forget it”.
Thanks, Dad. I’ll remember. I promise!
“Now go get that Blue Wing laying out there for me.”
Great! I get to do something ,too! I’m cold. Retrieving the dead duck floating on the slough just beyond the ‘deeks’ will help me warm up some. The water is pretty deep in this part of the slough and I’m fairly small for my age. Muddy water floats to the surface with each step bringing the smell of a bad case of flatulence. Slough farts, my brother calls them. The weather has been exceptionally cool and the water must be close to 40 degrees. As I near the bobbing duck, I see pinkish-red streaks on the light colored breast feathers. The water is getting deeper and nearing the top of my waders while I hold my elbows out at my sides and nearly level with my shoulders. The duck is beginning to drift as the wind pushes the body to my left and slightly away. Bob, bob, bob… occasionally a leg flexes weakly or a wing waves slowly. Just dead muscles relaxing or nerve synapses firing… I am reaching for the duck’s neck just beyond my reach... stretching… stretching... one… more… step... SPLOOSH! WHOA!! NOW THAT’S COLD!!! DANG IT! Stepped in a muskrat run and filled my waders! Well, damage is done. Grab the bird and get back so I can get under cover…
“Boy, we need to get you to the car quick!” Dad comes striding out and starts snatching decoys by their anchor chords. “Gimme that duck and you head back the way we came in. Follow the broken reed trail. I’ll be right behind you in a couple minutes. Get going, now! Git!”
The more shallow the water gets the harder it is to walk. Dad will be catching up soon… I’m tuckered out… these waders are HEAVY… and cold, too…hard to lift my feet out of the mud… water’s only mid-thigh deep but this is getting to be a real struggle... it hurts to breathe… rasping, dry throat burns... I’m walking on my knees now…it’s easier because the water in my waders is partly supported by the water around me… Something grabs me by the back of my waders between the suspender straps! “C’mon, boy-child! Just a few more yards to dry ground!... There! Now lay down with your head down hill. That’s it. Lift your legs and that water is going to run out your waders and up your neck to the back of your head. Up now! Let’s get to the car and some dry clothes!”
To this very day, that remains the longest, coldest, toughest walk out of any slough for me, ever. That day was also the first time I ever shared a shot of Crown Royal with my Dad after a day’s hunt. I guess I earned it the hard way.
Many years later we shared my next shot of Crown Royal. I was 19 and left for Lackland AFB the following morning.
Poper
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