Shallow Bay Pilgrimage
A bluebill hunt on Gordon MacQuarrie's home waters brings the stories of the Old Duck Hunters' Association to life
By Keith Crowley
A late night phone call from north of the border prompted the decision to go. “Every duck in southern Manitoba departed last night at sunset.” It was an old friend with important news. “The marsh froze over today, and the wind is howling from the west. Divers left the big lake by the thousands. Get your gear together and get ready. They're on their way!” This was welcome inform-ation from a friend who knows his ducks. He has lived his entire life next to Manitoba's famous Delta Marsh and he is not inclined to hyperbole. When he told me he hadn't seen a massed flight like that in 30 years, I paid attention. When he mentioned the potent west wind, I made up my mind.
Diver hunting in northwest Wis- consin can be a hit-or-miss proposition. Of course, there are always the local mallards and ringbills. Wood ducks, wigeon, and teal also visit the potholes and marshes of the North Country, but without a well-timed, easterly shove from mother nature, the bigger flocks of divers tend to pass us by, choosing instead to follow the big rivers in Minnesota and points west. It has been that way for a long time. You take your chances, and hope some birds will work east. Maybe then they'll rest awhile on the vastness of Lake Superior before turning south into Wisconsin.
With the next morning came the sudden realization that I wasn't ready. There are few worse things for a duck hunter than being caught unprepared for the big flight, but other responsibilities had seized my attention. It's a sorry state to be in, but there I was. Half my gear was with me at home, half up at the cabin. I spent an hour gathering things and worrying. As I headed north I could only hope nothing vital was left behind. I took solace in the fact that all I really needed was a gun and the dog. Decoys, ammunition, and the boat waited for me at the lake.
On the drive I scanned each pothole and marsh I passed, looking for evidence that the flight was indeed arriving. I may have been initially caught off guard, but the signs were good. Many of the small wet places held birds. The wind, enough of it to buffet the truck and demand attention, kept up its relentless push from the west. The temperatures hovered in the 30s, cold enough to feel like duck weather, but not cold enough to freeze the bays and marshes of the North Country. That was crucial. October had been unusually cold. Some of the smaller marshes had already frozen over and then reopened when the weather moderated. I knew that precious few hunting days remained, especially where I was headed.
The place I had in mind is a famous place, or at least it was years ago when the Old Duck Hunters' Association, Inc. frequented it. Gordon MacQuarrie had named it Shallow Bay, and in a clandestine attempt to protect it from fame, he'd left it at that. It's a fitting name. Perhaps a half-mile long and 500 yards wide, Shallow Bay is no more than seven feet deep and loaded with coontail and cabbage, just as it was when MacQuarrie and Mr. President sat huddled on its shores. But the wild rice and wild celery MacQuarrie knew are gone—casualties of progress, I suppose. A long, thick peninsula with a high hill in the middle separates Shallow Bay from another smaller bay that was also once packed with rice—and ducks. The rice and celery may be gone, but some ducks still come on a west wind. Shallow Bay and its “lake of many shores” are now certainly more developed than in MacQuarrie's day, but the bay and the peninsula still draw hunters from the region. How many of them know the famous history of Shallow Bay is unclear, but enough know about the ducks.
Thirty-five miles from the cabin I detoured off my path to take a look at the bay and, more importantly, the point. MacQuarrie used this point as the backdrop for famous stories. “The Day I Burned the Oatmeal,” “Shallow Bay Comes Back,” “The Little Flight,” “Rainy Day Ducks,” and others were told with this little point at the center. It's a fine place to shoot ducks. From a town road on the south side of the bay I could see that the point was occupied. In a rapidly waning duck season the sight of another hunter here might have been disappointing, but today the impression of that lone hunter sitting behind a couple dozen blocks just completed the scene. I watched for perhaps 10 minutes until a small flock of birds came through a shoreline gap. They wheeled around the point once and, with the reckless abandon of divers fresh from the North, slashed into the blocks. The hunter rose, and one report echoed across the bay. From my vantage, I didn't see the bird fall, but as I watched him retrieve his boat from the brushy shoreline, I knew his shot had counted. When he returned to the point he busied himself breaking down his blind and gathering his gear. As he rowed out to retrieve his decoys I knew his morning was over, and when he lifted a laden game strap into the boat, I knew it had been a good one.
I returned to the highway and hurried a little. It was almost noon. I wanted to get to the cabin, get the wayward gear, and get back to Shallow Bay. On my way I passed another lake that usually holds bluebills—if there are any around. As I skirted the north end of the lake I slowed a bit and paused. There, a significant raft of birds, perhaps 300 of them, skirled and dove in mid-lake. A quick look through binoculars confirmed they were bluebills. On the highway again, I hurried a bit more. Elsie The Lab, fresh from her slumber in the back seat, sensed the renewed urgency. She pressed her nose against the window and panted in anticipation.
At the cabin I gathered everything needed, including a thermos full of coffee, a box of shells for the old double gun, and a life jacket for the boat. Within the hour we were on our way back to the bay. Four dozen diver decoys rode in the bow of the trailered boat, but three decoys were gingerly placed in a canvas bag and set on the front seat of the truck. These decoys, after forty-some years of patient idleness, were going home. They are cork bluebills, carved in the late 1930s by Ollie Drahn of Oshkosh, Wisconsin. They were born on the shores of Lake Winnebago, where countless thousands of bluebills, canvasbacks, redheads, and goldeneyes had annually rested their weary wings en route south and east. But more importantly, they had belonged to MacQuarrie. They came to me by way of an old MacQuarrie neighbor who had long ago given up on pre-dawn awakenings and moody mornings shivering in a duck blind. He was too old to enjoy the labor of it all, he said, but he believed these decoys were part of Wisconsin's waterfowling heritage and wanted them to go to an appreciative hunter. Fortunately, I fit that description well enough, and as Elsie and I arrive at the landing, the Old Duck Hunters' decoys ride in a place of honor on my front seat.
A thick veil of clouds and a gusty wind greet me as I ease the boat into the water. It's getting colder, and the wind has switched quarters to the north—all the better for the Shallow Bay blind. The sound of stout wings cleaving the air reminds me why I am braving the freezing temperatures and tossing waters of this lake. A small group of divers rushes by overhead. They are here and gone so quickly I can't tell what they are, but I hope they are bluebills. Elsie shivers at the sight of the gun case going into the boat. She's never quite sure what's in store until the gun case comes forward; then there's no hiding it, and the anticipation reaches its quivering crescendo.
Out on the lake the wind finds its bite and I'm glad I wore my heaviest coat. Along the north shore of this deep bay once stood “the big red cabin on the hill.” It was Joe Hollis's cabin, and MacQuarrie and Mr. President stayed there when they hunted this lake. The red cabin is gone now, replaced by close-packed summer homes, but it's easy to visualize the Old Duck Hunters scrambling down the hill to load the skiffs. I can almost see them shove off from shore and bear down on the oars.
As Elsie and I bounce through the chop, we turn for the narrows. Famous narrows these are as well—again courtesy of MacQuarrie. “Gallopin' Goldeneyes,” “The Windblown Flight,” and “The Bluebills Died at Dawn” were set here on the long point that forms the narrows. Through the gap and straight across Shallow Bay to the point we go. Elsie sniffs at the old cork decoys clustered at my feet, oblivious to the herky-jerky ride across the bay. Maybe she can sense something of their unique history. At the point, she jumps out over the decoy bags and vanishes into the brush on business only she knows. I begin the process MacQuarrie called an “interim of lesser joys.” A grass panel blind is fashioned, gear unloaded, blind bag opened, and gun uncased. Then it's back to the boat to place the blocks. Properly deploying 51 decoys alone in a gusty wind takes some doing. For tradition's sake they must form a large J, with the long arm stretching out into the bay. MacQuarrie's old blocks are placed closest to the blind so I can keep an eye on them. Although they are smaller than the modern decoys I use, they look better to me, and I wish I had a complete set. Elsie returns from her errand and sits next to the blind, watching me none too patiently.
Back at the blind I load the gun with two fresh bismuth reloads. The seven-pound double gun won't take the pressure of factory loads, and I like shooting the old gun. Around my feet are empty hulls—some old, some new. They're strong evidence that ducks still come to hunters here. I pick up the empties and put them into my bag. Final adjustments are made to the blind. A twig is bent back to offer a bit more concealment, and a grass panel adjusted so Elsie can leave the blind without tearing the whole thing down in her haste. I pour a cup of coffee and then there is time to reflect on the place. From my blind I can see in a wide arc across the bay. The narrows is visible to my left, and I watch it carefully. According to MacQuarrie, it's a favorite passage for the ducks. Farther to my left and behind me is another narrows that leads into the bay beyond the high hill and then into the broad main lake. I can't see this gap from the point, and I know that birds coming from the main lake can appear unnoticed from there. To my right the bay tapers until it forms a narrow, marshy outlet. There is skim ice in the shallows down there where it's protected from the wind. Directly across the bay, on the south shore, I can see a lakeside resident preparing his property for the approaching winter. Through binoculars I can see he is raking leaves along the shoreline.
I sit for a long time, it seems, but I purposely don't wear a watch in the blind. I keep one in my blind bag so I know when the legal hours begin and end, but when I wear it on my wrist I have a habit of looking at it constantly—an unfortunate symptom of living a largely urban life. The afternoon wears on, and eventually Elsie lies down behind the blind and dozes, a sure sign that nothing is flying. She often sees birds before I do, and it takes a lengthy dry spell to take her off her guard. Even though the skies are empty, I am undaunted. I am here in a sacred place, hunting over precious decoys, and it's easy to believe that time has stopped dead center on November 1938. I half expect to see an old duck skiff come pushing through the narrows with the two Old Duck Hunters aboard.
Through the gusting wind I think I can hear voices, or one voice at least, but I can't be certain. The dry, clinging oak leaves behind me rattle, and the wind itself mutes all but the loudest sounds. But a motion off to my left catches my attention. Low to the water, all but lost against the backdrop of shoreline trees, I catch a glimpse of 10 or 12 birds hustling back through the gap, and they are gone. I hadn't noticed them as they slid through the bay, just above the water. But Elsie saw them, or heard them, as she is now sitting next to me with ears perked in anticipation. She doesn't have long to wait. Back through the gap they come, hugging the far shore along the south side of the bay. As they pass the man with the rake, they swing due north towards me. There is no hesitation as the birds, perhaps 20 of them now, effortlessly slice through the gusts and set their wings. At that moment everything has fallen into place. I can hear the hissing air in their pinions. I can pick out the drakes and hens clearly. The gun is already in my hands, although I don't remember picking it up. I rise as the first of them sweep very near the old decoys, not 20 yards away. The first shot is less than perfect, but a broad-breasted drake splashes in the waves and comes up swimming. I use the left barrel to finish the task. At that, the dog is sent, and her patience is rewarded.
As I take that first bluebill from Elsie and smooth the thick feathers, I think I can hear that voice again. It sounds far off and is broken by the din of noise around me. I don't have time to think about it, however, as another flock of ‘bills cuts through the bay and heads toward the point. They are followed closely by another, smaller flock. The first birds swing over once, almost in range, but the second group stays closer to the water and I wait for them. These birds are braver, or maybe just more reckless. They commit to the decoys, and one remains behind. Back from her duty, Elsie is wet and happily shivering. Then the waiting begins again.
It's getting later, and the sun, well hidden by the clinging clouds, offers no clue to the time, so I dig the watch out of my bag and see that there is less than a half-hour left. The wind is calming, and several times I hear wingbeats behind me, somewhere over the high hill. But I cannot locate the birds. With 10 minutes remaining, I hear that voice again. It is my friend with the rake on the far shore. He's yelling something. He seems excited. Certainly the sporadic gunfire coming from my point can't be bothering him. He's a long way away. I pick up my binoculars and can see he is looking right at me. He's yelling as loudly as he can. Between the leafy rattles I finally hear him. “Here they come!” From his vantage point across the bay he can see the second gap and, bless his soul, he is a kindred spirit. I set the glasses down just as the birds come crashing around the point. They are so close I can see their yellow eyes, but I am not prepared as they pass. They swing wide across the bay and gain altitude. I am sure they are looking for calmer waters, when the lead bird makes a costly decision for the group and returns to MacQuarrie's point. The first shot is a clean miss, but the second finds a bird far back in the flock, and my day is done.
As I pick up the decoys, I think about crossing the bay to thank my friend with the rake. But it's getting darker, and he has gone inside. As Elsie and I push off from shore, I wave enthusiastically in the gathering dusk and hope he sees this small gesture of gratitude. I hope he knows I appreciate his goodwill, even if I can't express it properly. I think I will return to this hallowed place and thank him in person.
Back at the cabin I unload the truck and the boat. The gun is wiped down. The birds are cleaned, and Elsie fed. As she curls up in front of the woodstove, happy with the course the day has taken, I take the MacQuarrie decoys out of their canvas bag and examine them. They look none the worse for wear—and why should they? They were made to be hunted over. MacQuarrie had used them for many years; his neighbor had used them as well. Certainly I could do no harm by returning them to service at least once a year, when the day is right. I convince myself by saying out loud, “Mac would've wanted it that way.” The wind has died, the stars are out now, and it's getting colder. By morning Shallow Bay will likely be frozen. The season there may well be over, but I, too, am happy with the course the day has taken.
Keith Crowley is the author of the recently released book Gordon MacQuarrie: The Story of an Old Duck Hunter (University of Wisconsin Press), the first biography of the legendary outdoor writer whose columns appeared in the Milwaukee Journal for some 20 years, and whose “Stories of the Old Duck Hunters” appeared in major outdoor periodicals from the 1930s through the 1950s.