My first gift duck was a mallard, of course. My buddy Lee and I had put our heads down and ground out a three-hour, no wind, no prayer, we-should-go-home hunt in a hot swamp where sunburns and mosquitoes kept us company. The ducks sure didn’t. Since legal light, we hadn’t seen a duck. Hadn’t heard a duck. Hadn’t heard a shot despite the fact that we were in the middle of 40,000 acres of public hunting grounds. We might have forgotten what a duck looks like when suddenly there! up in the sky! was a duck. We wouldn’t have been more surprised had it been Superman in the flesh.
The greenhead was in perfect relief against the sky. It was dropping, dropping, dropping as if a tractor beam was drawing it to the foot of our DIY blind. We had not called. We had not jiggled a jerk cord. We’d pretty much given up, to be honest, so we were simply stunned with the sudden visitation of an honest-to-goodness real live duck.
Then one of us—I can’t remember who—broke out of our reverie and pulled the trigger and shot the duck, and it practically fell in our laps.
That was my first gift duck, but not my last.
Any duck hunter who’s hunted more than a few years knows what I’m talking about. The gift duck is the sudden and inexplicable appearance of a duck just as you are abandoning all hope that you will not be skunked. You’re sitting in the blind wondering what the gun shop will give you for your shotgun, who might want to pick up a couple dozen used decoys cheap, and if golf is really all that fun, because you just might give it a try, when suddenly a duck appears. Or three. Or six. They pull you back from the ledge.
This could be a good thing or a bad thing.
When you’ve stuck it out long enough or dragged the boat far enough or stayed up late enough to finally fix the trailer wiring, that’s when the gift duck comes. Somewhere over the feathered rainbow the duck gods smile and toss you a web-footed crumb. Not enough to sate your hunger. Oh, no. Perhaps not even a duck in the bag. Just a quick flight out on the edge of the decoys to keep you on your toes. Just enough to keep you in the game. So you think I’ll give it another hour.
The duck gods can play hardball, and that’s a fact.
There seem to be a handful of different duck gods. They tend to specialize, in the manner of the ancient Greek gods. They had Apollo, the god of healing, music, and archery. Ares, the god of war. Hestia, the goddess of the hearth and home. Those were big jobs, and I’m not sure the duck gods are really in their league. But woo, boy, do the duck gods take their work seriously.
Consider the duck god of boats, trucks, and other things with engines. This deity is just messed up. I’m fairly sure this duck god is all of 12 or 13 years old, because he or she sure does love a good juvenile prank. Like that time my 1973 Chevy truck with its three-on-the-tree gear shifter got stuck in reverse on a single-lane boat ramp in the predawn dark of opening day. That was a good time. A half dozen other hunters hauling boats fumed as I worked under the hood. It took elbow grease, a long screwdriver, and nearly an hour to pry the shifter link loose so I could pull the truck off the ramp. That was the day that me and the duck god of boats, trucks, and other things with engines went crossways, and we haven’t fully patched up our relationship yet. And don’t get me started with the duck god of boat trailer lights. We have some real issues.
The duck god of sunken stumps, beaver holes, and hidden ditches is another twisted deity that seems to have it out for me. What a riot he is. This is the guy whose clutch play is to place a hidden beaver hole in front of you as you wade a swamp or pond with a flashlight clamped between your lips and both hands full of gear, so that when you step into the hole you go full Monty. So deep your hat floats off. The last time I crossed paths with the duck god of sunken stumps, beaver holes, and hidden ditches, I stepped into a hole while backpacking three dozen decoys and wrenched my knee so badly I had to have surgery. What a charmer.
And then there are the duck gods of sudden, inexplicable, and unforecasted freak weather. There must be a bunch of these deities, because they sure are hard at work.
You would think that all of the duck gods would have the power to dole out a gift duck at their whim, like the way good people send flowers or a green bean casserole to a friend who has come down with the flu. Given the scarcity of gift ducks that come winging my way, though, it could be that there is only one good, wise, and benevolent duck god. Sort of like Glinda the Good Witch of Oz. She can’t be everywhere at once. Maybe that explains the relative scarcity of gift ducks when, goodness knows, we duck hunters deserve a break every now and then.
But I’ve come to learn that it’s no big deal when the duck gods are against me, because there are a few things they can’t control. There are a few things that happen on a duck hunt just because.
Just about every duck hunt has a sunrise.
Just about every duck hunt has an unforgettable moment.
Just about every duck hunter has a hunting pal who shares the joy of the good days and the burden of the slow days and the burned-out trailer hubs.
And just about every time I duck hunt, I come home with a memory of a certain slant of light in the marsh, or a lick in the face from a dog that’s just happy to be in the muck with me. I wouldn’t have experienced that had I stayed in bed.
Just about every time, those gifts are more than I deserve.
