It was the sweetest of sweet spots.
Just 50 minutes from my front porch to the edge of the water and an easy 15-minute walk to the honey hole. Way off the road. A little swamp near a big creek’s confluence with a major river. Holy moly. What a sweet spot. I hunted it with a grand succession of three different Labrador retrievers. Jack killed his first ducks there. I had it to myself, with a buddy, for 14 years. And then I lost it. That was one of the most traumatic days of my adult life.
There’s little that’s more comforting than knowing you have a good spot. A sweet spot. A place you can find a duck most days and go when you want to without having to ask permission or fight the crowds. A honey hole all to yourself, or maybe to share with a small group of pals who appreciate the gift of a visit to a place where the ducks go. When all else fails in life and when all hope is lost—say the home HVAC goes out on the same day that you learn you have gout—if you have a sweet spot, then you can get through it.
I didn’t blame the landowner. (Well, maybe a little.) Times change. But that didn’t keep me from literally weeping when I got the news. And it doesn’t keep me from literally dreaming about that special place even today, a decade later. It still hurts. I still can’t believe I was booted from my spot.
Hunt ducks and geese long enough, and it’s bound to happen. Hunt ducks and geese as long as I have, and it’s likely that more than a few sweet spots have come and gone in your waterfowling life. You’re just as happy to see some of them in the rearview mirror. Others will haunt you forever.
How have I lost my spots? Let me count the ways.
I lost a spot when the farmer dynamited the beaver dam and drained the beaver pond.
Lost a spot when the landowner’s kids got old enough to want to hunt it themselves. Dang kids these days.
Lost a spot when the beaver pond aged, the trees finally died, and the swamp turned into open water. Beaver ponds don’t stay good ducking spots forever.
Lost a spot, I think, thanks to an invasion of nutria. I’m no scientist, so this is a pure guess. But one day, there were zero nutria in the pond, and the next day there were 4 million.
Lost canoe access to a super-secret spot when a couple of other duck hunters bought it. So inconsiderate.
Lost a couple spots due to housing developments. I still had permission to hunt them, but when you can sit on the pond bank and see decoys in one direction and watch the morning news on someone’s kitchen television in the other, it’s time to move on.
I once lost a spot that never should have been a spot to begin with. I was so desperate to have a place to duck hunt that I leased a farm with a pond and a small beaver swamp without having seen a single duck on it. In three years, our total take was one hooded merganser. I didn’t lose this spot so much as I walked away from it with my tail tucked between my legs and my wallet significantly lighter.
A couple of years ago, I sinned against the spirit of all that is holy in freelance DIY waterfowling—I voluntarily gave up a sweet spot. It was only 40 minutes from the house. I didn’t share it with anyone. It was one of the prettiest places I’ve ever hunted. What was I thinking?
I was thinking that the aggregate of my hunting lease fees was approaching half my net annual income. That’s a stretch, maybe, but the percentage was higher than I care to admit.
I was thinking that I just didn’t use the place enough.
I was thinking that it was so inconsistent. There seemed to be neither rhyme nor reason to when the birds were there and when they were not.
I was thinking that it just wasn’t worth it. In other words, I was thinking all wrong.
Because the more sweet spots I lose, the more I realize the value of having a few in my back pocket. A good honey hole delivers more than solid duck hunting. A sweet spot is a place where dreams take root. They’re like an old dog or a pump shotgun: there for you when you really need them. You can be a million miles away from your sweet spot when a cool breeze swirls past you and your mind immediately goes to that half-rotted stake blind in the marsh, or to the swamp tree you’ve leaned against for a dozen of the best mornings of your life. The best honey holes inspire both the head and heart.
Thankfully, I have a few sweet spots left. That beaver dam that my farmer buddy blew up? The beavers moved a few hundred yards downstream and have built another dam. Got my fingers crossed that it turns into a sweet spot. Another friend has a wood duck swamp where the wading is easy and the ducks pile in. It’s not a place I can go without him, so it doesn’t fully register as a sweet spot. But it’s pretty durn sweet when I get an invitation, so I’ll keep it on the list. And there are two or three creeks and ponds that consistently hold ducks on my deer lease. I can only hunt them after deer season, but it’s relatively close and relatively consistent. All in all, relatively sweet.
That I have any spots at all is due to my year-round obsession with looking for spots and talking about spots and begging just about anyone for spots. When it comes to sweet spots for duck hunting, it’s a dog-eat-dog world out there.
And I never stop looking. Ever. So, if you know of a sweet spot out there that no one hunts, let’s talk. I think I know a guy.
