Off the Grid

By Christopher Smith

We arrived at camp late one rainy October evening. Like a scene from old sporting art, orange light glowed in the cabin windows and smoke whipped from the chimney. Brian and his boy, Cole, came out to greet my son, Nathan, and me and help relieve our burdens of bags and food. Brian’s cabin had changed over the last six years, but the surroundings were exactly as I remembered them. We scurried around unpacking supplies, catching up on what we had been up to, and savoring the sheer remoteness of such a place, where the closest help was a neighbor who checked every week or two to see if you were still alive, and the nearest cell service was 10 minutes by duck and 30 minutes by truck.

Due to Brian’s growing family, an addition to the south end of the cabin became necessary for friends and relatives to stay in. It was special, a true sportsman’s retreat on the shores of a decent-sized lake and a stone’s throw from the menacing waters of Lake Superior.

Brian’s annual duck camp had begun several days earlier, but Nathan and I couldn’t make it until the tail end, when his college classes broke for the week, allowing the hardworking students a necessary pause to reset their brains. Nate’s favorite place to hit that reset button is in a duck blind, as is mine. We were thankful that our cohorts in the lakeside cabin shared our affliction with all things waterfowl, and before long we were hovering over the potbellied stove, sipping bourbon and discussing the imminent weather change that couldn’t have been more well timed.

A warm southeast wind and light drizzle persisted, but the scratchy radio told of a big change—winds abruptly switching to the northwest along with dropping temperatures and rain changing over to intermittent snow. Normally, we temper such forecasts with cautious optimism, given how seldom the local weather folks call it correctly, but because it was the third week of October, we allowed ourselves more than a glimmer of hope.

Throughout the night, the predicted winds ripped over the small cabin’s cedar walls as patchy moonlight competed with rain squalls battering the north-facing windows. Only a few hours later, we heaped breakfast burritos together and downed steaming coffee as the two young lads scooted around the cold cabin, stuffing gear into blind bags and chatting about the coming hunt. We all silently shared the same feelings, that today could be the day. Was it too much to hope for, that the weather and the ducks would converge for one of those hunts? Only time would tell.

The trip to the blind was arduous—several miles of the UP’s most remote forest trails, followed by a quarter-mile drag of a canoe and gear through a wader-sucking bog and a 300-yard paddle to our chosen island blind. Getting in or out of this place entailed the imminent risk of anything from a hernia to meeting your maker. More than once, Brian and I paused to “resituate” decoy bags and gear (by resituate, I mean to catch our breath and quietly wonder if we were too old for this). 

An hour before legal shooting time, the dark was almost tangible in the dank, inky bog. My son and I, with gear and dog loaded, nearly capsized immediately upon hopping into the canoe. That kind of blackness is disorienting, and were it not for the light and perspective provided by our headlamps, we would have gone over for sure. But with decoys eventually set and both boats stowed behind the makeshift blind, we counted the minutes as my yellow Lab, Ruby, waited alongside Libby, Cole’s new pup, who whined softly as each new flock of barely visible dabblers and divers ripped through the decoys.

Brian and I relayed our thoughts through quick glances. We could still see the small boys in the grown men who stood beside us. It seemed like only yesterday that they were shooting BB guns instead of shotguns, and we both wished that those days hadn’t gone by so quickly.

Water dripped from the boys’ rain-streaked faces. They were in the moment, excited, curious, wondering. Never the sort to be content only when limits were taken, these boys were mature beyond their years, yet they still approached the sport with youthful exuberance. If this hunt panned out the way we hoped, it would be a reward for their perseverance and appreciation of the experience. They didn’t need an adrenaline rush to get hooked on duck hunting. They already were.

The first bird of the morning was a tall mallard on Nate’s end, and he took it with confidence. After I dropped another mallard and Cole made a nice shot on a speedy left-to-right ringneck, the floodgates opened. Flock after flock of mallards, wigeon, and ringnecks began a morning-long procession, and Ruby and Libby were constantly back and forth to the little blind with new retrieves.

Mornings like this are so few and far between, and only those who have experienced them remember to sit back and truly appreciate what’s going on. We knew that our sons were in the middle of making a special memory, and we hoped that they were soaking it all in. That kind of shooting—so scarce in our parts—was wonderful to experience again. We were witnessing a mass migration; hell, maybe even a grand passage for all we knew, combined with the kind of weather that only a duck hunter lives for.

Even more memorable than the flight and the weather was watching Nate put together all the instruction and all the
advice-filled discussions that had occurred during our truck rides to duck spots and countless hours spent together in the blind. Remember, son, ringnecks are pretty fast on their first couple of passes. Slower ducks are easier to hit, so let ’em work until you see their landing gear come out. But get on your feet before they’re in range—even a slow ringneck is fast. And keep the barrels moving after the shot. And . . .

A dozen blackjacks bombed the decoys from directly behind us. The leatherleaf bushes and alders in that bog were not very tall, allowing those ducks to come in low and nearly take our hats off on the first pass. I just held the dog and watched as Nate calculated his movements and chances. The swift little divers made a wide arc in the gale but came back, this time almost faster. It’s crazy how they fly at such speed into the wind. But Nate held off. I glanced at Cole, and I could tell that he was waiting too. Inexperienced hunters would have fired on that pass, but these boys kept their cool for one more flyby. It worked. Half the birds banked sharply and bunched up to land at 15 yards. The boys each dropped a drake while Brian and I looked at each other and grinned, proud of their decisions but keeping it to ourselves.

Our hosts had similar discussions over the years, when Brian would spring Cole from middle school on those precious October migration days, letting him help steer the canoe and pick up decoys and hoist up a game strap as he grinned with missing teeth. I had heard Brian likening wingshooting to something Cole was familiar with—football. If you throw it where the receiver is instead of where he’ll be, you’ll be behind. Same with ducks—shoot where they will be, not where they are. We’re not aiming, like we do with deer, we’re pointing, so don’t ride ’em. Use your instincts.

Brian is one of the safest hunters I know, and he spent many days in the blind imparting those beliefs to his son. Before you can shoot, you have to show me you’re safe. No duck is worth your life, or the dog’s, or your hunting buddy’s.

Ruby and Libby had just returned with the ringnecks and were still shaking off when a pair of mallards drifted in. They were headed directly toward Cole but then switched abruptly to line up in front of me. Cole had just clicked his safety off, but I heard him click it back on as he lowered his gun and let me have the drake instead of shooting across my zone. I always admire when any hunting buddy does that, but I was especially impressed given his age and the moment. Men many years older would have rung my ears, but Cole simply let me have the shot.

There were enough misses to keep things interesting, but we shot pretty well and were counting birds closely after that first magical hour. Having finished his limit—one of his first ever—Nate cased his gun to shoot video and help look for new flocks. When Brian took a beautiful drake wigeon and Cole connected on a long greenhead for their final birds, I called a halt. I still had a couple birds to go, but there was nothing that two more ducks would have done to top what we’d just witnessed.

Picking up the decoys was a strenuous task, since the wind had only gained strength throughout the morning, but after an equally arduous trip out, we returned safely to the special cabin that provided the venue for all this to take place. The stove threw out heat while we ate biscuits and gravy, downed steaming coffee, and relived every flock that had dusted the decoys. Two proud dads did more listening than talking.

The cabin is free from cell service, still truly off the grid in that sense, and it was refreshing that these young men couldn’t have cared less. With no social media to post photos, they read, conversed, and dozed. Our hunter hearts brimmed with pride as we watched them be truly content with the place and the experience, and we silently prayed that it would always be like this. Perhaps it will.

After saying our good-byes and a few more “remember the one that decoyed” stories, we rolled down the long dirt road, then to pavement, and eventually onto “the grid” again. Within 20 minutes, we passed a cell tower. Nate’s phone began pinging rapidly, indicating connection with a satellite and the outside world. I could see the light from the phone shining through his pocket, and I asked if he was going to check his messages.

He just stared ahead, admiring the fall colors, and said, “I think I’ll wait just a little while longer.”