Even in the predawn darkness, the sprawling mudflat looked treacherous, but my brother, Matt, and I were eager to cross it and be the first hunters to reach the duckiest hole I’d found in years. I’d been glassing the birds for days, and I warned Matt that reaching them would require a death march through the muck because the hole, scarcely more than a puddle, was unreachable by any other means.
We carried two dozen decoys, a spinner, gun cases, a thermos of coffee, and a blind bag full of shells, sweating through every stitch of clothing we had and then shivering until daybreak. But by golly did we ever pick the right spot. We bagged our limits quickly and then sat there, guzzling coffee and basking in our glory.
Because we’re brothers, the calm couldn’t last. We bet on a race back to the truck, and the loser had to buy breakfast. I got there first, struggling through the mire with all of my gear plus a limit of ducks around my neck. I reached the truck, heart pounding and calves burning, only to be greeted by a state game warden. He was checking my license when we both turned at the sound of banging decoys and profanities.
“I’ll tell you one thing, you psychopath,” Matt grumbled as he staggered into view, “if you ever call me again to go duck hunting, I’ll . . . oh, hello, officer.” The warden laughed, and once he verified that stamps were signed, guns were plugged, and birds were neatly separated, he said, “I didn’t think anybody would be crazy enough to walk all the way out there. You guys earned those.”
Modern waterfowlers have mud motors and UTVs at their disposal, but sometimes the best way to get into ducks is to get up early and start walking. As modes of transportation have improved, it seems like ducks have become more adept at finding places that are inaccessible by any vehicle. Some of these spots are too remote. Others are tucked away on public land where motors aren’t allowed. We should thank our stars that such places still exist.
Arkansas guide Rusty Creasey cut his waterfowling teeth by wading into remote pockets of green timber. “We didn’t have side-by-sides then and we didn’t have onX,” he says. “You learned how to make the best of things on foot, with just a few decoys, and how to navigate to your spot in the dark.”
These days, Creasey guides on private land, where machines can often get his hunters close and mapping apps make navigation much easier. But the lessons from those early walk-in hunts are still valid. “Most folks don’t mind walking a little bit if they think they’ll get to shoot a bunch of ducks,” he says. Still, even with extra hands to carry gear, Creasey travels light, using a backpack to carry a spinner, shells, jerk-string rig, and a few incidentals. His gun goes in a floating case slung over his back, along with a dozen Texas-rigged decoys.
Timber hunting doesn’t typically require many decoys, but hunters in more open settings usually need larger spreads, and walk-in hunters in those areas often use a gear sled of some sort. Sturdy ice-fishing sleds, like the Eagle Claw Jet Sled, are ideal. My favorite tool for walk-in hunts is a one-person canoe—a 12-foot Old Town that weighs less than 60 pounds but has a 350-pound capacity. Even when it’s loaded with gear, I can drag that canoe through the woods without much trouble, and I can paddle it after a crippled bird when needed.
Walk-in hunters also need to plan for the trip out. Coffee is great, but don’t forget to bring plenty of water. Also, consider the ducks you hope to shoot. “Ideally, everybody I take hunting has their own duck lanyard,” Creasey says, “and when you walk out, you’re carrying your own ducks. It’s the right way to do things and the easiest too.” A limit of ducks isn’t light, especially when you’re in a race with your brother, but it makes every step a little more satisfying.
