Confessions of a Duck Hunter

Sports Afield, October 1930

This story about Sigurd going duck hunting hours after his first son was born on September 15, 1923 isn't truly accurate. Perhaps Sigurd had simply forgotten, or perhaps he was making it up as a good story to sell, but the morning Sigurd Thorne Olson was born Sigurd Sr. wrote to his sister-in-law the following: "Little Sig is over in the corner in his crib chuckling contentedly to himself. Guess he must be glad duck season starts tomorrow." The imaginary story of Sigurd earning the glares of the nursing staff when he hurried from the hospital to go hunting took on a life of its own, however. In fact, Roland Erikson, a friend of Sigurd's, went even farther in a manuscript submitted to North Country magazine in 1951: "A son was born while Sig, with tears in his eyes, stood in a duck blind firing away to open the duck season."

It was two o'clock in the morning on the opening day of duck season and for once in my life I was undecided whether to go or not. Never before had there been any ifs and ands, merely a case of being on my way, but this year it was different. Here was the situation and I think you will agree that it was one requiring tact and delicacy. Within the hour, I had become the proud father of a first born son and heir. Now don't misunderstand and accuse me of the slightest disloyalty.

To tell the truth, I was thrilled to the marrow and if I do say so myself, I had experienced to the nth degree all of the proverbial joys incidental to young fatherhood. Yes, it was wonderful, a son, a hunting partner had been born to me and all of our dreams had come true, but why, why in the name of all creation did it have to come on this particular morning. That was the point and I think my duck hunting friends will at least give me the benefit of a doubt before pronouncing final judgment.

You can imagine my predicament. In two short hours the guns would be booming and the first wild flight of the season would be on. Of course it was ridiculous to even think of going and martyr like I dismissed the thought summarily from my mind. This was one opening day at least I would have to miss and I might as well make the best of it. In a way, I was ashamed of being even tempted. My place was here today.

After all, what was duck hunting compared to this. First days were never very good even under the most ideal of conditions and there were many weekends coming. Yes, I might as well forget it entirely and play the man. I believe I could have withstood it had I not gone to the window, involuntarily of course, and gotten a whiff of the damp air off the lake. That whiff almost unnerved me and was the beginning of my downfall. There was no good reason why I shouldn't go for just an hour or so. Of course, I couldn't go very far or with the rest of the gang. I didn't expect that, but I did know of a place close by where I might get some shooting and where I wouldn't be out of reach. There was really nothing I could do here, merely the idea of standing by.

Tip toeing into the darkened room, I stole a peek at the little bundle in the corner and wondered if he would ever be a duck hunter. In a way, he would be far better off it he went in for golf instead, a much saner and comfortable sport. Beautiful mop of hair he had. His mother opened her eyes and smiled at me appreciatively. It was half past two and I would have to leave soon in order to be there for the first racket. I made one final effort to dismiss the idea from my mind, but it would have been as easy to have stopped breathing.

In my set that sort of thing was simply not done and yet why not. I could go home to rest and not a word would be said but going duck hunting was a different matter entirely. I argued the matter from every possible angle until I was weary with the effort. There was no doubt about it. I was a brute for even considering it at all.

The nurse stopped outside the door and for lack of something better to say, I asked her if everything was all right.

"Yes, everything was as well as could be expected."

"Could I be spared," did she suppose, "for just a few hours?"

"Oh, yes," if I didn't cary any more than that sort of an answer.

Out in the hall, I met the doctor and tried to explain in a jovial sort of a way just how things stood. All I got out of him was a raising of the eyebrows and a peculiar smile, as much as though he said outright, "so that's the sort of a dub you are." I could have killed him but he probably played golf and there was naturally no sympathy there. I stole another peek into the bedroom. Junior was sleeping soundly and so was his mother. The nurse put a finger to her lips and I backed out quickly.

Within an hour, I was at the shore of Shagawa Lake, loading my gun and shells into the canoe. From far out over the water came a sleepy quack and a faint splash. It was dark, peaceful and quiet, the sort of sedative I needed. It was good to be alive and I was filled with a sensation of well being and accomplishment. Wasn't I the father or a sone and wasn't this the hour I had been waitinf for for almost a year. Everything was as it should be and I might have been perfectly happy, had not the faintest tinge of remorse crept in upon me. I shook it off and stepped into the canoe. Just for the first flight and no more.

The first paddle stroke cleared the air and I set my course for the mouth of the Burntside River, four miles away. Thousands of stars were out and as I pushed along, I had the sensation of floating through the sky itself. finally I could distinguish the dark mass of the opposite shore and I turned my course slightly to the left. The east was already turning grey and tinged along the rim of the horizon with just the faintest indication of pink and orange. It would not be long now. Suddenly right in front of the canoe loomed a clump of cattails. They seemed to pop right out of the blackness toward me. As I swerved, I was startled by a loud quack and a beating of wings. It was too dark to see a thing but I heard a whistle of wings heading toward the mouth of the river and then a splash. Perhaps a jump shot later on. It would be better to wait for daylight before pushing ahead.

I smoked a cigarette and relaxed or rather tried to. An owl hooted mournfully over in the timber and from Little Long over the ridge came the wild call of a loon. A white mist was rising over the river, hard shooting if it didn't lift. The air was good enough to eat, rich and sweet, with just enough of the smell of turning leaves to give it pungence. I opened a new box of shells and smelled of them too. They always are a treat, particularly on damp mornings. About fifteen minutes to go. I wondered how Junior was getting along, probably sound asleep by now.

Bang—Bang—Bang—came from far up stream, someone shooting ahead of time and I cursed inwardly all law breakers in general although I admitted the temptation. Another two minutes. Perhaps my watch was slow and time already up. The cattails rustled softly in a sudden breeze. That would clear the fog in a hurry. Placing my gun against the thwart before me, I pushed toward the mouth of the river and my adventure had begun.

A beaver swam across my path carrying a green poplar branch. When he saw me, he dove whacking his tail with a report like the cracking of a blacksnake. A little further on a pair of rats chased each other merrily through the rushes. Dead ahead was where the mallards had settled. I would have to watch myself. from up stream came a nervous quack and dropping my paddle, I got set. Nothing happened, still too far away. A few short swift strokes and as the canoe glided through the rice, I got ready once more. Suddenly with a wild beating of wings, the biggest and blackest mallard I'd ever seen climbed out of the water. Straight up for thirty feet he went and that was where I caught him before he straightened out for his getaway. First blood and I pushed forward joyously to where he had dropped. One long brown wing was raised upward still quivering. I took the tip of it and lifted into the canoe my first mallard well colored and large.

Boom-boom-boom-boom came from Burntside Lake, five miles away. That should start something down the river. I pushed hurriedly into cover and no sooner had I done so than from up river came the whistle of wings. Then I saw them, two black dots tearing like mad down the center of the stream, dodging and twisting to allow for every curve. Off went my safety, eighty yards, sixty and now they were directly opposite. In that first split second of waiting, I was repaid as I am on the opening day of every year for all of the waiting and freezing, all the loss of sleep and discomfort that every season brings with it. My first shot was a clean miss but the second was different. The lead bird crumpled, continued for fifty feet on its own momentum and dropped breast downward with that all-gone limpness that betokens a dead hit. Full three feet in the air it bounced with a splash that could be heard for half a mile. In that splash was also compensation for a duck hunter knows no sweeter sound unless it be the whistle of wings after sundown when they're coming in to feed.

The drake I had missed flew up towards the river's mouth, doubled back looking frantically for his mate. If my luck held there might be another chance. Once more I slipped into the rice, pulled out my caller and gave one of the most seductive quacks I knew. High in the air he circled and circled and then satisfied that everything was as it should be, began to drop. This luck couldn't possibly hold and it didn't, for just at the limit of range, he swerved, set his wings and fluttered into the river a quarter of a mile away.

Now it was a case of stalking and to me there was no greater sport in the world, far more thrilling than shivering in a blind waiting for them to come over. This was real hunting, beating them at their own game. Waiting a few minutes for my bird to get accustomed to his new surroundings, I then pushed cautiously forward. Every paddle stroke sounded as though it could be easily heard a mile away and the noise of the rice against the sides of the canoe was abominable. The first two hundred feet was the worst, then came a stretch of smooth open water through which the canoe glided with scarcely a ripple. The sun was just beginning to peep over the tops of the spruces and the dew on the rice glittered with light. A big spider web strung with pearls draped itself over the bow of the canoe. Another hundred feet or so and I'd be within range. Dropping my paddle, I decided to eliminate part of the racket by pulling myself through the rice. Besides it would leave my hands freer when the big moment came. Too often had the fraction of a second necessary to change from paddle to gun spelled disaster.

For a moment, I stopped dead to get my bearings and to allow my heart to resume its normal functioning. Twenty feet more I pulled my way. This was far better than paddling. If discovered now my duck would be out like a bomb and it would be a case of sheer speed if I'd get in a shot at all. This was about as far as I dared to go and I carefully reached for my gun. For perhaps thirty seconds I waited all tense with excitement. What was the trouble? Had I misjudged the distance or had the mallard sneaked away, warned by my clumsy approach? Perhaps right now he was swimming away up stream far out of range. Finally in desperation, I did one of the many foolish things all duck hunters are guilty of on opening days. Not able to wait another second, I gave a long powerful shove with my paddle. I might have known what would happen for just as I was finishing my stroke and in the most awkward position imaginable, the rice exploded with mallards rising in all directions. Panicky quacks, wild beating of wings and confusion. It was glorious and for once I had duck fever and that badly. My first shot went off in no particular direction which was to be expected but the second held true on a lone bird going dead away. Reloading frantically, I dropped another spiralling high above me. Two wasn't so bad as it might have been under the circumstance and I thought of the many other times similar emergencies had left me empty handed. Now I knew why the lone drake came back and why he swerved.

The flock reformed its line and disappeared in the wavering line of black dots far over the eastern horizon. Now I had four, two greys and two blacks and I laid them side by side before me in the canoe where I could feast my eyes on their color. It was now about six o'clock and the flight was about over what there would be of it. All that was left was jump shooting to which I didn't object in the least. For the first mile, I saw noghing but blackbirds and there were literally hundreds and hundreds of them, flock after flock, warbling and chattering, drifting gaily from one clump of rice to the other, making merry before their long jaunt to the southland. They too have their place and any marsh in the fall would seem barren and desolate without their cheerful diverting music.

I was seriously considering starting home, when I saw something big and black move into the rice ahead of me, ducks again sure enough. Then I saw two more, the three of them bunched closely together, pushing farther and farther into shelter. A great covey of blackbirds now came to my rescue, flew directly overhead and lit in the very patch or rice I was going to enter. What could be better than stalking under cover of their racket. This time I would hold my fire until I had a bird in line. No more stage fright this season. Another twenty feet and still they didn't move. finally my curiosity got the better of me and I stood up to look around. No sooner had I gotten off balance than the three flew into action. It never fails, and in spite of my good resolve the first shot went wild. It was just as well however for before I got in my second, I saw in a flash that my three mallards had degenerated into mudhens, half grown ones at that, skittering through the rice dragging their long yellow legs after them. All my excitement had been for nothing.

Then came an anticlimax totally unexpected for just out of range a couple of big mallards beat their way heavily into the air, quacked a couple of times in loud derision and were off. Another minute if I had used my eyes and I'd have had some real shooting. There was no use even cussing. It was bound to happen at least once in every well rounded season and perhaps more. I stood up to watch the sky. Not a thing in sight, clear blue with a few patches of fleecy white clouds and the air warming up. I would have to be going soon.

Then far over the western horizon drifted a long uneven line of ducks, by their slow measured flight mallards without a doubt. Down stream they came, directly toward me and I pushed into the best cover that I could find. On they came in perfect formation, growing bigger and blacker with every wing beat, flying high and far out of range but slowly enough to indicate that they were looking for a feeing ground. The first quack on my caller and they turned ever so slightly, new ducks and innocent. At the second, the leader hesitated, swung my way and began to flutter downward in that falling leaf tumble all duck hunters know so well. The rest of the flock followed suit. Then they straightened out and began to circle still hundreds of yards away. Once they swung almost within range and I clutched my gun nervously. If I'd only taken twos and threes instead of sixes, I would be sitting pretty. Once more they came arounds just at the limit of range and the sun shone on green and bronze as they turned. Then for no good reason whatver they set their wings and headed for a patch of rice a short ways up stream and settled to the accompaniment of much quacking and splashing. I couldn't help but wonder at the time why it is that the other rice bed always looks the best to them even though the one you are in has better feed and you yourself are perfectly hidden. I would have to me more careful this time for those mallards evidently knew more than I gave them credit for at first sight. Perhaps an old seasoned drake in the lead.

At the edge of a clump of brush near shore, I stood up for one final survey before starting. I could see the birds plainly diving and feeing andjust beyond something that all but took the wind out of my sails, something black moving through the rice toward them, a man's hat. If this wasn't awful luck but there was no use bemoaning the fact. We were both as far away and would stand an even chance of getting shooting.

I saw my rival was paddling as swiftly as he could. He had already seen me so throwing caution to the winds, I started too. Whoever got there first would get the best shooting. It was now a case of sheer speed and I paddled as I had never paddled before. Suddenly there was a roar of wings follwoed by the bang, bang, bang of my friend's automatic and out of the corner of my eye, I was two birds drop, pretty shots just as they were climbing into the air for elevation. One lone single came over me so close that I could see its eyes and I almost fell out of the canoe getting in line for a shot. Another circled high above me, swung out and came back and at my shot dropped like a pinwheel, wings outspread. It wasn't a clean kill and I had to fire again to put it out of its misery. by the time that was over the rest of the flock was dropping over the ridge to more peaceful feeding grounds to the northward.

The black hat paddled away without so much as a greeting. It was a rotten break for him too and I did not much blame him, but what of it. I sat for a moment looking at my ducks and drinking in the warm freshness of the morgning air. It was duck season and the world was young. Of a sudden, I came to earth with a crash. What was I doing out here in the marsh with a brand new son waiting for me back home? I had almost forgotten. He would in all probability be awake by now and they would be wondering where on earth I was. Over on the opposite shore was a bunch of maple leaves turned by the first frost. They would brighten up that room considerably. I paddled over, picked the prettiest bouquet I could find, then turned the bow of the canoe toward home. This first morning had been perfect.

I made the trip back in record time. The first person to greet me was the nurse. The speech I had prepared failed me utterly and the brace of beautiful freys I handed her were taken without so much as a word. I had done the unspeakable and no matter how hard I tried to make amends, I could see plainly that I was not to be forgiven. Junior was sleeping soundly and as I kissed his small red forehead, I knew that at least he bore me no grudge. His mother took the red leaves and greeted me with a smile. That helped.

"Did I have any shooting?"

"Yes, I had had a little." I couldn't really tell the truth without hurting her and that I wouldn't have done for the world and a year of opening days. I was sure of her forbearance at least and that was something. For understanding, I would have to wait until I could confess the whole affair to my duck hunting brethren. They would know and sympathize.

Junior is now quite a big lad. He has already sat beside me for hours at a time in a blind and though he hasn't as yet handled a gun, I know it is gradually working under his skin and some day when we are together watching a couple coming in over the rise, he will listen to my story and understand. If he doesn't, I will have to admit that I was wrong, but way down in my heart, I have a feeling that he will come across with a knowing grin. After all, he should be the one to decide, because it was his party and the first day of season for him as well as for me. It was just his hard luck that he couldn't go too.