Duck Heaven

Outdoor Life, October 1930

This is the first of four articles that featured Sigurd's friend and hunting and fishing partner, Julius Santo, who was the dean of Ely Junior College, where Sigurd taught. For more on Santo, click here.

If I were to die, and had my choice of where I wanted to go afterward," said the dean, as he gave the fire a kick with his boot, "I'd say to old St. Peter, 'Put me in your biggest celectial rice bed with a million shells and the ducks coming in."

"Boy, what a dream," I retorted, "but, to make it really perfect, you should ask for one thing more."

"And what more could any mortal want than that?" he exclaimed.

"Well," I answered, after some hesitation, "if it wouldn't seem altogether too selfish, I'd ask our friend, St. Peter, to keep all the other faithfuls out for just one day for our benefit."

It was in November, just before the freeze-up. We were camped that night on La Pond, a little lake near the southern boundary of the Superior National Forest and State Game Refuge. For us the season just passed had been particularly duckless, and, though we had pushed our canoe through every pothole and rice bed within a day's travel, very little shooting had come our way.

There were plenty of ducks in the country, to be sure, but, for some unknown reason, they insisted on staying in the great forbidden rice beds within the game refuge. Sometimes they did come in by the thousands to the lakes near by, but always, it seemed, after dark. Then, long before daylight, we would hear the whistle of their wings as they left again for their protected feeding grounds to the north. We had puzzled over it many a night, and wondered how in the name of creation ducks could tell the boundaries.

For a long time, we sat watching the fire. It was getting perceptibly colder, and the air was full of sparkling frost crystals. From down along the shore came the uneasy swishing and crackling of newly formed ice.

"Do you know what I've been thinking of doing?" queried the dean, as he laid another stick of wood on the fire.

"Might be almost anything," I replied.

"Some day, I'm going back to Mexico," he continued. "When I think of the mallards we used to get down there, I feel positively morbid."

"Mexico's all right," I agreed, "as far as tropical duck hunting goes, which isn't very far with me, but if I could find just one little rice bed up here that's not taboo, and not on the map either, I'd be satisfied. What's more, I think we'll find it if we keep on looking with patience and reasonable diligence."

"Guess you're not so far off at that either," he answered. "Duck hunting up here is different, what with the leaves and rice coloring up the way it does, frosty mornings, and that feel in the air. There's no doubt about it, this country would be nothing short of wonderful, if only there were ducks."

Our canoe had been everywhere and, though we had naturally picked up a few in our wanderings, we hadn't had, all fall, what could be called a good day's shooting. It was a problem.

The dean finally broke the silence. "Do you remember that old squawman we met last winter on one of our trout fishing trips? I'd almost forgotten, but, if I'm not mistaken, he mentioned something that sounded an awful lot like ducks."

I was instantly alert.

"I've been thinking about it for some time," he went on, "and, unless my memory fails me entirely, he said there was rice so thick on the upper river that you could hardly get through with a canoe."

"Why," I said, "there wasn't much of anything in there the last time we went through. Outside of a few scattered patches and a lonesome mud hen or two, we didn't see a thing to get excited about."

"That's just the reason I didn't put much stock in it, and I'll confess it never would have occurred to me now, if that new ice cracking down along the shore hadn't made me think of ice fishing." The dean rose to his feet. "What's more," he said, "a lot can happen in three or four years. I wouldn't be surprised but that the low water has had something to do with it. If rice is given half a chance, it will shoot up in an awful hurry."

"Sounds good to me," I answered. "Where there's rice, there's ducks. What's to prevent our looking into it next fall?"

Almost a year later, as we had planned, on the day before the season opened, our canoe was headed north. There are no roads into the section, all travel being by canoe and portage. The lake we sought has no name that I know of, being merely a widening of a wilderness creek. It lies north of Winton, Minn., and due south of Crooked Lake on the Canadian border.

We pushed on steadily through several small lakes, made a number of portages, and toward the middle of the afternoon found ourselves on the river.

For miles we followed its winding, sedge-bordered channel, and then, upon rounding a bend, saw before us a sight that only a duck hunter can fully appreciate—a great field of tall, waving rice, golden yellow in the September sunlight. We dropped our paddles and sat spellbound. It was really true, the river was full of rice, and such rice—stalks as big around as a little finger, and in places tall as a man. For a moment, we could hardly believe our good fortune.

Finally, the dean stood up and looked carefully around. "Not a duck in sight," he said disgustedly, "but what a patch of rice, and to think that it's all grown up since we were here last."

The words were no more than out of his mouth, when a big flock of mallards rose half a mile away, circled the lake slowly, and lit with that heavy, well-fed air of ducks that have never been molested. We sat as though in a trance, watching other bunches rise and move leisurely to new feeding grounds.

We had found, a little prematurely perhaps, the dean's celestial rice bed, and I, too, had been granted my wish, for not another faithful was in sight. For ten minutes, we didn't say a word. Then the dean turned around. On his face was a look of almost holy joy. For a moment, he said nothing, though his lips tried hard to form the words and then, as though giving a toast to the king, he wishpered, "Der Tag."

We paddled joyfully down the lake and made camp in the lee of a heavily timbered point, from which we had a gorgeous view of the entire rice bed below us.

The tent went up in a hurry. I busied myself with the firewood, while my partner went up the slope for some spruce boughs. He hadn't been gone more than a minute, before I heard him call. "Come up here, and I'll show you something."

I could tell by the tone of his voice that something was up, so dropping my ax, I bolted through the brush to where he stood.

"Look," he shouted, pointing excitedly toward the lake. "See what's down below us."

I looked, and for a moment could hardly believe my eyes. There, clustered around a small, timbered island, in the very center of the rice bed, were hundreds of black dots moving about leisurely, always changing position and sometimes disappearing altogether.

For an hour we sat and watched them. Ducks were everywhere, flock after flock, feeding and quacking contentedly, unaware that this was their last day of peace. Occasionally, a flock would rise with a great beating of wings, wheel and circle, only to settle, with many noisy splashings, farther down the shore.

That afternoon we spent making camp as comfortable as possible, oiled our guns, tied new strings to our decoys, and talked strategy. When we could contain ourselves no longer, we climbed the rise to watch the feeding flock. It was an unforgettable afternoon, one of those rare occasions when a man knows, for once, that he'd rather be where he is than any place else in the world.

As we sat before our camp fire that evening, however, a vague doubt assailed us.

"What do you suppose is going to happen," said the dean, "if this weather keeps up until tomorrow? I've been a little worried, and, unless I miss my guess, that whole flock will clear out for good with the first racket. This isn't duck weather, and you know it."

"At the same time," I replied, "it isn't likely that they'll leave without giving us some shooting. Besides, there's a bank of cloud in the north that might blow up something."

In spite of my optimisim, I, too, was worried. I had seen too many flocks get up on a clear, sunny day, and not come back. Then, too, the sun had set red and promising, and the sky above was bright with stars.

The dean rose to his feet, stretched, and yawned. "I'm too old at this game," he said at length, "not to know that you've got to be miserable in order to shoot ducks. Well, I'm getting sleepy, think I'll roll in."

I sat up, as I usually do, to smoke a last pipe and watch the fire die down. I had been sitting so for perhaps an hour, thinking of other camp fires and other opening days, when something hit my hand. For a moment, it startled me. No, it wasn't a leaf. It shone and glittered in the firelight. I looked at it in wonderment. It was a drop of water. I waited expectantly, but not for long. Another struck near the first. It couldnt possibly be raining. A short time ago the sky was clear. Perhaps that cloud in the north—. A big drop hissed into the coals. I looked up then, half-fearfully, to an overcast sky, and to rain coming down with that slow, steady precision that means storm.

I roused the dean with a whoop of delight, and together we sat in the shelter of our open tent, watching the drops put out our fire. It was too completely perfect to be true, and we sat as thrilled as two kids getting their first glimpse of Santa Claus. A rice bed to ourselves, rain and storm, and tomorrow the opening day. Who wouldn't be happy?

The fire died down to blackness, and only then did we roll in, but not to sleep. We were far too excited for that. The rhytmical dripping of the rain on the tent sounded for all the world like, "Ducks tomorrow, ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks, ducks tomorrow." To the tune of that, we finally fell asleep.

At 3:30 the weather was all that a duck hunting morning should be, dark, cold, and wet. A bright, cheerful fire and the smell of boiling coffee dispelled all thoughts of discomfort. It was still raining, a cold, steady drizzle coming out of the northeast. There would be misery enough for all today.

A full hour before dawn, we slid the canoe into the water, and headed out in the blackness toward the little island. Going through the rice, we made shuch an unearthly racket that it seemed as though every duck in the country would leave. Flocks rose ahead of us, and the deafening sound of their wings was everywhere.

We set our decoys carefully, picked our blinds close together, and began the nerve-wracking wait for daylight. Cigarettes glowed dully in the darkness, and the acrid smell of tobacco mingled with the rich, dank odor of wet leaves that were down.

For half an hour we saw nothing, then decoys came gradually into view—dark, uncertain blotches on the gray mist of the water. A lone mallard rose with a lusty quacking close by, and whistled swiftly over the island. Just as the east began to brighten, silhouetting darkly the spruce tops of the far shore, a coyote tuned up beyond our camp in a wild, rollicking medley of barks and howls. A whistle of wings came from behind us. It was still too dark to see. The flock passed close overhead, and in an instant was gone. They settled noisily over in the rice. A pair of bluebills came in unexpectedly, and lit with a plop in the very center of our decoys. for a while they swam about sociably, and then began their feeding. The east was now barred with red underneath the rain cloud. The darkness was lifting rapidly. I looked at my watch, a minute and a half to go.

I slipped the shell from the chamber of my gun. It slipped back with a click. The dean heard me and turned. His face was tense with excitement. Suddenly, he ducked, and I heard his whisper, "Here they come, don't move."

A bunch of mallards had dropped over the horizon and were circling the lake. I called them. They began to swing our way. Then, as though by prearrangement, flock after flock hove into view, until the air was alive with the whistling of many wings. Our bunch was coming closer. They swung over us once, just out of range, veered, and came straight for the blind, wings set, necks outstretched.

"Pick one and take your time," I whispered to myself. "Take your time." They were now in range, close enough to see their eyes. I picked a big drake in the lead, coming straight at me, an impossible shot. At the report, he spiraled high into the air, only to crumple at my second load. He fell in a spout of water among the decoys. The dean had made a pretty shot, and I could see his bird flopping a hundred yards to the right.

I hastily reloaded my gun. Another bunch was circling the island. For a moment they turned to leave, but, just as they topped the horizon, our call brought them round. They began to drift our way along the shore.

To know that they were heading for our decoys alone, would swing and bank until we gave the word, was sweet satisfaction, to say the least. For once, no long range gun from down the shore would send them skyward. Now we could take our own good time.

We were watching the flock intently, every dip and swerve they made, when a pair of teal, going 90 miles an hour, whizzed over our heads. Not a chance in the world. The mallards were now heading our way, had seen the decoys, and were coming down. One last, agonized quack on my caller, and I got set. Just at the limit of range, two set their wings and sailed for the decoys. The others saw us, and climbed. Our guns cracked as one. The dean's bird crumpled neatly. Mine faltered, and fell in a wide, air-beating circle, hovered for a moment uncertainly over the rice, and dropped like a plummet.

The dean was talking earnestly to himself, and I knew what had happened without his telling. He had missed a perfect straight-away with his second barrel.

We had no sooner reloaded than a group of three, startled by our last shooting, came over unannounced. They were upon us before we knew it.

As we fired, they rose straight up, pounded the air a moment in consternation, and kept on going. After flying around aimlessly, they lit in the rice, not 200 yards from us.

"How about going after them?" I suggested.

"Suits me," answered the dean, as he threw the brush off the canoe and slid it into the water. We pulled straws for the bow, and he won.

No sooner had we gotten into the open than a flock came over the island, headed directly for the decoys, saw us, and passed by, way out of range. We watched them ruefully and cursed our luck.

"It never fails," growled the dean. "One sure way to bring them in is to leave your blind."

We pushed our way through the rice as swiftly as the matted vegetation would let us. Big clumps of weed hung to our paddles and made such a racket that it didn't seem possible to get anywhere in range. Nevertheless, we drew closer. Still they didn't flush. We were now almost there.

"Grab your gun," I cautioned. As he laid his paddle behind him, a bunch of blue-bills whistled by. He made a reach for his gun.

"Don't shoot," I whispered fiercely. He lowered it and, glowering, turned halfway around. "Next time," and he all but hissed as he said it, "I'm going to let them have it. We'll never get those blooming mallards anyway."

I pushed the canoe forward another 20 yards. They couldn't have lit much farther. My gunner shifted his weight to a better shooting position, and slipped off the safety. Ten feet more. I stood up to take a look around. Nothing but rice and blackbirds. Another push with the paddle. Then, with a loud quack and a beating of wings, a beautiful greenhead and his mate bounced high out of the water, not 30 yards away. The gun cracked twice, but the birds climbed swiftly on. I dropped my paddle, and all but fell out of the canoe getting in a parting shot. Not a feather, out of range and gone, as pretty a brace of birds as we would ever see. It was unbelievable.

We paddled back silently toward the blinds. Those things will happen. I tried to console myself with the thought that seeing them was enough, but small consolation there was in that. As we were pushing through the decoys, a pair of redheads came over. Dean made a clean kill with a vengeance. Mine wobbled, but kept on going. Retrieving our dead bird, we hastily pushed back to shore and crawled once more into the protecting shelter of the blinds.

It was now broad daylight. A freezing wind was howling out ot the northwest, with occasional gusts of sleet and rain. For half an hour, nothing happened, though we stood facing the gale and shivering in a manner that should have brought in a carload of ducks.

"How's this for weather?" I yelled through chattering teeth.

"Perfect," answered the dean, blowing on his fingers. "This should bring them in."

I started to light a cigarette by way of diversion, when I heard again the whistle of wings. My cold hands refused to function, and I dropped half the package into the water, trying to get them back where they belonged. The flock was far to the east when I first saw them. A lone call brought them 'round, four black mallards aching to feed.

A muffled "Damn" came from the other blind.

I watched the speeding birds as they grew smaller and smaller. As they topped the horizon, two of them, for some unaccountable reason, turned and headed back the way they had come. "Here they come," whispered the dean, as though I hadn't seen every wing stroke those blacks had made. This time we froze. On they came. I felt for my safety. It was on. Nervously, I slipped it off. Another split second—in range. As I fired, the near mallard folded its wings, hit breast downward, and bounced high above the water. The dean missed his first barrel, but, with the second, his climbing bird crumpled, turned a pinwheel or two, and fell within 10 feet of the blind.

"That's getting 'em," I yelled. "Watch yourself." A single whizzed by directly over us, and was gone before we had time to move.

All morning long, we had wonderful shooting, black mallards mostly, with an occasional gray. Once, after a long, quiet spell, a bunch of bluebills almost scared us out of a week's growth. There was a roar like that of a high-powered car. The sound grew louder, and then, with set wings, twisting and hurtling, they literally poured out of the sky, with that indescribable air-ripping racket that only bluebills can make.

For a bewildering instant the air was alive with ducks, but, when the smoke cleared away, there were only two down, and one of these was streaking it for the rice, with nothing but the tip of its bill out of the water. We had pulled the amateur's stunt of firing at the flock instead of picking our birds. There was no earthly use in chasing the wounded one. It had too good a start, and a bluebill can swim.

Toward noon the weather cleared. The clouds were moving south, and in the north was already a broad, blue streak of sky. For a moment, the sun came through, transforming the cold, gray lake into a dancing field of blue and gold. The flight was about over. We ate our lunch in peace, counted our ducks, and prepared happily for a long, dreamy afternoon. It didn't matter now if the sun did come out. We had had our fill of shooting, and for once could afford to be comfortable.

Nothing happened to disturb our ruminations until the middle of the afternoon. Then, without warning, two big gray mallards dropped from nowhere into the decoys. To my startled eyes they looked as big as a couple of geese and, no wonder, coming out of a clear sky the way they did.

I turned my head ever so slightly and looked toward the other blind. The dean smiled reassuringly and fingered his trigger. Out of the corner of his mouth came the old precaution, "Don't move." I smiled back and raised my hand, the signal we had agreed upon for just such an exigency. As we rose, they left the water in true mallard fashion, spent a frantic instant getting their directions, and then straightened out. At about 40 yards, we let them have it. Both birds hit the water.

"Pretty clever, aren't we?" I queried, as we reloaded.

"Don't be so sure," answered the dean, as he sprang for the canoe. "They're gone now."

I looked over the water. Sure enough, our mallards, half-submerged, were heading for the nearest patch of rice and cat-tails, and even now were out of range. We paddled desperately, but to no avail. For half an hour, we beat the rice throroughly, but not a feather did we raise. To say that we were dumbfounded would be putting it mildly: knocking over two mallards almost within reaching distance, and losing them both.

"Do you suppose there's a grain of truth in the idea that they'll go down and hold on to the bottom?" I asked with huge disgust.

"Don't know," he replied, "but this I do know, that if I'm alive at this time, next year, I'm going to have the swimmingest Chesapeake that ever breathed. I'm through looking for down birds."

We paddled back to our island, crestfallen to say the least. It wasn't that we needed the two ducks, but it always hurt to lost a down and wounded bird, particularly when that bird was a mallard. The afternoon wore on, broken by an occasional single or a foray of jump shooting. At that we had had our share of excitement for one day, more than enough to make up for the preceding barren year.

We were content to just sit and watch the fast-coloring shore line, the waving rice, and the chattering flocks of blackbirds. The sun went down behind a lurid horizon. A bunch of five circled the lake a mile high, saw us as they started to drop, turned, and headed straight away into the west. They grew smaller and smaller, hung poised for a moment, five motionless black dots against the rose of the sunset, and disappeared. The first day's hunt was over.

We picked up our ducks and started for camp. As we paddled through the rice, the stars came out, one by one. It was now almost calm. High overhead came once more the whistle of wings—sss—sss—sss—sss. We dropped our paddles and listened, mallards coming in to feed. Fainer and fainter grew the sound, until it blended with the soft rustling of the night breeze through the rice. A drake quacked loudly once, then all was still. There would be shooting again in the morning—perhaps.