Whirling Wisconsin Wings 

The Thanksgiving leftovers had long since been cleaned up and stored in the chest freezer for a later date. Most of those partaking in outdoor activity were either clad in deer hunting orange or dressed in Packer green and gold to cheer on their favorite men of the gridiron. Some were even sharpening auger blades and organizing tip ups and pan fish jigs.  The hard water season would be truly kicking in less than a week.  400 miles to the north, near the Canadian border and beyond, lakes, potholes, and ponds will not see open water again for another 4 months. 

Dad and Big Hoff looked a bit skeptical as Griz and I dug our  layout blinds into an 80 acre, Pierce County plowed cornfield.  My yellow lab Murphy and Griz’s dog Fritzy, frolicked and ran amongst the 6 dozen decoys placed in a ‘J’ shape that pointed directly into a biting 20 mph northwest wind.   Nugget Lake was 5 miles to the north, and Lake Pepin 7 miles to the south.  Thousands of migrating mallards and gadwalls were rafted there.  Our scouting trip the previous day had revealed clouds of waterfowl, looking more like swarms of mosquitoes in July than ducks, piling into the fields with twenty minutes of shooting time to spare.  As we put the finishing touches on the spread, and flipped on 4 spinning wing decoys, we all were hopeful the birds would appear. 

Fritzy neatly waddled her way into the dog blind Griz had for her.  Murphy on the other hand gave me that “I’m not going into that thing look.”  Luckily Dad had a bag of jerky and a Ziploc of salted peanuts to use as bribery.  Murphy was still trying to make himself comfortable as Big Hoff warned us, “Huge flock at 2 o’clock.” 

There were a solid 500 birds that obviously wanted into the field.  From a distance of  ½ mile the specks banked hard to the left and wings started to lock.  We could hear the grunting and feed chuckles as the birds dropped their landing gear over the patch of woods to our south. 

The main flock circled behind us as a single hen and 4 drakes dropped at our feet.  Murphy could stand no more as he burst through his corn shuck hiding place flaring the biggest portion of the flock.  A volley of shots rang out as 3 green heads were dropped not far from their landing space.  Murphy and Fritzy grabbed the downed birds and Griz hid them underneath a couple of our goose shells.

I was sending apologies to the group for Murphy's eagerness as a pair of greenheads dropped from the graying November sky.  Orange feet and solid white neck rings were clearly visible as the drakes realized far too late that they had been duped. Doing the 'ducky back pedal' the birds tried to climb to safety.  Dad and Big Hoff rose and each folded one up.

We were feeling pretty proud of our set up and shooting skills, when 20 minutes later a group of 50 vectored from a giant flock that had left Nugget Lake to feed.  There were several ‘Just abouts’ as the birds skirted the edge of our predetermined landing zone.  Griz finally suggested we should take ‘em on the next pass as they seemed to be losing interest.  A fat hen promptly plopped into the hole and pulled 2 dozen of her friends with her.  How the 4 us managed only two birds in 10 shots is a bit of a mystery.  But, we had little time to feel sorry for ourselves.

 Flock after flock continued to tornado above us, around us, and in front of us for the next two hours.  The company of family and good friends was outstanding.  Murphy and Fritzy performed 16 retrieves that made their owners proud, even if we did run out of peanuts and jerky.  Our shooting could best be described as ‘inconsistent.’

  A short list of excuses included: “The sun was in my eyes…the dog was in my way…my blind doors are stuck…I didn’t want to shoot the spinner…I forgot to load my gun…I thought you were going to take that one…when I pulled up, there were only hens in front of me…I didn't miss! 

  The laughter and storytelling continued long after limits were reached and shooting times elapsed. As we stacked the decoys into the darkness, the nearly full moon lit the way for several more thousand pairs of whistling wings.  They dropped from the sky like fighter jets, and took off again from corn stubble and bean fields with full crops and gurgling voices.

The whistling wings of Wisconsin will not be here much longer.  Soon, the lakes that hold the rafts through the night will be frozen.  The fields of grain and corn will be blanketed with snow.  Its’ now plentiful bounties will be covered until the thawing rays of  March and April melt the white stuff away.  The birds will continue to journey southward, but will hopefully return again next season.

 

Until then, I like to think of waterfowl hunts gone by.  Fond ones include trips down the Chippewa with my Dad and Uncles and Lester, as we ventured into the Tiffany Bottoms.  Waiting for the fog to lift off Maiden Rock Bay, as green wing teal buzz the bobbing decoys; Crouching on a diversion dike with cousin Sam as wave after wave of  diving bluebills bombard us on their way back to Devil’s Lake;  Swatting gnats as the dew and humidity of a September morning stand in the way of dozens of early season Canada geese; Hearing the ‘clickety clack’ of ice from the late Belle’s tail as she fixed her eyes upon circling gadwalls; Remembering  the squeak of oars against locks of crooked flat bottom boats, and feeling the mucky spray of wet labs, that always seem to shake themselves off in front of you. Waiting anxiously to hear the words "Take Em!" over the whirring cupped wings and rattling cattails or wild rice.

Are you lucky enough to have heard, seen, felt and replayed any or all of these things?  Lucky the soul like me who has!

Keep your eyes to the skies and hold your hunting memories tight.  The winter season may be long, but the whirling wings will return in good time...and I'll be waiting.

-TGI