Three hours of sleep wasn't enough. Six hours should have been the limit with a cough like mine. The weather was too warm and the south east wind would be wrong to hunt our favorite bay. The dry summer and fall had bare land replacing our ‘go to’ potholes for setting decoys. I promised Hayley to be home by 9:00 to finish the yard work that had been put off too long, in favor of correcting papers, breaking down football films, and writing lesson plans.
A true duck hunt should last at least five hours...that's a good limit.
There were a scarce number of ducks around anyway. Nonetheless, I talked myself into a morning hunt the evening before. The 90 minute bus ride home from the Eagles 5th victory in a row did it to me.
Trying to be as quiet as possible and somehow searching for just one more reason to crawl back into bed, I snuck into the kitchen to grab snack for the road. Nine-year old Murphy’s thumping tail convinced me to grab the rest of my gear, and make the short trip down the hill to Lake Pepin. It's hard to argue with a dog that loves you.
The boat landing was vacant, save for 2 campers that looked like they may have had a bit too much of the fall ‘Flood Run’ the previous day. A half empty Jim Beam bottle accompanied one brave soul, who looked not so comfortable in a lawn chair that was somehow closer to the porta potty, than it was to the smoldering campfire. His partner had made it nearly to the tent, before finding a resting spot with his head on a leather jacket, feet propped up on a motorcycle helmet, and nothing more than flannel boxers covering the rest of him. Except of course for several dozen mosquito bites. September mosquitoes are especially hearty near Lake Pepin. (They also are partial to blood with a hint of Jim Beam.) 
Murphy and I slipped into our flat bottom, and rowed across the ¼ mile bay, to a small grassy point. The water was less than a foot deep. Ninety minutes before legal shooting light, I unloaded the gear and laid back for serious star gazing and thought collecting. Listening to the sounds of the river never gets old.
Other oddities began adding bits if information to my ears.
A Frontenac train whistle chimed in, and whizzing cars from a distant Highway 35 added to the early morning melody. My labs’ excited panting, tail swishing and mud bogging topped off the symphony of sounds. As many of you know, labs know just exactly where to shake off to give their owners a swampland facial.
The grayish, turning to pink sky in the east signaled decoy setting time. It would be a small spread today, with a dozen or so mallards and a couple pintail and diver fakes just to add some color. Five full bodied honker decoys would border me to the right of the grassy point. Murphy’s excitement grew as we walked the boat to its hiding spot, and returned to kneel in the sand grass. A flock of
Murphy was clearly disappointed, so he ventured to the tree line to find a good piece of driftwood to chew on. He returned only after a short whistle from yours truly. The cell phone beeped at 6:36 so we were now legal to fire.
The first flock of blue-winged teal darted in so low and so fast, I never had a chance to steady the bead. It sounded like there was about ten of them. The second chance was at a pair of screaming wood ducks that appeared right out of a weeping river willow. I folded the drake nicely and passed on mama as she sailed towards Maiden Rock. Murphy had just dropped the colorful drake at my feet when a lone teal broke from a flock buzzing in from Bray’s point. My 870 barked twice at the dive bombing bird who was scooting at the top of the water. Flying Kent Steele sent him into a cart-wheeling splash, as Murphy churned through water and muck for retrieve number two.
The next 30 minutes yielded no downed birds, but we had some work slightly out of range to keep things interesting. Another group of teal buzzed just over the decoys, but I was late on the draw and shot behind the closest bird. It’s always good to stay humble while duck hunting.
Our next visitors to the bay were a large flock of Pelicans. On the hunt for schooling shad, the birds filed in and plopped down about 30 yards from our goose decoys. Awkward in appearance up close, pelicans are actually graceful flyers and top line predators of fish on the lake. Murphy quite rudely interrupted their morning meeting by making a mad dash to the center of the gathering. 
Loudly exiting and heading for Stockholm, the Pelicans formed a beautiful ‘V’ back-lit by the fire-like sky rising over the bluffs. Still admiring that sight, the water just past my feet split as a half dozen teal skidded to a halt in the middle of my decoys. The water was still moving as Murphy dashed from his hiding spot for a water ‘flush’ of the birds.
Waiting for the teal to rise safely past my frantic dog, I neatly plopped the last bird of the string down on top of a vacant muskrat house. With the teal in his mouth, Murphy took a little time to dig through the base of the muskrat lodge to ensure a good amount of squishy mud on paws, whiskers, and dog belly. 
The final bird of the morning was a lone honker that was certainly looking for some company. The old gander was squawking all the way from Minnesota when he spotted our set up. Wings cupped and feet down, he rapidly descended from 300 feet to less than thirty. When he realized he had been duped, he attempted 
to back pedal like a NFL d-back, and veered sharply towards Bray’s point. I had plenty of time to wheel around, and dropped the goose with a splash 10 yards from the edge our sand grass hiding spot. Murphy pounced on him and proudly dragged him back to my feet.
to back pedal like a NFL d-back, and veered sharply towards Bray’s point. I had plenty of time to wheel around, and dropped the goose with a splash 10 yards from the edge our sand grass hiding spot. Murphy pounced on him and proudly dragged him back to my feet.
The sun was now high enough in the cloudless blue-bird sky to signal pick up time. With the gear loaded, I ran the 8 horse half throttle towards the Rush River willows, so Murphy could dry off a bit, and for myself to suck in a limit of late September fresh air. The modest brace of four birds sat across the mesh decoy bag as we turned and headed for Maiden Rock landing. Murphy locked his front legs, straddling the bow of the boat with his head high and tilted, the same way Hugo, Belle, and Ernie had rode before him. I couldn't hold back a heartfelt smile, hoping the trio of former hunting dogs were smiling down from above, and approving our performance.
It was a fine morning to be a duck hunter, a father, a husband, and a lover of life. It was a fine morning to swat mosquitoes, wipe sweat and swamp muck from your brow, and pick up downed birds and spent shells. It was a fine morning to run an old outboard, to work squeaky oars, and slide on flip flops after removing cammo waders. It was a fine morning to giggle at hung over campers, to listen to distant train whistles, and watch pelicans disappear into a September sky.
It was a fine morning to make it home by 9:00 a.m, just like I promised.
-TGI
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