Expectations are high going into this waterfowl season, but what if the bulk of the ducks don’t show up? You can still do quite well if you hunt smart.
You’d think the Saints stomping the Cardinals (45-14) in the playoffs might have lifted the spirits in Doc’s Venice houseboat. And it did — for about 10 minutes.
Then our duck hunts came back into focus. Doc’s (prospective) sister-in-law and Eddie now resumed their “discussion.”
Global warming, admonished Meghan, who was down for some “birding” (bird-watching), was the cause of our duck-hunting woes along with “habitat destruction from the oil companies.”
Habitat destruction from hurricanes (product of wondrously beneficent “Earth Mother Gaia”) somehow didn’t count.
In fact, two weeks earlier, we had mostly agreed that the lack of really cold fronts accounted for a late duck migration into Louisiana’s coast, and thus, our lousy hunting.
This wishful thinking had blown up in our frozen, wind-burned faces the previous week when a ferocious front plunged South Louisiana into record lows that froze even the water hyacinths in the marsh — or “wetlands,” as Meghan calls them.
Two dos gris and one mottled duck for five hunters had been our answer. If anything, the early January front seemed to push out the few ducks we’d had around Venice. And we got similar reports from our chums who hunt the Reggio, Lafitte and Wax Lake areas.
“So who’s ready for margaritas!” Trisha squealed as she emerged from the kitchen area.
Doc and Trisha, not overly concerned with the duck bag, seemed to have the answer. They sought to crank the levity back up to Saints-game level. And in seconds, she was carting them in, complete with lime and “lost” shakers of salt — but minus the margarita mix and in pretty small glasses.
“Tequila shots?!” Pelayo whooped. “Well, maybe one. We’ll be hunting in the morning, low tides and all. I wanna be up to it.”
“That’s a lot of work with so few ducks around,” Doc quipped.
“You dance with the one who brung ya,” Artie said after gulping his shot. “You play the hand you’re dealt. You make lemonade from the lemons life hands ya. You…”
Artie’s little sing-song threatened to stretch for another 20 minutes when Pelayo butted in.
“What Artie means is that we’re gonna make due with what we’ve got,” he said. “And what we’ve mostly got right now, even with brutal cold in late winter — in fact, what we’ve had for the past few duck seasons with similar conditions — are mostly summer ducks: mottled ducks and bluewing teal.
“Check our log. Heck, ask around at any marina. Most duck bags lately are heavy on teal — and more blue than green-wings. Mottled ducks, we always have down here in the delta. And unlike elsewhere, they’re not strictly local. They often fly around in flocks rather than in pairs and actually decoy.
“So I say we target the ducks we got. I say we set up for them. Pretend its teal season, when we traditionally set up differently than for pintail, widgeon, greys during the big-duck season. Comprende?”
“Oh where, oh where can my gadwall be?! The Lord took ‘em away from me!”
Freddie had been singing the tune for weeks, and now he bellowed it with special fervor. So we all chimed in with new lyrics, but borrowing from Benny Grunch and the Bunch.
“Where’s the greys?” Chris chimed in. “Dey went the way of Swagaman’s and K&B — dey ain’t dere no more.”
“Where’s the widgeon?” Artie added. “Dey went the way of Home-zez, Maison Blanche and Mr. Bingle — dey ain’t dere no more.”
“And the crawfish they caught in Arabi!” chorused Doc, Trisha and even Meghan.
Yes, the tequila shots were definitely kicking in.
The recent hurricanes obviously haven’t helped Southeast Louisiana’s duck habitat. But high river levels the past few years offset most damage to duck-fodder and habitat in the Mississippi and Atchafalaya deltas. And the flow of this elixir through Caernarvon, Davis Pond and Bonnet Carre has also been above normal.
Heck, just ride around lakes Cataouatche and Salvador, Spanish and Grand, and try to keep the grass off your prop. Impossible! And nowadays in the Delcroix area, thick grassbeds extend past Lake Cuatro Caballo (please excuse the proper nomenclature.) In the Lafitte area, the grass is thick well below Little Lake.
So where’s the ducks that would normally flock into such a feast?
Dey ain’t dere no more. They went the way of McKenzie’s and Morgus the Magnificent. They’re just not migrating this far down anymore. For diehard duck hunters, it’s impossible to avoid the obvious. Granted, some hunters — through diligent scouting or fortunate lease acquisition (Caernarvon, for instance) — have been locating some pockets of dabblers for good hunts. But in surveying the big picture, dey just ain’t here no more.
Jack Bohannon, biologist in charge of the Delta NWR, confided to your loyal servant here that aerial surveys show barely one-third the ducks wintering in the refuge as wintered there 10 years ago.
Shane Granier, biologist in charge of Pass-a-Loutre WMA, said much the same, not from aerial surveys, simply from his observations along with those of his colleagues in the delta.
And the habitat, during these surveys and observations, has been generally ideal.
Well, many of us who hunt the area noticed this development the last few years, and moaned and groaned. Turns out more scientific evidence now confirms the cause of our moaning and groaning. Dey ain’t here no more.
Which doesn’t mean many of us will stop duck hunting. Far from it.
Our (mostly) local mottled ducks, our (formerly) early-migrating bluewing teal and (a sprinkling of) greys, pintail greenwings and spoonbill still make it a glorious experience — for us fanatics, that is.
Used to be, the most frustrating part of setting up on a roseau island in the big delta bays came from watching flock after flock after flock of big ducks (mostly greys and pintail) land far out into the open water 200 yards away from our decoy spread, which they circled three times, driving us frantic in the process.
These past few years, smaller groups of ducks have been driving us every bit as frantic, but our hysteria resulted from watching them land in the broken marshes that ring the big bays, usually behind our set-up. Most of these were small flocks of teal and little groups of mottled ducks that dropped almost straight down and disappeared behind the marsh grass. The odd pintail and grey also showed up.
Well, we figured, it’s high time to go after them, to forsake this “birding” so beloved by Meghan and start the “whacking and stacking” so beloved by Ted Nugent.
The morning after the Cardinals game found us in the brackish section near the end of Emile-Kimball passes, where the duck potato, bulrushes and elephant ears give way to cordgrass and roseau. No millfoil mats these ponds and coves. No duck potato or wild millet sprouts from the mud banks. That stuff grows closer to the river. Most feed here is widgeon grass and dwarf spikerush.
The ground was semi-walkable. The proximity to Breton Sound and silt deposits from a high river the previous spring made it sandy and semi-hard. Not only did this offer the tremendous advantage of making the area walkable for diehards like us, it also foiled surface-drives, which can roar right through flotant or marsh muck. In fact, both Doc’s and Freddie’s surface-drives were gassed-up, tethered to the houseboat and at our disposal. But we opted for our usual retro-hunting. By HEK would certainly approve.
A hundred yards into tromping and dragging, I was huffing and pouring sweat and Chris was wheezing and moaning. Pelayo suddenly dropped the decoy sack and pointed as his eyes bugged. I jerked my head around and saw that the pond ahead had exploded with ducks. Probably a hundred were airborne. The mottleds (and even a few mallards) quacked their raspy alarm. And as expected, since they’re not (generally) “big-water” ducks, three bands of bluewings buzzed and weaved in that crazy pattern of theirs. Bluewing teal notoriously inhabit shallow, weedy, seedy areas. The fresh mini deltas just off the main passes down here perfectly create such habitat.
Some of these ducks (perhaps even a limit’s worth) would filter back during the morning, we figured. We looked at each other with crazy grins and dancing eyebrows.
“They’ll be back!” we whooped almost in unison as our pace to the pond greatly quickened.
We finally got to edge of the “pond” (more of a shallow grassy opening, like the ones we target for September teal season) huffing, puffing, covered with sweat but seriously pumped.
Pelayo paddled off in the ‘rogue, and started chunking out dekes — just as the first contingent of mottled ducks returned.
I ducked in the cordgrass, and gave a loud raspy hail. Their wings slowed on the first pass, then they started circling, slower on the second pass. The circles got smaller, smaller. Finally, they saw Pelayo and veered off. But I took it as a harbinger of things to come, minus the final veering off.
“Hurry up!” Chris yelled. “They’re already buzzing back!”
A flock of four was circling just as we dragged the pirogue behind the makeshift bachiris and marsh-alder blind. They turned, and their white underwings flashed against their dark bellies.
“More blacks (actually mottleds),” I rasped.
We hadn’t even loaded up yet, so we ducked and watched.
Spliiissshh. They actually landed!
You don’t see that very often — except during teal season, of course. They loved this place.
Pelayo grabbed my sleeve, and pointed with his chin. Another six were right behind, cupped up beautifully, the sun shining off their white underwings. Then the first pair noticed something wrong and took off, quacking.
Only in the deltas (both Mississippi and Atchafalaya) do we consistently find mottled ducks in actual flocks — rather than in their customary pairs — during the winter. Biologists have found that the delta receives a migration of mottled ducks from nearby coastal marshes.
Dr. Charles Stutzenbaker, retired from the Texas Parks & Wildlife Service, is among the nation’s top authorities on mottled ducks.
“Banding studies show that there’s some migration of these ducks, usually from west to east, usually because of water conditions,” he explained. “The Mississippi Delta is actually along the easternmost border of the mottled duck’s range.
“Tubers are among their favorite foods, especially the delta duck potato tuber. This explains their large numbers in places like the Mississippi and Atchafalaya deltas.
“I think you’re probably seeing large concentrations and flocks of them because there are a lot of them born in the area in the first place. Then come the migrants from areas farther west.”
Suddenly two pair of bluewings blazed over and plopped down not 20 feet from the blind, and started looking around nervously. The drake was gorgeous in his winter plumage. The white crescent on his face flashed in the sunlight. We knew we had a winner of a spot, and were preparing to rake them on the water, when…..
“More blacks,” hissed Pelayo.
We hunkered down and watched them close the distance through the cracks in the bachiris and marsh alder branches we’d jammed around the ‘rogue.
“NO!”
We hunkered lower and plastered our faces against the cane. Uh-oh, at about a hundred yards, the lead black was definitely veering. The others followed. We mouthed the calls in desperation just as they swerved, and we saw the white of the underwings contrasting against the dark bellies.
At Pelayo’s short hail, the distant ducks slowed and seemed to swerve back on track. Chris and I chimed in with a few quacks and whistles, and Pelayo blasted out another hail — a short four-note one, not the mariachi trumpeter kind you hear at duck-calling contests.
Now they seemed genuinely interested. On they came, but still high until at about a hundred yards they locked up for good and started dropping almost straight down. A gorgeous sight. This was their living room they wanted back in. We could even watch the wind rustling their wing feathers, and what a heavenly sound.
In seconds, they were almost on top of us. These had their wings spread wide, exposing their dark brown bellies as they hovered over the farthest decoys. Big orange feet started to dangle. This is normally a teal-season spectacle, when they titillate you, knowing they’re safe, knowing you can’t touch them,
My heart was in my throat as we rose to greet them at point-blank range.
Blaaaam!
Our three shots went off almost as one. Naturally, all three of us aimed at the same two ducks, and they crumpled. The others flapped off before we could recover our wits.
Much whooping and high-fiving, then Chris started sloshing out for a retrieve run. But Pelayo yanked him back by the arm. Another flock was heading straight for us. More blacks — big-bodied, deliberate wingbeats. Again, we hunkered, turning our faces slightly to watch their approach. They passed about 80 yards to the left, and I gave a three-note hail.
One cupped immediately, and started banking. The others flew on. I called again, and again. And after another hundred yards, the remaining trio decided to join the first.
They were well in range as we rose.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!!
Another black joined the bag and finished our three-man mottled limit.
Then Chris pointed at a flock of something in the distance. Shorebirds, I reckoned upon spotting them.
“DOWN!” Chris gasped while grabbing my elbow. Nope, not shorebirds. And yep, they saw the dekes, and were making a wide circle.
Geezum, what a sight!
Trigger fingers tapped safeties. Anxious eyes followed the flock as it neared. It was too much for the nervous system. I had to stifle a guffaw.
Not yet … not yet … O.K. — NOW!!
Blam-blam-blam! Blam-blaam!
The bluewings rocketed skyward above us, and we wrenched our necks trying to follow them.
Blam! Blam!
Two fell from the fusillade. We were in hysterics.
“We waited too long!” Pelayo said. “Geezum! Will we never learn!!”
Moral of the story: Let big ducks get as close as possible before rising. They backpeddle with the wind and are out of range in seconds. Teal, on the other hand, rocket skyward right over you. It’s best to get up before they hit the edge of the dekes. But no time for recriminations.
“On the left!” Chris pointed.
Ah yes, five winging in low — more bluewings, and those wings started cupping.
“NOW!” I hissed.
We got up, and they (AGAIN!) shot skyward. But at 20 yards, they presented perfect targets — like a shooting gallery.
Blam-blam! BLAAM!!
Four fell.
“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Pelayo howled. “Artie and Freddie are gonna be sorry they slept in!”
