We went looking for ducks, and found partridge instead.
Thursday of MEA Weekend dawned wet and windy, with more rain forecast and higher winds. The forecast was right! We had planned a 4 day canoe/duck trip, but the forecast, as well as earlier scouting by Dad, convinced us to change our plans. The heavy rains had flooded out traditional wild rice beds, and most of the local puddle ducks had vamoosed.
We decided to check out the diver situation, and took off for a pleasant hike in the woods, covering a 5 mile loop to a couple of smaller lakes known to harbor ringbills, redheads, bluebills, etc. As we trudged down the sodden road/trail dodging beaver dams and trying not to go over our knee-high boots, we walked with raincoat hoods up and eyes down.
The first bird caught us with our eyes down, and as he thundered off we looked at one another and Grandpa said "hey - you're in the lead! Keep your eyes peeled!"
I made a command decision and put Jr. in front, armed with his trusty Model 870 20 gauge. We had stopped and pulled out the little bags of partridge loads we carry when on such expeditions, and he was loaded up with low base 7 1/2 shot.
By the time we reached the first of the lakes, Jr. had taken out two birds, and was commenting on the water running down his neck. Helpfully, his grandpa pulled out a large handkerchief, winked at me and instructed Jr. to knot it around his neck. Only a couple of lonely looking ringbills graced the first lake, and we shouldered our packs and headed off cross-country to the second lake.
The second lake was roiling in whitecaps, crashing into the little landing where the trail came out. Carrying in the canoe to chase the ducks on that lake seemed foolish given conditions, but we noted a huntable quantity of ducks (of course, all sitting at the far end of the lake!). After a brief consultation, we decided to finish off our hike and head for grandpa's house, grandma's cooking, and dry clothes. We would return the next day with the canoe and decoys....
The rain came down even harder, as we clambered over blowdowns and worked our way around a bay towards an old railroad grade that offered easier walking. Even with full raingear, we were pretty well soaked. My Chota Mukluks had developed seam leaks in both boots, and the squishing of my feet in the boots was audible over the squishing of the soles in the mud and soggy leaves. My gosh were we having fun now! As we neared the railroad grade, Jr. whistled, took a couple of quick steps forward and blasted another bird.
"One more and we've got supper!" I announced, congratulating Jr. on his latest victim. Jr. looked at me deadpan, with the rain dripping off his Goretex ball cap, his nose and his chin.
"Why don't you take the lead for a while Dad?" he said calmly "I don't remember this section of the trail so well" as Grandpa snickered.
"Dad?" I said, looking hopefully at Grandpa, who had earlier noted not shooting a partridge in 2 years.
"That's OK Rob" he said "you go ahead and get a couple - my shooting is slowing down too much for what we're doing."
Cornered and outvoted, I slid my shotgun out of the waterproof case, racked in a couple of rounds, and took off to the railroad grade. By the time we reached the next lake, I had hit one, missed one, and developed a small river of rain water running down the front of my shirt. Skirting the lake, we saw only a small flock of hooded mergansers and a lonely-looking Western Grebe. Off in the distance, two loons floated silently.
We stopped beneath a thick old spruce tree and gobbled down a couple of sandwiches, washed back with Gatorade. Jr. asked questions about the various trails we had taken, Grandpa and I recited the various stories of our family's exploits in that area, and I realized that in spite of all the rain, the exertion had left me a bit dehydrated. Rookie mistake! A guy often doesn't realize his water needs in cold or wet weather, and I drained my Gatorade and started on another bottle to catch up.
We put our lunch bags away, buttoned up our packs, pulled the hoods back up, and left the relative shelter of the ancient spruce tree. Within a few yards another bird flushed and floated lazily across the trail, as I got the shotgun sling caught up in my rain gear and pack. We watched helplessly as the bird sailed over the little ridge and into an impenetrable swamp, guarded by mounds of blowdown timber.
"Better keep your gun handy" observed Grandpa with a barely suppressed laugh, as Jr. made snide comments about the old man slowing down, and I realized that the small river running down my neck was now resembling Class III rapids.
As we neared our canoe, a bird popped out and met up with a load of 7 1/2 shot. Looking at Jr., I motioned for him to get his gun out - Grandpa nodded in agreement, picked up Jr.'s pack for him, and I motioned Jr. to go around one side of the old clearing while I went along the other side. Grandpa stayed on the trail, roughly in the middle.
Within a few yards a shot rang out - I saw Jr. slog into the brush and come out with a bird. We traded a thumbs up, and a few steps later another popped out in front of me, going down just as quickly. I stuffed the bird in the pocket of my raincoat, and we continued back to the canoe, shaking out a bunny, but seeing no more birds.
We had gone for ducks, and found partridge instead. Not a bad trade!
The following day we got our ducks - got wet again - and even shot a few more partridge. Funny thing though, the unpredicted and unexpected success on partridge on a miserably rainy day might be one of the high points of the season.
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Topic: Grouse Reports? (Read 8269 times)
