First Morning Duck Hunt

Before we embark upon Evelyn Swalm’s reminiscence of a a particularly memorable holiday duck hunt from her camp in Deer Park, across the river from Natchez, we feel we’d be remiss if we didn’t let our reader in on the wonderful story she shared with us about just how she came to have this camp. 

My husband, Sherman, Jr., three years ago, bought a lot for my sixtieth birthday, and built us a wonderful small cabin (our second home). We have hunted ducks together by boat on this oxbow lake for some thirty years, many more for him as a youngster. He proposed to me after a harrowing hunt on land he and his brothers leased on Glascock Island back in 1967. Harrowing for me as a city girl, as I waded through snake invested waters, and dodged a herd of wild pigs when hunting. Twelve years ago, my son, now a Navy pilot, would propose to his wife on the same lake, while she courageously battled the swift waters of the lake one windy day in a kayak. He pulled up beside her kayak and put a small ring on her finger that he collected from the twenty-five cent gumball machine at the Natchez Market.

Every time we hunt out of our antique boat, I think of the story Sherman always told me of when he and a young friend were duck hunting on the lake during high school days. They turned their boat over one morning, and after firing their guns were found by some fishermen before turning blue in the icy waters. They stripped their clothes off, turned the heater on in their old blue Ford, and with teeth chattering, drove all the way back to Brookhaven in their birthday suits. The friend’s mother never let Sherman forget he almost drowned her baby. They never forgot what lucky young men they were.

Oh, do I love this place. My soul gets away from all its stress. Looking out as daylight creeps over the lake and peace spreads through to the camps along the foggy shoreline, I think what today means to me. My soul mate and I just lie beside each other in the soft bed with our cozy down blanket enveloping us. It is forty degrees out this morning, somewhat warmer than the past three days when we climbed from our warm bed to the smell of coffee and the lure of the ducks for our morning hunt.

Upon first arriving at our “Treehouse” camp, I thought that I would never be able to withstand the cold of early morning, and the wind whipping around us as we traveled South on the lake to a place picked for our duck blind. 

We would soon be pulling off the bank and down to a sweet, wintry duck hole. Dressing for the weather in wool socks, long johns, down waterproof pants, down undercoat, heavy down outer coat, wool gloves, and the hat (like the one’s robber’s wear with eye, nose, and mouth holes), and lace up boots, I experience the pleasure of complete body warmth as I walk outside to pursue one of our favorite sports.

The old duck boat has been pulled to the shoreline outside our cabin, waiting for us as it has for the past thirty-eight years. We load our boat with guns and life vest, the decoys already in place, awaiting us with the blind. The motor cranks, the newer one, not like the older motor that had to be pulled, tugged, pulled, and prayed over. We start down the lake, I’m the lookout at the bow of the boat for logs and debris floating down the rising river. My glasses help to deflect the cold air, which dries out your eyes. As we pull up to our duck blind, we maneuver our way to the back and guide our boat into the floating structure, covered with wire, that holds branches that have now turned the color of the clumps of weeds that grow so numerous along the shoreline. We tie up, load our guns, feel a lump in our throats as we rise to expose our upper bodies to a peek hole through the branches. Now we are ready to hunt the fastest flying, jet propelled, and sneakiest birds that come down the flyway from the icy North.

The hunt is slow, with the height of the season not yet begun, but when the woodies squeal and fly low past our boat, the thrill is on. In come five Mallard drakes, swooping in with their wings spread to slow their decent. We fire, with my hunting buddy bringing down one fat drake. I can already smell it baking in the oven filled with onions, bell peppers, worcestershire, pepper, and butter. Oh my goodness, the gravy over the rice, good as the hunt, jewels from the efforts.

We decide next to move the blind across the little hole we hunt in. This will be an exerting effort, but worth the energy to face our hole without the morning sun blinding us as the ducks fly in. As we are tying up across the way, two groups of fast flying devils fly in like a blur, low, and buzzing our boat and blind. They are smart, we just know they laugh as they pass us and we are unprepared. I am, however,  prepared for the next group of woodies that fly low and over our decoys. One shot and one goes down, winged. He swims away to the shoreline and the woods, to soon fly again.

The morning now approaches lunch time, and this early morning hunt turns to thoughts of the turkey slowly cooking back at camp, the dressing waiting for my gravy, the sweet potato casserole with pecans, butter, and brown sugar, the string beans, and the hunger pains that are tapping at us. As we head back to our cabin, we know our old lab, Jubal dog, is waiting to welcome us.

Oh, do I love this place!