NEWS

I'm a public-lands duck hunter, and I'm insane

Ryan Sabalow
ryan.sabalow@indystar.com

When my alarm went off at 2 a.m. on a recent Thursday, I was already awake. My chocolate lab, Gaddy, was too.

All night, I could hear her claws clicking on the hardwood floor as she made excited laps around the house before heading back to her bed to lay down with a frustrated sigh.

I was on the couch that night. My wife, Cara, has been through enough of these early mornings to banish the wandering dog and my tossing and turning and every-15-minute-alarm-clock checking to the living room.

What could possibly get me so amped up?

Driving two hours to elbow my way into a crowded marsh well before sunrise, so I could spend the better part of the day with snotcicles forming under my nose while standing in icy swamp water up to my waist, a shotgun and duck call in my shivering, cold-numb hands.

This is what I live for. I'm a public-lands duck hunter.

It's hard to explain my addiction and what I put myself through every duck season.

Duck hunting is suffering. It's unbearably cold. It can be painfully hard work. It's expensive and time-consuming. And, while I enjoy eating ducks, they're never as blissfully tasty as venison backstrap, a slow-braised squirrel or doves fresh off the grill.

But when I'm duck hunting, I feel something wake up that lies dormant the rest of the year as I sit in my cubicle, mow my lawn or drive through bumper-to-bumper city traffic.

I feel most alive when I'm duck hunting.

The luck of the draw

Duck hunting on public lands feels like it triggers the same part of the brain that makes gambling addictive. After all, every hunt begins with a gamble.

There aren't many public marshes in Indiana, and the ones that hold a lot of birds quickly fill up with hunters. The prime state waterfowl properties have what's known as the "morning draw" where hunters put their name into a lottery each morning. The first picked get the best hunting spots. Most public refuges require you to bring a buddy or two. Single hunters, as I often am, get the last picks. If there are too many hunters, the guys at the back of the pack go home.

This is why duck hunters statewide felt their blood pressure rise last year when my investigation revealed that the former director of the Department of Natural Resources and a group of buddies skipped the draw and waltzed in for a hunt at the state's premier waterfowl refuge, Goose Pond Fish and Wildlife Area in Linton.

I didn't have that option, of course, so at 3 a.m., Gaddy and I drove two hours to get in line. I figured that a midweek hunt wouldn't be too crowded. Plus, I hoped that I could charm my way into another group's party.

I did. Two cousins from Franklin, Ben and Tyler Van Deman, graciously invited me to hunt with them. When our number was called at 5:30 a.m., we walked up to the marsh map hanging inside the refuge office and pulled off the magnet that signified where we'd hunt. We were soon loading bags of decoys into our boats and starting the long, dark ride into a misty, windy pond that none of us had hunted before, the glow from our headlamps our only light.

A dangerous game

This is the part of the hunt that makes my gut tighten with excitement. It's also the most dangerous.

Duck hunting is best when the weather is the worst. When most folks are hunkering down at a forecast of pounding rain, driving snow and howling winds, I'm getting my hunting gear ready.

I've written stories about men drowning on duck hunts, and two of my Hoosier hunting buddies have had boats capsize. How they avoided drowning is anyone's guess. One friend's shotgun is still at the bottom of one of Goose Pond's deep canals.

The danger is why I run miles and miles each year with Gaddy. If I fall into a deep spot, I want the endurance to claw my way out, even with chest waders filled with water. Plus, being in shape is a necessity when you hunt marshes that require a slog through knee-deep muck wearing 20 pounds of gear and carrying a gun and heavy decoy bags.

On this recent hunt, we found a spot safely and with ease. We hid our boats, hopped into the waist-deep water and threw out our decoys. For a brief time, we waited for the marsh to wake up.

Duck wings were soon whistling overhead. We began squawking on our duck calls at mallards and gadwalls circling our decoys.

Blending in with nature

Duck hunting is bird watching at 40 mph. A duck hunter has to know in an instant the species of the bird that's approaching.

Shoot the wrong one, and a hunter could go home with a substantial fine. I can tell the difference between a hen and a drake mallard flying in a howling snowstorm from 100 yards away. By their silhouettes, I can differentiate the pelicans, hawks and shorebirds that share the marsh with pintails, northern shovelers, scaups, wood ducks and many other species of ducks and geese that are legal to shoot.

Duck hunting also is stillness and stealth. It can be profound to be a part of the marsh.

I've had sandhill cranes and federally endangered whooping cranes coast over my head, seemingly close enough for me to grab their long, dangling legs. From just feet away, I've watched a bald eagle grab a marsh bird called a coot off the water. Songbirds have landed and preened their feathers on cattails inches from my gun barrel. Covered as I was in camo and hunkered in a blind, these animals never saw me.

One of my favorite marsh memories didn't involve a bird at all. Once, a coyote slunk its way through a field toward where I lay shivering beside two dozen Canada goose decoys.

About 50 yards from me, the coyote saw that the honkers it had stalked were made of plastic. I looked in its eyes. It stood up, yawned, made a little "yip" sound and ran toward the other coyotes on the far side of the field. I watched them dance with each other. They started singing.

I'm not a religious man. But I'd rate that moment, along with the births of my two daughters, as the closest I've ever come to a spiritual experience.

I didn't fire a shot that day. It was one of my finest duck hunts.

Dreaming of wings

Thursday's hunt didn't reach that level of existential bliss, but, as always, it came close.

The sunrise sent brilliant, sparkling brushstrokes of purple, orange and red across the wind-whipped water. Several huge flocks of pelicans cruised lazily overhead. Later came sandhill cranes. There were herons, hawks, coots, grebes and shorebirds galore. A muskrat swam close enough that Gaddy whined and cocked her head in that inquisitive doggy way.

And those ducks circling us just after legal shooting time? A pair of them splatted in the water after a barrage of shotgun fire.

Gaddy splashed into water so cold it formed a crust around the waist of my Neoprene chest waders. Her tail wagged as she swam. This is what she lives for, too.

We were not so successful with every duck that responded to our quacks.

We missed more than a few times. Each time, Gaddy, sitting in my boat with ice forming on her wet brown fur, would give me a "You gotta be kiddin' me" look. Still, the three human hunters went home with eight ducks, substantially shy of our six-ducks-each daily bag limit.

Gaddy earned her kibble that night, along with the gizzards I pulled from the four ducks she dutifully retrieved for me. The ducks will soon be dripping in my smoker.

And that night, my muscles aching and my face red and chapped from the wind, I fell asleep to the same sound that has rung in my ears on cold fall nights since my father first introduced me to this world of high adventure and unspeakable beauty.

I dreamed of whistling wings.

Call Star reporter Ryan Sabalow at (317) 444-6179. Follow him on Twitter: @RyanSabalow.