Joe Shead: My best duck hunts… and one that might be the worst

Choosing to highlight my best – and worst – duck hunts is a bit of a head-scratcher. Over more than 30 years of duck hunting, there have been a lot of both. And any of them could produce a story of their own.

But here’s a taste of what keeps me coming back to duck hunting – for better or for worse. In duck hunting, you learn quickly to take the good with the bad.

Dark skies

Most of my best hunting memories involve skies seemingly blackened by ducks.

One such hunt occurred three years ago in northern Minnesota.

As I paddled down a rice-choked creek to reach a lake, the water looked like it was dotted with stumps. To my amazement, they were all ducks! I kicked up the birds, then hastily pitched decoys where they’d been swimming.

Even before I’d stashed my canoe, ducks started returning en masse. The only blemish on an otherwise amazing hunt was that they were landing a little far out, and my shooting suffered for it. I would shoot at a flock, go zero for three, and when the shot-upon flock was still retreating, the next wave was already cupped-up, feet down.

I did finally scratch out a limit of four greenheads and two drake woodies, but my shooting was so poor, I had a badly bruised shoulder when all was said and done.

I estimate I saw 1,500 ducks that night.

Dazzled by ’bills

On another hunt, I arrived at a lake I hadn’t previously hunted. It was in the middle of nowhere, so I got there in the early afternoon, rather than before dark in the morning, so I could get my bearings.

Well, at 2 p.m., birds were steadily trading back and forth between this lake and another nearby water body, but they completely ignored my spread, even though I was set up directly along their flyway.

Finally, I picked up and moved to where they were landing and re-set my spread.

I estimate that only 1% of the birds would even give me a look, but there were so many in flight, I still had plenty of opportunities. Early on, I shot a ringneck, but mostly what I was seeing were bluebills. The limit was three bluebills that year. Soon, I had my three ‘bills, and I was desperately looking for anything else.

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Ringnecks buzzed by, but I had to be absolutely sure they weren’t bluebills, and with the overcast skies, it was a tricky proposition.

I had a great chance at a gorgeous drake bufflehead, which buzzed by at a scant 10 yards, but unfortunately, at that very moment, I was pushing off to retrieve a fallen duck.

Eventually, I watched incoming flocks with my binoculars.

Suddenly, my eyes grew wide when I realized the next single was a gorgeous drake wigeon — a real rarity for me.

I ended up a bird short of a limit, but I was hardly disappointed. That was by far the most bluebills I’ve ever seen in my life, and the aerial display they put on was dizzying!

Here today, gone tomorrow

There are a bunch of other hunts that could have made the top three: the night I slept on a sandbar on the Mississippi River, having paddled several miles in an 11-foot canoe to see the refuge boundaries in the daylight.

And the time we portaged over seven beaver dams up a creek to a tiny pothole that was so covered with ducks, we agreed not to shoot the first 20 minutes so we could just watch them circle.

But I’ll go with the half-frozen ringneck lake just a few years ago, maybe because it’s still somewhat fresh in my mind.

It was the day before gun deer season began, and when I ventured north, I brought my little canoe and decoys, in case I tagged out early.

That afternoon, I drove to a lake to scout for ducks. It was half frozen, and, of course the boat landing side was the frozen end of the lake. About 300 ducks, mostly ringers, sat on the far end.

I couldn’t resist. I broke ice with the canoe, kicked up the ducks, and set up on the nearest point. Minutes later, they started to come back in small flocks. But they wanted nothing to do with my decoys, and they landed where they had been.

Well, once the first flock picks a landing spot, the rest join the live birds and not decoys. I finally had a flock circle close enough to take a long shot. I got a bird and scared up the rest in the process.

As I picked up my bird, I began retrieving all my decoys as well. There wasn’t much cover, and there was no point jutting into the lake, but I set up where the birds wanted to be.

To my surprise, a lot of them flew the shoreline or even flew over land to decoy – something divers don’t usually do.

I ended up with five ringnecks and a bonus bluebill.

After I had a limit, I just sat and watched flock after flock work my spread. I never wanted to leave.

The next day I returned.

They were all gone.

The johnboat from hell

When it comes to my worst hunts, I suppose you could argue any day you get skunked would qualify. One in particular comes to mind.

I’d borrowed a 10-foot johnboat with a small motor and was taking two teenage boys hunting. The boat’s owner had built a plywood blind that enclosed most of the boat. Think of it like a shoe: the boat was totally enclosed except for at the rear, where you put your foot in. So all three of us were concentrated on the last 3 feet of a 10-foot boat.

The lake was glass calm as we putted out to a point. I dropped off one boy on shore because it was too crowded with three people to set decoys. As we pitched decoys in the dark, Andrew commented, “Is there water coming over the transom?”

Sure enough. I hadn’t realized it in the dark with the motor running, but we were overweighted.

About that time, the boat, which apparently had been taking on water the whole time, reached the tipping point. It started to roll to the side. I was almost horizontal, looking at the water, knowing I was going in. I splashed into 4 feet of October water.

Andrew climbed to the bow.

Now, all I could think about was losing our guns.

“You gotta let go!” I yelled, realizing that his weight was keeping the boat from righting. Finally, he relented and plunged into the frigid water, his floating blind bag and floating gun case on top of the water right next to him.

My shotgun, shell box, and Leupold binoculars all went to the bottom of the lake.

The bottom was hard enough to walk on, so we pulled the boat to shore, where Tim was high and dry and having a good laugh.

It was unseasonably warm and Andrew insisted he wasn’t cold, so we stayed to hunt. He shot his first duck that morning, but the moment I saw his teeth chatter, I ended our hunt.

The boys walked back to the landing, rather than get back into that death trap of a boat.

In the light of day, I saw my shell box and binoculars and managed to snag both with a decoy hook. But try as I might, I couldn’t find my shotgun.

Finally, I stripped down and waded out until I finally stepped on the unloaded shotgun. I’ve never hunted out of that boat again.