For duck-hunt addicts, the magical season is nigh

Riding shotgun the other day with a friend at the wheel, I found my reflection in the young man next to me. He was driving a large, red truck and was blowing a duck call simultaneously. He seemed to be trying to master the hail call, the notes of which start high and ride down the musical scale with an even tempo.
The first note is louder and more forceful – it demands a duck’s attention – and the successive notes are slightly sharper and faster. Unlike me at that age, he knew what he was doing. His calling was as spit-shined polished as that of a competition caller.