The Hunting Chronicles of the Recoil Junkies. While sleeping in the duck shack,an old 300 dollar camper i had been sleeping in because of my daughters 12th birthday party in the house, i picked up the call and heard a familiar voice. Bob Purley, a neighbor and 2 time state duck calling champion was on the line. "Got your message, we're leaving at 4:30, how far we gotta drive tomorrow, anyhow?" "About 4 miles." i answered, "There were more than a few groups who saw us light em up last year opener, and i'm sure they remember it, i ain't taking any chances". "I tell ya one thing." the grizzled old waterfowler said " You guys are some hardcore sons-a-(guns)". Issac was 10 minutes early to my house as usual, unable to sleep, and we drove the half block to Purley's house. "What all ya need?", he questioned "I got floaters, sillouettes, fullbodies, you name it". We pulled two floaters off of his impressive army of decoys and put them in the canoe, along with my four full bodies and two floaters. "Well, that might be overkill, but if ya got em, use em, I guess." We followed Issac's dust cloud into the night, engines revving, coffee spilling onto the carpet of my truck. We pulled up to Lake X in Question Mark county, drug the canoe a few hundred yards, and headed into the night. Duck wings whistled off into the night, their sleep disturbed by paddles hitting aluminum gunwhales. Bumping into the island, we unloaded while a truck or two circled, stopped, and drove off. "City boys.", Issac cursed. We quickly set up our flock of eight, sat back, finished the rest of the coffee, and flashed our headlamps at another group of johhny-come-latelys. It was about 20 minutes before sunup when the ducks started moving in, tiny squadrons of 4 or 5 at a time, joining the smorgasbord in the midst of our spread. Oblivious to our decoys/statues, they tipped, fed, and quacked merrily, ultimately bringing together a congregation of around 120. They put on a good show, and from 15 yards, we could pick out details, even pick the drakes from the hens, as early as it was in the year. A solitary honk snapped us out of being mesmerized, and we got back to the business of trying to harvest some geese. A group of five came in, fresh off of nearby, freshly cut hay field, and we called sparingly. They came right in and locked up, but we had quit calling when they were about 100 yards away. "Thats what worked last year." Issac said. "But this this isnt last year." The geese sailed to our right, loafed about for awhile, and set off for parts unknown. "We'll finish these next flocks.",Purley said. And that worked. The morning flew by as flock after flock worked into the spread, small but efficient, and the shooting was easy. "A good hunter beats a good shot, anyday," I quipped as we knocked another billed bomber from the sky. It was over too soon, chasing down the cripples and picking up, the pungent but welcome smell of swamp greeting us back for another year of gunning. The moral of this story is, if you aren't gonna be able to sleep thinking about the hunt, just get up and get our there a bit earlier. You can sleep later, as I did after cleaning the geese. Just don't try to beat me to Lake X in Question Mark county.

by Travis Wilebski