“Pee Dee River Ducks”
By: The
Buckman
The night was dark. The stars
shone bright and a Carolina moon hung over the river swamp. It was cold, the kind of cold that seeps
through the body and into the bones, so cold that there were no calls from the
insects of the night. Only the warble of
a distant owl and the slow cackle of the dying embers of a camp fire broke the
cold dead silence of the winter night.
The
Buckman was stretched out with his boots off, feet warmed by the dying fire,
wrapped in an old quilt, hunting coat balled under his head for a pillow, dead
to the world breathing in, absorbing the swamp around him, oblivious to the
cold, one with the world around him that most would find so hostile. At three-thirty his eyes popped open and the
fire of life blazed through them and it would have been obvious if there were
anyone there to see him that this was indeed a man of the wild.
If there were time to waste this
was not it, and upon awaking, I immediately shook off the cold and set about
the tasks at hand. I expertly stoked the
fire and added the wood needed to break the chill of the night for those less
adapted to the extremes of nature than I.
I scooped fresh coffee in the pot and swung it over the fire. I tied on my boots and began loading the boat
with the tried tools of the endeavor at hand.
I placed the two shotguns under the seat, swung the decoy bag full of
our blocks in the front of the boat and tossed in the blind bags with
everything else we needed inside the console.
By this time the coffee was
boiling and I had let Lil’ Joe sleep long enough. I burst through the door of his tent where I
was nearly knocked over by the heat of a propane heater and Lil’ Joe slept
soundly on an extra wide padded cot wrapped in a mummy bag from the tip of his
nose to his toes and I have yet to figure out why he didn’t wash off that cot
in the night and douse that heater with sweat, but still he slept there so
deeply that had I been a bear I could have eat him. “Rise and shine,” I yelled, “You’re burning
daylight.”
The startled screech he emitted
was somewhat alarming, and he bolted upright to see what had abruptly ended the
solid slumber on his cozy cot. Seeing it
was only me, he laid back down with a sigh.
“It’s nearly time to go” said I.
“You can sleep your life away, but the ducks will still fly. Now I’m gonna get out of this tent before I
start to melt and my arms get so weak I can’t hold a bead on a bird.”
I left the tent and went to the
fire where I poured myself a strong cup of black coffee. It wasn’t long before Lil’ Joe stood beside
me sipping on a hot cup sweetened with sugar and tempered with creamer. We stood together silently by the fire
drinking coffee and listening to the sounds of the swamp and the night.
The two men stood by the fire.
The Buckman, with his five foot six frame, broad and thick, muscled from
head to toe with the disposition of a hickory stump. Then there was all six foot two inches of
Lil’ Joe, who would have been like a willow whipping in the wind had it not
been for his paunchy gut. Quite a Mutt
and Jeff pair they made. No one who knew
the Buckman understood why he took to Lil’ Joe, maybe Lil’ Joe didn’t expect
him to shoulder the weight of the world like everyone else did, maybe the
Buckman just felt sorry for him, and though they did not understand why, they
knew without a doubt that these two were best of friends.
Lil’
Joe and I finished our coffee and doused the fire with what was left in the
pot. By the time I got behind the
console of the skiff, Lil’ Joe had cast the line off and was sitting in the
front ready to roll. With a twist of the
ignition switch the engine purred to life, and though she sounded so soft, I
knew that when I threw balls to the wall she would roar like a tigress and eat
the river under her. I expected no less,
I had rebuilt her bow to aft, port to stern, bottom to top, with a little help
from Lil’ Joe of course. When I got her
there weren’t much to her. A busted up
hull and a putt-putt old engine, she was scary, but she was cheap, and I wanted
a challenge. I covered holes and
cracks, rebuilt the busted nose and running rails, then re-glassed the busted
bottom and cracked floor. I give her a
custom camo paint job and completely re-wired her. All of that was simple but a little time
consuming, the outboard engine was a little more difficult. Although she would run, she just would not
perform up to my standards, so I had to tear her apart and bring her literally
up to speed.
I started with the cylinders,
which I re-bored and coated with a silicone-amandium compound I devised myself,
it made them slick beyond slick and indestructible to boot. Of course I had to cast cylinders match. The problem with this was that it forced me
to completely re-build the carb which improved to keep up with the performance
of the block. I built within it a micro
scram fuel injector to decrease fuel use while at the same time giving the
block the exact amount of combustible vapor and oxygen needed for the vastly
improved block. Of course this
completely threw of the timing and I had to design a timing chain to decrease
the timing of the fire to the plugs thereby increasing the rpms. This worked much better than I had hoped and
the first time I put her in the water I wrung the blades of the prop. I had to cast a vibranium prop that could
withstand the improved performance.
All-in-all there is no boat on the river that can match my girl. Even though all this was somewhat of a
challenge, it was not nearly so complex as the effort that was put forth to try
to keep Lil’ Joe feeling as though he were a useful asset to the process.
The line was cast and the motor
was purring. Lil’ Joe is buckling his
life vest and stand behind the console backing the boat into the river. I flip the switch to the light bar that will
illuminate the river before us and open the throttle wide. The boat leaps onto plane and we’re flying
upriver. Lil’ Joe is balled up in the
front seat acting as though he is about to freeze to death, but I find the
crisp morning air refreshing. Water
starts to freeze at the corners of my lips and eyes, the air cuts underneath my
coat onto my chest and I really feel alive!
We round the second curve from
the past the landing and I see Conway in front of us. Pushing his boat as fast as he dares in the
darkness of the river, I know he is trying to beat us to the spot where we
hammered the widgeons last week, but there is no way he can stay in me. My tigress is roaring and we’re eating river
at an alarming rate. Besides, even if
his boat could run with me, he doesn’t know this stretch of the river as well
as I do so he wouldn’t be able to keep it between the cypress trees. I throttle back going into a bend for not
even I can hold this beast into the turns well enough to handle a wake
jump. We clear the bend into a straightaway
and I throttle wide again. Conway’s little boat isn’t throwing that much wake,
but it doesn’t take much wake to throw you airborne when my tigress is
accelerating the way she does. I angle
into the wake on the port perfectly. I
knew it would throw us airborne. We
literally fly past Conway and touchdown left rail first throwing an
invigorating spray starboard across Conway’s boat, just as I had planned. I knew Conway would be grateful, so I wasn’t
surprised to hear him shouting his four lettered praises as we glided past him
into the darkness of the river.
I started howling with laughter, which
startled Lil’ Joe. “What in the world
has gotten into you?” “Conway is going
to be pleasantly surprised when he gets to our spot and finds it vacant.” I
inform him. “Vacant, what do you mean
vacant? We hammered ‘em there last
week.” “Ah Lil’ Joe” say I, “That was
last week, didn’t you notice the shifting winds of a new front last night? Nothing will be there this week, besides I
know where there are a few flocks of freshly migrated mallards, and we are
going to smoke ’em.” “OK.”
I saw the log in the river as
time as soon as it entered my lights, but Lil’ Joe hadn’t noticed it yet. Boy, am I going to have fun with this. Throttling wide open on a collision course
with the floating boat killer I wait for a scream that was certain to emanate
shortly from Lil’ Joe’s throat. Now I’m
waiting and it doesn’t look like he will ever notice, but at just the right
time, like on que, I hear the fearful yelp, “LOG!!!” I immediately cut power, so abrupt that Lil’
Joe is nearly unseated. The nose of the
boat drops exceptionally fast and it appears that we are about to dip river,
when I throttle to full power. The prop
digs a hole in the river and forward motion throws the nose of the boat up and
out of the river. The rear of the boat falls into the hole and the prop catches
clean water, sling-shotting us forward, out of the river and over the log, the
foot of the motor missing by mere fractions of an inch. We splash down opposite the log, Lil’ Joe is
white as a sheet, eyes large as saucers, “What the devil!” Eyes bright with glee, grin from ear to ear,
and teeth shining as bright as the moon above, “Lil’ Joe, don’t forget whose
piloting this boat!” “You got the pilot part right, I think you’ld just as soon
fly as float!”
I throttle down and cut left into
a large lake before throttling back up to get to the split at the headwaters,
where I slow to a creep and thread my way through a cypress swamp to a small opening. I cut power and move to the front of the boat
where Lil’ Joe is already pealing open a decoy bag. I pull a greenhead block from the bag and
marvel at its perfection. These decoys
were handmade by myself and Lil’ Joe, well, mostly by myself, I had to keep
Lil’ Joe doing menial tasks on them to make him feel like he was involved. They were a design of my very own, to my
knowledge there are no others like them.
They were hand formed from a foam block with a solid cypress base and
keel. I then glassed them solid and
attached a hand carved cypress head.
They were then hand-painted to perfection. From a distance, it took a trained eye to
distinguish them from the real thing. We
cast the flotilla of hand-made blocks perfectly around us. We had different species of course, around
the core of mallards we cast a few woodies and some widgeons, a few teal, and a
pair of blacks and pintails just in case.
I would say that it’s a splendid little spread, but to be honest it’s
not all that little. To be certain, I
can say without a doubt that I have never seen a spread to match it. Oh, there may be larger spreads, but there
are no spreads out there that contain the quality of blocks in our spread.
We pull the boat into the edge of
a slough and blind up. We still have
plenty of time before shooting time, so I pull out my call and test it
out. It is a new call that I have never
used and I knew I would really need to acclimate it to the current conditions
and tune it before I began calling ducks.
I really need to make my own call, but with time limitations one can
only accomplish so much in one off season.
I blow out a high powered hi-ball and settle into a feeding call. Lil’ Joe just sits there in
astonishment. I break the call down and
start making my adjustments. He can take
it no longer, “What in the world are you doin’?” “Tuning my call, it ain’t quite right.” “Ain’t quite right, I’m startin’ to believe
you ain’t quite right. That call was a
personal gift from the Duck Master, Phil Bushman himself, he personally tuned
that call for you himself before he gave it to you. Ain’t quite right, I know what ain’t quite
right, and I’m pretty sure it ain’t the call.”
“Now Lil’Joe, you and I both know he tuned this call for Mississippi
flyway ducks, and we’re hunting Atlantic Flyway ducks, our ducks here don’t
have as much wabble in their call as the ducks further west, therefore….” “Oh, aright.”
Lil’ Joe, while I’m finishing
this up, why don’t you pull the guns out the box. Lil’ Joe handed me my Shelby-Webly Super
Trick about the time I had the call tuned to my satisfaction. As shotguns go I guess it was OK. Sure it has the fastest action you can buy. But if it would cycle faster I could shoot
faster. From time to time Lil’ Joe would
cut my third bird out from under me with his first shot. I don’t like that, when he does that he gives
me some kind of twisted got-ya grin, and if that gun would cycle just a little
faster that wouldn’t happen. I’m pretty
sure I can speed it up, I just have to have the time. I need to sleeve the gas piston tin the
forearm to increase the cycling pressure and loosen the kisser spring in the
bolt. That will wipe that stink eatin’ grin right off of Lil’
Joe’s face. Of course I will have to
pass up shots for Lil’ Joe then, but I’ll be able to pick that ducks, and that
is OK with me.
Lil’ Joe reminds me that it’s
about shootin’ time. That’s what Lil’
Joe does. He pulls my mind out of the
constant thoughts of improvements to all those things around me, I mean the
only things around me that I can’t improve are the things I have improved, he
puts me back in the here and now and sets me about the important business of
killing ducks. We let a few flights of
woodies pass us and wait for the big birds that are to follow. We hear the mallards in the swamp and we know
they will be on the way shortly. I see a
flock cuttin’ out and start calling. I
see the lead bird turn its head and I know it’s a done deal now they’ve seen
our blocks and there’s nothing that will stop them now. Wings cup and toes drop. Cut’em, my bead flies to the first greenhead
on the left…..
“Bucky! Bucky!
Wake up, you going to sleep all afternoon?” Buckman cracks his eyes to see the end
credits of Waterfowl Adventures
rolling down the TV screen. “Bo needs
help with his homework, and I need someone to cook supper while I’m washing and
folding clothes.” Yes dear, I’m coming….
There’s a lot of information on the internet about mowing, burning and preparing the field for a hunt. Doves like a field with easy access to seed.
ReplyDeleteLoveed reading this thank you
ReplyDeleteWhat an exciting and immersive story! The detailed descriptions and vivid imagery made me feel like I was right there in the swamp with Buckman and Lil’ Joe. The adventure, humor, and camaraderie between the characters were truly enjoyable. A great read for any outdoor enthusiast!
ReplyDelete**Abdullah Ibna Jafar**
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