I
On the morning of each new day of the season, as the noise of our arrival at the blind and the arrangement of our selves and our gear subsides, the world grows quiet again, leaving only the sound of the wind among the trees and the quiet lap of water in its wake. Deep in our own thoughts, the quiet takes over, and the wind speaks as though it has its own story to tell. The chill breeze, bound by rolling waves below and clouds above, whistles and dances, forcing its way between, bouncing echoes from water to sky, moving like a river through the night. As the decoys bob, head into the waves, near-silent wing beats from ducks unseen cut the dark air above us, bring with them the promise of another magical day.
There’s no question waterfowlers are a special breed. Just the time needed to pursue their avocation is enough to separate them from other groups. What drives them to pursue a passion that requires so much work, patience, dedication and effort? Where do they get the grit to remain cold and wet for hours without complaining while knowing that, in most cases, success is a slim chance at best?
Perhaps, more than any other pursuit, the experience alone is what sets waterfowling apart. Days spent in the blind with good friends and hot coffee create their own memories.
It’s a select few hunters who remain steadfast year after year. Who else prepares for 10 months to hunt only two? Who looks skyward more than straight ahead and who, even in the worst of times, thinks of little else?
It’s an exclusive club indeed, and when conditions make it tough, it’s a club for hardcore “Members Only.”
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