Big Iron

Life lessons from a morning bird hunt.

We all know how hunting plans go down. Ideas are tossed around, remarks such as, “That would be awesome!” or “We should totally do that!” are exchanged; but then other things in life sprout up, and very few trips actually come to fruition. This was different. Motivated by Morgan, our endlessly enthusiastic O/B photo intern, Mike and I made concrete plans with her for a last-minute winter duck hunt. 5am sharp at Mike’s house, we agreed. And so it was written.

Next morning, we loaded up the boats—a tandem canoe and a one-man raft—and hit the highway to a small river somewhere in southwest Montana. We pulled up at the stream with just enough time to run a shuttle and be on the water before first light. We hastily dumped the boats and all our gear on the bank, then Mike and Morgan took off to set the shuttle.

While they were gone, I went about rigging up the boats. Toss the dry bags in the bottom, throw in a thermos of hot chocolate, some blankets for the dog, leave the guns on a seat, and might as well throw an extra paddle on top for good measure. There I sat, sipping hot cocoa, listening to ducks quack overhead as I waited for my hunting partners to return. Dawn had the potential to be some seriously lights-out duck hunting.

I’ll privately concede, Mike’s river canoe was a little tippy, especially with bird-dog Raleigh bouncing off the gunnels, so it was probably a good thing we’d tied everything down.

Mike had other ideas, though. When he and Morgan returned, he took one glance at the boats, filled haphazardly with gear, and declared in no uncertain terms: this will not do. Under Mike’s supervision, we pulled everything out and repacked it, lashing it all in with nylon straps. Ducks chuckled overhead as we carefully stashed an extra shotgun in the stern of the boat, a task made easier now by the light of day.

Finally, as the sun crept over the mountains, we were on the water. And I’ll privately concede, Mike’s river canoe was a little tippy, especially with bird-dog Raleigh bouncing off the gunnels, so it was probably a good thing we’d tied everything down. But a guy would hate to admit it. Morgan trailed behind in the raft, snapping photos, while Mike quietly steered our boat around glass-calm bends in the river. I sat in the front with my light 20-gauge in my lap, ready for a quick shot. After only a few minutes, the opportunity came. We slipped around a corner, surprising a pair of mallards enjoying a lovely morning float. I interrupted their moment—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!—missing all three shots. They took off and flew right over our heads.

A few minutes later, the debacle repeated itself on another deep bend. By now, Raleigh was drooling with bird-lust, and Mike was laughing at my shooting skills—or lack thereof. “Think you can handle a real man’s gun?” he asked, reaching for his 12-gauge under the seat. Thinking that I could make up for my poor aim with more firepower, I swallowed my pride and accepted the offer. We traded firearms. The man-gun was definitely beefier than my little-boy toy. Through my waders and five layers, I could even feel a few chest hairs sprouting.

With renewed confidence, we kept floating. Morgan was out in front now, trying to snap some head-on action shots, when suddenly a handful of birds took off from a bush and flew directly over her boat. “Pheasants!” exclaimed Mike. The season had already ended, but we were still giddy with excitement. Over the next mile, the cock-show continued. What must’ve been at least two dozen roosters flushed over the river. We’d be back next year, we agreed, but a few days earlier.

Sensing my giddiness, Mike instructed me as he silently navigated closer—“wait… wait… wai”—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

By the time the pheasants tapered off, we only had a half-mile of floating left. The morning breeze had settled down, and it was dead quiet as we drifted around the last bend. And there, in the middle of the river, was an entire flock of geese. Sensing my giddiness, Mike instructed me as he silently navigated closer—“wait… wait… wai”—BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!

Not a single goose looked phased, and the whole flock lethargically took off in unison, flying over the boat at such close range I’d have had better luck batting one out of the sky with my paddle. I rummaged frantically through my pockets for more shells, but came up empty. Sheepishly, I turned around to confront my companions. Morgan looked amused, Mike was shaking his head, and Raleigh looked more depressed than I’d ever seen him.

We paddled the last few minutes to the take-out, birdless, but nonetheless content with the morning. Despite having never hunted together, and coming at it with different ideas on the “right” way to do things, we’d connected over hot chocolate, missed shots, and the quietude of a morning on the river. And, we already had plans to do it again next year. Loading up, the last thing we packed in the trucks was the guns. I handed back Mike’s man-gun. “You can keep it,” I told him. “It don’t work anyways.”