As always, the boys in the band scheduled the first weekend of November for our annual prep-day -- the time we spend brushing blinds, checking gear, cleaning decoys, and otherwise screw'n around. You know the drill.
Northeast Arkansas is an anomaly: we don't see "flight" birds . . . or at least not often. Rather, we expect to (and generally do) see our first birds in late October. That early migration of ducks will settle in and will usually stick around until early December, and they're the birds we'll be hunting until a second wave hits in mid-December.
Last season, we experienced exceptionally dry conditions prior to mid-season, and as a result, we saw very few of these early migratory birds rafting up in our area. Those pockets that did hold birds held them well and produced phenomenal harvests. Unfortunately, we weren't in one of those pockets.
This season, at least insofar as what we saw during our annual work-day, the birds seem to have returned to their normal behavioral pattern, which is a welcomed change from last season's grind. God knows we've had plenty of rain in the area to provide ample feeding and roosting habitat. Here's to a good start to the 2009 season.
While labor-intensive, the work is typically social in nature. That being so, me thinks it only appropriate to formally introduce the motley crew of misfits that make each season a true comedy of errors.
"Dead-eye" Haun. I'll tell ya, folks, he's a fairly dangerous man. You simply don't want to be on the business end of a 10-bore in the hands of this man.
They call him Jake, and he's all business. He is to the art of waterfowling what Prettyboy Floyd is to billiards. Money man and social director, this guy keeps the wrecking crew on the straight-and-narrow. 
Johnny the Kid. Pushing 40, he's got the profile of an adolescent alter boy. Don't kid yourself folks, he sports the patternmaster and I've seen him kill stuff just to watch it die. Don't turn your back on this guy.
Danger Dave. A true trigger-man. Dave's his name, and poachin's his game. He's gutsy, and from bald eagles to black momba's he's the king of smokin' illegal stuff. He's too fast for hair, and anything moving at that speed must be taken seriously. 
J-Hawk. An elite, highly-trained assassin, and a fine substitute for a Labrador Retriever. Nimble as a cat that never floats its hat, this is the last guy you'll see float'n in the Bayou. Never misses. 
Wild Man Meredith. He's certifiable, and you just can't fix that with a hammer. Best known for regularly raising the veritable curtain of steel, this guy slings more hulls than a rice mill on a deadline. 
Tasha the Smasha. She's poison, boys. If you decide to nab her purse, you'd better bring kryptonite and a kevlar vest. She's killed more stuff than smallpox. 
The Don. You know, like the Godfather . . . well sorta. He dusts ducks like plate glass in a hailstorm. Like a native american, he can hear 'em coming from miles away.
Special Fred. The man with the eternal green light. He's mentally challenged, and thus, unaccountable for his actions. That means he can spit in your face, and never has to say he's sorry. Any guesses on how it feels to sit down next to a guy like this when he's holding a loaded weapon?
