Elvis Has Left the Building

So here we are: 7 days prior to the opening of the official season of glee, and thus far, things have been fairly exciting -- until today, that is. Ahh, and now they've gone and done it . . . the age old disappearing act.

Its a fairly routine phenomenon in our part of the country. Birds appear out of nowhere in October and loaf carelessly for 3 weeks in rice fields with no apparent fear of molestation. Then, for whatever reason, I show up and they're gone. Many have moved South and will not return. The remaining flock is smarter, more savvy, and well-educated. They have calenders too. And somehow, they understand the time of year, the changes of the season, and the meaning of the hustle and bustle of SUV's pulling trailers brimming with decoys and ATV's. Now they're restless, and they leave with a sense of urgency at the first hint of human interaction. They're night feeders, and 10 years of roosting in a safe zone has taught them that sleeping while its light and feeding while its dark will ensure the vitality of their families.

So, as far as options go, I always think it appropriate to exhaust obvious remedies first: I cry, curse, and run around helplessly with my hands thrown towards the heavens screaming "Why God!". Experience tells me that I'll do so to no avail, but it always seems to make me feel better. Next, the more time consuming: a little more water, a little scouting, and a little more thought regarding exactly what I should do for the opener. Eventually, I'll start the nightly routine of offing the birds that are dark-feeding. I'll start checking other roosts and watching the late-evening fly-out. And I'll hope for a little luck.

Opening week is always a gut-check. After that, things settle down and I establish the routine of simply searching them out. I just wish that, for once, they'd stay put until after the opener.

10 Days and Counting

Only 10 shopping days left to get ready for the big dance. It dawned on me yesterday that I've got a week and a half left before everything else shuts down. PANIC! Oh well, here's some video from last season -- I guess I'm as ready as I'm gonna be.

Introducing the Trigger Happy Hunting Club

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?

Hunting on Lake St. Clair, Michigan

Okay, so to describe me as an international man of mystery would be a bit of a stretch. Truth is, I've traveled very little and I'm not the most well-cultured person on the planet. In fact, save the occasional trips through the Southeast and into Texas, I've never traveled anywhere. So, to say that I was stepping out on a limb to travel 850 miles North from Gibby's Place to Lake St. Clair, Michigan, is a bit of an understatement.

A New Era for the Trigger Happy Hunting Club

For years I've kept a hunting journal, describing not only our wildfowl harvest, but also the emotion and environment that preceded and created those kodak moments. Each day of waterfowl season, I document what we've seen and my assumptions as to why we saw it. Fortunately, the volume of information I've stored over the last 20 years has been quite useful in understanding what to expect as I leave the house each morning. Today, via an exceptionally wild butt-hair, I've decided that I will display my remarks for the 2009-2010 Arkansas waterfowl season for all the world to see. A new era, if you would, where our daily struggle can be instantaneously published for the masses via the marvels of modern technology.

Stick with me . . . it might get interesting. Oh, and click on some of those ads in the side-bar. I'm interested in seeing whether I'll actually get a check.




--Gibby