On the lookout for more speedsters.

Rusty, after hiding the boat, reappeared out of the darkness and began to issue a low feeding call. He hung his Beretta by a plastic zip string on a limb and began to operate the jerk string while calling to one group of ducks after another. Decoys across the spread began to bob and dance making ripples in the water. We added to them by creating loud splashes in the water with our legs. Tradition says this simulates the fuss large groups of ducks sometimes make in timber.

Most groups sailed by heading for the sanctuary and the multitudes of ducks already convening there for the day. However, Rusty would occasionally “hook” a group that would turn and begin to work. Around and around the hole they would circle looking, listening and looking some more. The pull of hundreds of live ducks close by made our ruse a hard sell, but eventually some liked what they saw and heard and set up to come in. Then Harvey’s group in the Gar hole group announced legal shooting hours with a barrage of many shots. Sounded like a big group committed early on. Perhaps it was a group of teal, I thought.

Ducks In The Hole
Our first group into the hole came directly down the flight path right into our faces. As the three drakes and a hen hung almost helplessly in the air, just feet above the decoys, Rusty called the shot with the birds 20 yards away. All four fell lifelessly into the decoys. Each shooter quickly retrieved his duck and returned to hug his tree while Rusty kept up the calling and operated the jerk cord.

Because my appointed spot was next to Rusty, I had the opportunity to observe how he calls ducks. There is a fine art to timber calling and he has mastered it completely. Often it is difficult to observe called ducks as they “work” a hole. If one calls too loudly or at the wrong moment those wise old hens “bust” you immediately and the birds flare. Knowing when to call and when to remain quiet is extremely important. Rusty is well taught and works birds in a very seductive and realistic manner that produces results. He pleads loudly with ducks going away and once they turn he lowers his volume and reverts to a “tuk-a-tuk” feed call to instill confidence in the birds. Once the birds commit and are at tree top level, the calling stops with only an occasional “tuk-a-tuk”.

A lone drake decided to stop in and went down very much alive. With his head up straight the drake rapidly swam toward the deep timber. Rusty dropped the jerk string and in a flash was across the hole in hot pursuit while the rest of us watched the drama unfold. When the distance closed within “swatting” range, Rusty dispatched the greenhead and headed back holding the duck by the bill. The rising sun was full on his smiling face. It was very clear, Rusty loves his work.

Increasing daylight made fooling the ducks harder. Competing with large numbers of birds already down in the timber is a very difficult task. Again and again we would have groups of six to ten birds begin to work only to have them break off and glide into the sanctuary. This went on for an extended period and then the sun began to hit the decoys. Sun on the decoys markedly increased our odds of pulling birds into the hole.

First there was a pair, then a group of seven followed by a single hen, which we passed on. Rusty called for a count of birds. We had 15 mallards with two “accidental hens” in the count. “One more bird and I’ll call in our breakfast orders,” Rusty said. Almost a limit and no “bonus” ducks, I thought to myself while feeling disappointment that the fun was ending too soon.

“Big ducks” were coming and going in and out of the sanctuary, so our hole had continuous traffic overhead. Usually the ducks wouldn’t respond to the call but every now and then Rusty enticed some “workers.” But most were passing “lookers.” Three circled and circled and finally decided to do it. When they got down below the trees we recognized all were hens. Ten feet before splashdown they flared on out into the timber rather than lift back up.

Up to this point our hunt had not included even one teal. There was no indication we were about to experience something very unique, perhaps never experienced in flooded timber hunting. Besides, why would one having almost a “perfect” mallard hunt be thinking about teal anyway? I, for one, knew from countless fruitless and labor-intensive days roaming the Cache River in search of mallard “hidey holes” how lucky I was to be hunting at Harvey’s. Stomachs had started to growl, but we needed one more mallard.