The Joys of Hunting Solo

There are many advantages to hunting alone. On a solo hunt, all decisions are yours: when to call, when to shoot, and who got that bird. No mystery there, and, unfortunately, there's no mystery as to who missed, either.

 It’s a challenge, make no mistake. You really have to be “on the X,” as the TV hunters say. A dozen decoys are enough though, if they are in the right place. No arguments on a solo hunt about where to set up. Win or lose, it’s all you.

The day I’m writing about was in late November on a classic round lake on the prairies of western Minnesota. Mid-week and it was no one but me hunting that morning. I wasn’t quite alone, because my son Will was along with his Nikon. He doesn’t count, though, because I was lugging the dozen Mallard Dekes, the spinner, and my 10-gauge. Though Will and I didn’t know it, we would only enjoy this one hunt because the lake froze over the very next day. The omens were good for the hunt that morning. I had spotted a large raft of curlytail mallards after my morning hunt on a nearby state slough. Turns out I had secured permission to hunt the south side of this lake earlier in the season. Not the best location with a north wind, but on the other hand, it was only enough to rock the decoys anyway, so that wasn’t much of a factor.

In fact, I was glad that the wind would float any dead birds right back to me. I hate to send a dog out too far in the bitter cold. As I crunched across the skim ice along the shore, I was comforted by all the quacking I heard in the darkness. I had only shot a few mallards so far in the season, and these were fresh northern mallards; fully feathered, fat, and hopefully dumb.

 Cattails grew right down to within a couple of feet of the water and provided perfect cover. A lesson learned from experience was not to place your decoys too far from shore. It’s not necessary to get your blocks out as far as you can wade as I did when I was young. Not only are they harder to retrieve, but if your decoys are out too far, you’ll be missing birds that only give your decoys a pass-through. Many ducks like to land outside the decoys, I’m sure you’ve noticed. With those decoys closer you can often give those ducks a big surprise. Will had cleared away all cover behind me so as not to interfere with his photos, and the trap was set. As usual, flight after flight of chuckling fowl flew out to the grain fields just out of range for the 10 gauge. Par for the course. 

An hour later, smaller flocks began drifting in from the fields for a drink. Excellent! I was glad I hadn’t given the game away with some heroic shooting at the big flocks of birds leaving the lake earlier. It started just then when a small flock of six birds came in from the south, just a hundred yards from us and to our left, took a hard turn, and sailed in towards the spinner.

These birds really fooled me. I was looking for drakes before opening up and seeing none. Then I realized the ducks I looked at weren’t mallards. But gadwalls would do nicely. Unfortunately, by that time my flock was well on the way out of Dodge. That’s why I lug a 10-gauge, and the late bird caught a load and hit the water. When his head popped up I gave him the coup-de-grace, and he began the slow float to shore. Will and I considered a gadwall a bit of luck since the mallard limit in Minnesota was four.

As little Pal, my water spaniel, brought him to me, another small flock was bearing down on our position. Crouching low, I was ready when they flared off the spinner. Missing that first shot with a 10-gauge is always easy. Birds get in close and the pattern doesn’t open up. I knew I should have waited, but I drew down on my second shot, dropping a bird hard into the water. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. It was a beautiful drake mallard. We placed him beside the gadwall and poured our first coffee of the morning.

It was a gray day, which Will hated more than anything, except for a day when the ducks weren’t flying. I was just glad to be there. Covid spoiled things for so many people that it seemed almost like a miracle that nothing had changed for waterfowlers. Sipping Joe and watching the skies was as good as it gets for me. And you know as well as I do what happens if you have to relieve yourself or are drinking coffee. Looking up, I was shocked to see another small flock of mallards bearing down on us.

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Two shots later and they were gone. I hadn’t touched a feather. Big beautiful mallards, possibly the last of the year, and they were gone. I have a tendency to be too hard on myself when I miss birds. Especially birds that are so close that excuses can’t possibly be used to explain what I had done. But as I said, this hunt in the time of Covid was a gift, and if no more birds came, I would go home happy. I truly believe in the analogy that shooting and baseball share a commonality. Hitters and shooters are good if they can hit .300 or above.

With that thought in mind, I reloaded and finished my lukewarm coffee while endlessly scanning the horizon. What a beautiful day it was, gray skies notwithstanding. Mallards flew in from the grain fields to drink and loaf a bit in the middle of this round lake. Hundreds of birds just down from the north, what we’d waited all fall for. I should have known right then that those birds knew what the temperature was going to do. They knew that they had to load up on food and that they’d be pulling out overnight.

These birds were on a mission. They were back and forth gobbling in the fields and dropping in for a drink nonstop. Usually, mallards will fly off to feed and not be back until around ten o’clock. When hunting with friends, it’s my job to remind them to be patient. Often they only stay through the early barrage and lack the patience to wait for the late morning return flight from the grain fields. When I tell them to “stick and stay and make it pay” they’ll reply with “stick and stay and waste your day.” When I’m successful after they’ve left, you can be sure I send them pictures of a heavy bag of ducks or geese.

That three o’clock thing is for the usual day, but this day was not the usual. These birds would be feeding all day long to get ready to migrate. With a swoosh, a small flock buzzed the decoys so fast that lost in my thoughts as I was, I couldn’t get the gun up in time. No matter what they wanted in and around, they came. The circle would present a left-to-right shot as all the opportunities were that day. By this time, I had figured out the lead, and when they blew through, I got off a beautiful first shot and whiffed on the second. Two curlytail drakes and a gadwall now lay on display by my feet. Things were looking up.

I was halfway to a limit, and I was happy. Pal was happy too. I let him lick blood off “his” birds for a while figuring it wouldn’t hurt because he wasn’t doing any munching. Then his head snapped up and he stared to the left. Sure enough, here they came. This time, it was a big flock, and lo and behold, if they weren’t looking like they might decoy. I knew that probably wasn’t going to happen, but what if? The lead two birds came roaring in while the big flock peeled around for yet one more mallard-like spin. You know the drill.

It’s always been a bird in the hand for me, having been screwed too many times trying to be greedy. So as the two birds came straight in, it was the left one that I shot first. I was surprised to see a hen dropping into the dekes. Yes, I thought it was a drake, but coming in straight like that without circling, I had dumped a Susie. For shame, I thought, but I hadn’t meant to. I was so surprised that the other duck, surely a drake, flew off untouched. My father would have laughed at me for being so fastidious. 

He shot whatever was handy. I’ll never forget his face when I told him about catch-and-release fishing. That really made him laugh. He was in his eighties then and asked me why I was even fishing if I was only going to let them go. But don’t think he wasn’t a sportsman, because the first thing he taught me after gun safety was that you never shot anything you weren’t going to eat. So now it was a gadwall, two drakes, and a hen in the bag. Sweet!

What’s more beautiful than a drake mallard backpedaling with his wings over the decoys? That sight greeted me when Will cleared his throat to alert me. I was asleep at the switch there for a moment, busy looking for my little YETI full of coffee. I dropped the thermos and grabbed for the gun that lay on my lap, allowing the bird to get out a way before I touched off. He was escaping straightaway, presenting me with an easy pheasant-like butt shot. I aimed just a touch high to be sure to include the head and was rewarded with a stone-dead bird on the water.

Looking at that beautiful sight of a four-bird mallard limit there on the sand by my feet, I was tempted to call it a day. But no, the birds were still coming and going and it was only nine o’clock. Besides, the geese were finally honking up a storm across the lake where they had spent the night. That meant they were ready finally to fly out and feed. Those big grey-bodied honkers would get up into the wind as they always do, but as I pointed out to Will, they should turn around quickly and head off in the same direction that the mallards had gone. You know how that goes. These birds always seem to agree on the same field to feed in and they all end up there together.

So it was time to switch out my deuces for some BBs, my preferred goose medicine. Finally, the honking seemed to crescendo and up they went. Launching into the wind, each flock came up and dropped the right shoulder to reverse course until they were headed right at me. With the lead flock only ten yards off the water I was ready for the big moment. It’s always about that first flock. Where it goes, the others follow. Unfortunately. These birds slipped off to the side about two gun lengths away and that was that. My luck had soured, but who could complain, to top things off, before I could get out to pick up my dekes, a flock of wigeon caught me moving in the blind with my back to the water and hearing Will’s shout. I spun and wing-tipped a bird to the water. I finished it off with the last shot of the day and I picked up to leave. It was the last hunt of the Covid year and the best hunt. A full limit of six birds, and a wonderful afternoon of plucking ahead.