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Thread: Your finest hour

  1. #41
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    I had a great looking beaver swamp that would only attract summer ducks here and there... so I went in that snakey ass swamp and busted the dam. Spent the next two weeks approaching heat stoke while clearing a 1/4 acre and planting jap millet in August.

    Man, it looked great... the prettiest green carpet with the sun shining on it, lit up the whole swamp. Then the turkeys, hogs and song birds had their share, then leaves from the surrounding canopy pretty much covered the rest. By mid October it was dead and the beavers were no where to be found.

    So, I drug a dozen cinder blocks and a shovel a couple hundred yards through the woods to the dam to build it up at least a little. Not a bad dam, it eventually rained and the beavers came back but even through the first week of duck season there was nothing.

    Then one evening during the second spilt I went down to sit a deer stand. Around dusk I nearly fell out of the seat watching the woodrows pour out of that hole. For the next 3 years it was nearly a weekly limit... not always covered up with ducks but always enough to scratch out.

    That first morning, I didn't even take the dog... I took my two at shooting time and just watched the rest pile in and feed, loaf and chase each other for an hour or so. That alone was worth every bit of the work.

  2. #42
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    I have a couple childhood shoots that stick out, but two hunts of when I got older overshadow them.

    One was sitting in a uncle's pond with a motely group of guys that might never get assembled again. After watching the birds come in the day before, and then a long night after I vaguely remember getting into the blind. After myself and my cousin in the blind downed four Teal the Ringnecks came tearing through. We knocked down four of them, and while he was trying to get his gun reloaded I saw a Black locking up right over my head. I had one shell left out of my three, kind of like a good pit stop. I rekon that'll help the NASCAR fans. I rose up and folded it up. I heard a "Who killed that Black Duck?". :snicker: That capped of a night with fathers and sons acting like children together, a ball it was. I wish Rock could dig up a couple pics from that morning.

    Killing and watching

    It has been one of the only times that I layed my gun down. My father and I were down in Mexico hunting with some friends. I cannot fathom going anywhere near there again in the forseeable future. After a week of killing birds in little holes and a long and fun day on Laguna we left for our last hunt. We were on a desalting pond right off of Laguna that Redheads were supposed to be pouring into. Dad and I sat together for what seemed like hours. Around eight am I put in a dip and layed back. Not a bird in the sky seemed like it wanted to work into us. We talked about the days prior and called it a good week. Around 8:45ish we saw some birds heading towards us, and then what looked like thousands making a militaristic bee line right at us. I dropped a drake and a hen in the first drove, and then the boogers made a U. We emptied our guns again, six more down. I want talk about the limits in Mexico, but we got ours. Afterwards I was wading in the old pond picking up birds, and more started rolling in. They were like fireants. Dad and I sat down watched them pouring in like a busted dam. That morning hunt with both of us laughing in awe because of those birds I will remember. I had a disposable with me.

    Not great.

    The edge of the pond




    Ohh they are bad



    another bad photo, I got to get these scanned in better. They were again over our heads. Well, I have the memories anyways.


  3. #43
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    I wish I had a video of Casa de Rojo desalting pond. 150,000 redheads trying to get in a 5 acre pond and me with a shotgun with plenty of bullets. It wasn't fair. In no way was it fair. Mainly because the Zetas will behead you if you take your white ass anywhere near San Fernando these days. It is almost worth shooting my way back in...

  4. #44
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    Quote Originally Posted by JABIII View Post
    I wish I had a video of Casa de Rojo desalting pond. 150,000 redheads trying to get in a 5 acre pond and me with a shotgun. It wasn't fair. In no way was it fair. Mainly because the Zetas will behead you if you take your white ass anywhere near San Fernando these days. It is almost worth shooting my way back in...
    Which one did DU Mexico buy or protect back then from shooting? Shit I had a couple "nervous" times down there and that was years ago. After reading about that bus my ass is staying out of that shit. I wish I could make it back down. I remember a night talking to Rubin's sketchy ass and riding down into San Fernando get a decent bottle of Tequila because the only thing they poured was some cheap hooch for American margaritas.

    * They put dad and I together on one of the earlier hunts. The fella handed a case of #4 lead for each of us, four ham and avacado sandwiches, and two dozen cornitas. It was seventy five degrees with a light fishing shirt on, slice of heaven I tell ya.
    Last edited by Highstrung; 10-05-2011 at 04:17 PM.

  5. #45
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    Yessir. I well remember waking up to the *clack-chick* of an HK machine gun outside my window in the wee hours of the morning. I peeked out and there were 30 or so Mexican Army regulars in our courtyard skulking about. They hit the Jefe up for some mordida and all was well. We were to hit various "Military checkpoints" from time to time down there. Sometimes they just wanted a few ducks to eat, more often than not, dolla bills. Sad to think that in so short a time, the whole thing has collapsed. El Paso and Laredo will be battlefields shortly...

  6. #46
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    Surprisingly enough, El Paso is actually a pretty safe town. Right across the river however...but folks have started going back into Juarez on a regular basis now. Not me though. Laredo is already a battlefield, and it's going to get a lot worse.
    Man and other animals were first vegetarians; then Noah and his sons were given permission to eat meat: “every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you” Genesis 9:3

    "A man may not care for golf and still be human, but the man who does not like to see, hunt, photograph or otherwise outwit birds or animals is hardly normal. He is supercivilized, and I for one do not know how to deal with him." Aldo Leopold

  7. #47
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    Agreed. We need to push the border back to 5 miles south of that duck hole I was talking about...

  8. #48
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    I think we should invade Mexico, take it over for ours, and turn it into one huge WMA. Think of all the opportunities...
    Man and other animals were first vegetarians; then Noah and his sons were given permission to eat meat: “every moving thing that liveth shall be meat for you” Genesis 9:3

    "A man may not care for golf and still be human, but the man who does not like to see, hunt, photograph or otherwise outwit birds or animals is hardly normal. He is supercivilized, and I for one do not know how to deal with him." Aldo Leopold

  9. #49
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    and to think as a 16 year old kid, going to Juarez was as dangerous as going to Wal Mart in North Charleston....you knew you would make it out, but looking over your shoulder was a wise idea.
    Quote Originally Posted by trentsmith View Post
    Honestly I don't remember why I don't like you but I do remember that I don't like you.

  10. #50
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    We somehow managed to get around all the check points but there was one we'd visit every couple of days. The money exchange was like an art form. He'd cup his hand right at the his driver side mirror, not sure who he was hiding from. The uniform would rest up against the side and slide the cash out from his hand. We did have a couple two hour dirt road drives, and some were at dark. I don't rekon he liked to pay them too much. We were outfitted with new vans that were jacked up into what the A-team would ride in. We got stuck on one of those back roads after a hard rainfall. It must have been eighty damn degrees, and the van was overheating trying to make it's way through a 15 mile mudhole. I jumped up front, told him to cut on the heat, and I helped him through it. We were in a damn dutch oven, but we had beer. Everytime you would roll down the windows the skeeters would flood in. Not to mention seeing spot lights of in the distance, a full bladder, and taco butt. I would have to put that ride in my top ten personal hell moments.

    We did kill a pile of ducks though.

  11. #51
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    Quote Originally Posted by quackaddict View Post
    I think we should invade Mexico, take it over for ours, and turn it into one huge WMA. Think of all the opportunities...

    X2

  12. #52
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    "We did kill a pile of ducks though"

    Damn right you did. It is amazing the number of waterfowl they winter down there. Most of the redheads and snowgeese on the planet end up in old Mexico. That right there is one ass of fowl. Add in the pintails, 3 teal, wigwams, cans, and such and you have a paradise. Sandhill cranes by the trillions. And to think, nobody is hunting them...

  13. #53
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    First duck proud moment, 1972, was a James Island spartina grass bushwacking of 2 common mergansers. Think Mark Clark Connector on JI and you'll know why it still make me sad to see it. First "good" duck was killed later that year over on the back side of Riverland Terrace (James Island). Killed a pair of Woodies coming into a brackish water canal. Had the drake mounted for mom's Christmas present, LOL. Couple of AR visits still make me smile. Was hunting with my buddy @ Lodge's Corner in one of Kenny Ainsworth's "off" blinds one PM. Back then, He'd let us rent 'em for $35 and we'd do all the calling. He shows up about 3 PM after his client cancelled and hunts with us. Kenny's a great guy but didn't think much of my hand loaded steel 5s or my Golden retriever - Beck. 2 birds sail in and I drop one @ 40 + yards stone dead but my buddy sails his. Kenny says we should finish up and then look. Quiting time comes and we're walking the levee back out to the truck. I stop about 100 yds from the blind and send the dog down another intersecting levee. 15 minutes later Beck comes back with a fat, very dead, greenhead. Earned some well deserved respect that day. Final smile comes from thinking about the our first hunt @ the end of the dredged channel on the Cache River. Drunk in the Mallard Restaraunt parking lot tells my buddy about some great spot he'd found up from Clarendon on the Cache. Only landmark he can get out of the guy is "go 'till the river ends." Two hours of boat ride, seven miles up the Cache in pea soup fog and I'm cussing the world for being that stupid. Then the fog lifts enough for us to see a little and damn if it isn't the "end" of the Cache. We motor on another 200 yards and hear ducks over head in the fog. Fog is just clearing and there are no less than 1000 birds flying over and around us. We pull the boat up on a point and throw out a couple dozen Hooker decoys and wait. It turned into one of those few lifetime hunts where you decide to take THAT pintail because he's got a big sprig. You can look for bands because there are so many mallards you don't have to shoot just any duck. It makes all of those miserable days worthwhile thinking hunts like this are still there to experience. Made me want to buy that guy another drink...

  14. #54
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    This is the best post/thread on this site since football season started. I'll contribute my finest hour story when I'm not on a Droid. Good post jab
    You've got one life. Blaze on!

  15. #55
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    JAB, I never killed a Can down there, and it bothered the hell out of me. I've never killed a drake Canvasback either. I do keep a pic in my office of an all Pintail hunt, and I've watched ducks in one more place that was just impressive to me.

    * I know they're not waterfowl, but a dove hunt I went on in an area close by would have been the most my most finest hour of killing. A milo field that I could see across, two tall hillsides backing up to me with a gap in the middle, on the side of a dirt road, and with a power line on it. I had an old silver mallard with a 28 inch barrel, and a couple cases of shells. Two mexicans came out to help me. One in camo and one in a moutain dew lime colored shirt. The one in camo spoke broken up English. I told him he was gonna be my bird guy and spotter, and told him to tell the other to kneel behind me, keep the shells flowing, and pass me a brew every once and a while. I swear I loved that place.

    ** Those were fun days, but growing up and hunting with some of the characters around here for ducks and everything else was a ball. I'm happy for being another kid in that bunch.
    Last edited by Highstrung; 10-06-2011 at 01:44 PM. Reason: spelling

  16. #56
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    Good one Dixie Jim. Reminds me of a hunt Murdoch, KT, and I went on in St. Charles Akansas with that old muskrat trapper James Fraize. Fraize had a famous 20 something man duckblind built up in some trees that looked over a flooded soybean field. The blind was inside the levee right next to White River NWR. No finer place to be when there were new birds in the area.

    Fraize was quite the character, as were the 2 or 3 guides that hung around with him at the Bait Shop in St. Charles. We had hunted with them for several years, and made our bones with them after killing the snot out of the ducks when they sent us to freelance places that they knew we couldn't kill a duck in. A certain fishpond beatdown comes readily to mind.

    Well, one morning we arrived and James had us 3 and 12 other sports fresh from an all nighter in the Casinos in Tunica. Every one of those old boys was as hungover as you can get. Hell, half of them were still drunk. The last thing they wanted was to stand up and shoot. A few of them, gamely, tried. To say the boys from SC did work that morning would be to incriminate them. So I won't. Just imagine drove after drove of mallards and pintails piling into that field as we stoop up and shot down on them. Good times...

  17. #57
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    This thread has made me partake in serious comtemplation.....but I haven't come to a "finest hour" conclusion.

    In general, I just want to thank the Good Lord for:

    -The ducks
    -The water
    -The woods
    -The holes
    -My father for showing me how it's done
    -My brother
    -My duck hunting friends and any one I have ever shared a blind with
    -Being born in country where it was all possible
    -The Next Time

    We are all very fortunate. For those of you who say your finest hour hasn't happened yet; it's always one hunt away.

  18. #58
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    Mine was around mid 70's had a cousin that always duck hunted and would try to get me to go. I was 13 or 14 and he was 20 or so. I never would go during deer season (I was crazy about deer hunting) so January rolls around and I agree to go, he had an old CJ5 and it was sleeting and just nasty weather. The place we were hunting was the old greenwood city pond,just getting in there was an adventure. Finally made it in and got 4 or 5 decoys set and right at daylight probably 500 mallards dropped in. We shot six times and had 7 ducks on the water, they left and ducks started returning in groups of 5 to 10 we finished our limit and then just watched. Never hunted out of state but I could not imagine any memory being better than that one. Made me hooked for life.
    Last edited by Otter 1200; 10-06-2011 at 08:49 PM.

  19. #59
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    1979. A bright January morning, crisp and clear. And just enough breeze to sparkle the water in our pothole in the South Carolina saltmarsh. It was 9am, and all we had to show for our efforts was a hen greenwing teal. It had been an effort, too. A buddy and I had pooled our rigs. There were almost 3 dozen LL Bean corks set in little sub-groups around the hole, with a nice U-shaped gap facing away from the easterly movement of air.

    There were three of us. The only other boat in the marsh was across the main creek, and nearer the tree line. Not close enough to be a problem. They had shot a time or two. But the sky was empty, and we were getting discouraged. And then we saw them. High to the north. Losing altitude. Forming up into a loose, ball shaped flock. Their bold darkness in the bright winter sky, their flashing white underwings, left no doubt. Blackduck. And not just 3 or 4. Not a dozen, or even two. It was thirty-five. Newly in from their last stopover. Somewhere in the mystical loneliness of the great marshes of the northern Atlantic coast. Novia Scotia? The Eastern shore? Smith Island? Currituck?

    Their flight lost its purpose. They wandered aimlessly along the trees. They wanted down. The other boat was first to call out a greeting. The flock banked immediatly, searching for the source. They circled them twice, the second time swinging out wide in our direction. Maybe I shouldn't have done it. But I gave them a quick three note hail. They turned on a dime, and locked onto us, forgetting the first set. But being blacks, they weren't going to be easy. And the other boat was pleading with them. They circled us three times, then drifted back across the creek, responding to the other guy's call.

    We were in the bottom of the boat, not daring to breathe. I called, they called. The flock worked back and forth, circling one set, then the other. It seemed to go on forever. The other guy called a lot, long highballs. He wasn't bad. I kept it minimal. I don't think blacks like a lot of calling, and I figured the less I called, the less likely I was to make a mistake. Just three note calls punctuated by soft clucks.

    It became a gritty contest to see who could decoy those ducks. For the longest time they showed no clear preference. But finally I felt that we were winning. They'd circle us two or three times, leave, circle them once, then come back to us. The tension was intense. I was getting tired of calling. And then, high over the other boat, they made a final turn, lined up on our hole, and locked down. I watched through a tiny gap in the palm branches. On and on they came. Committed. About 75 yards out, they started rocking, losing altitude. They spread out. Closer and closer. Then ballooned into the decoys, wings fluttering, necks craned as each bird lowered itself into a chosen spot among the corks. NOW!

    I don't remember anything about the shooting. Just ducks everywhere. I think I might have seen one cartwheeling. When the smoke cleared, and I regained my senses, two huge blacks lay on their backs in the decoys, slowly peddling orange legs. One still had its head up. I couldn't help myself. I let out with my best imitation of Johnny Weismuller. But there was no time to celebrate. The duck that was still alive was steaming for the grass on the far side of the hole. Over the side went my buddy. He chased that duck 100 yards in calf deep pluffmud. I thought he was going to have a heart attack.

    An ingrained sense of morality, or, more likely, poor shooting kept us to our legal three. But I'm glad we didn't get any more. That hunt was by far my finest ducking experience. South carolina public hunting. And nothing to do with numbers. I think its unlikely that I'll ever top it.



    The three blacks are, obviously, the ducks on the left. Huge maritime blacks. The hen teal is in my friend's hand to the left. The summerducks were killed the afternoon before.
    Last edited by GMAC; 10-09-2011 at 06:46 AM.

  20. #60
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    You should submit that as an article to Garden&Gun as well as Sporting Classics.

    Well done!

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