Mentors

[MolliesMaster]

Was reading the thread about the "Waterfowler" the other day, and it got me thinking as to who my biggest mentor for duck hunting has been. My grandfather was the man who took me duck hunting for the first time and got me hooked on it, but other than that I can't say he has been a "mentor." I feel like I have learned most of the knowledge through trial and error or blind luck. Somedays I wish I did get to hunt with someone that was a legend or "knew" a lot about ducks, but somedays I'm just as happy knowing I did it on my own.

Who was your mentor?

[12341234]

Money and ego. I don't like to wast time messing around without results and hate wasting what little money I have. It forced me to learn what I could from reading or what I learned while hunting.

[JABIII]

I was was lucky enough to have a father who lived and breathed ducks. He believed that a boys education did not end with the 3:00 bell and did not hesitate to yank me out of school on a Thursday to go on a camp hunt in the swamp or a trip to the coast to get that first bluebill or can. On this chilly school morning he woke me at what seemed the middle of the night and handed me my hunting duds. In those days a young mans hunting ensemble did not run to $150 neoprene kids waders, $200 Gore Tex coats, or space age capilene underwear. My duck gear consisted of a pair of white cotton insulated underwear, whatever dark colored pants I had in my drawer, 2 shirts, and a brown Duxbak jacket. My footwear was limited to a thick pair of wool socks and some of those green Kmart Steel Shank rubber boots. On very cold mornings like the one in question, you simply froze. We didn't have the gloves, fleece facemasks, or any of the accessories that we deem it impossible to do without these days. My only camo was a simple Jones style hat with no waterproofing quality whatsoever.

I wish I could regale you with the details of the hearty breakfast we ate to "stoke the fire" and steel ourselves against the cold, but reality and anticipation dictated that we were in a hurry so we grabbed a few snacks for later and hit the road. This was a habit that I picked up and was never able to break. To this day I can't eat breakfast on the morning of a hunt and get quickly impatient when hunting buddies want to stop off and eat. Too much can happen on the way to a duck hole. Being late to the hole is a sin if avoidable. Unfortunately, a lot of hunting buddies have suffered through a lot of cold darkness because of my "time cushion" when we have a trouble free trip. But a lot of mallards have died because of it too...

This morning my father was extra wired. A massive cold front had spilled out of Alberta and swept across the country freezing up everything from the Great Lakes to Tennessee. A few days before my father had talked to a friend at Reelfoot and they had lost more than a hundred thousand mallards overnight to the freeze up.

Being a student of ducks, he knew that this morning would put "New Ducks" in the area in a massive migration. From experience he knew just where we needed to be to take advantage. As we stepped out of the house the stars were bright and the cold was not as bad as I had expected from all the fuss my father had made. He explained to me that things were going to be changing at daylight and I got the first of many meteorlogical lessons that I carry and rely upon to this very day.

With that grim prediction we loaded our gear in the GMC truck and hit the road. Our gear consisted of our guns, shells, decoys, and calls. We had and needed nothing else. Our duck dog in those days was a Cocker Spaniel who also served duty as a deer dog, rabbit dog, snipe dog, you name it. As always, the cocker was the first in the truck wagging his stump of a tail in the triumph that belongs to all dogs that get to go hunting on a fine morning.

We negotiated the dead streets of Columbia. In the 70's, there were no other cars on the road at those hours. If you saw someone at the stop sign they likely had a camoed boat full of decoys behind them. Some headed out 378 for Sparkleberry while others headed for 48 and the many swamps of the Congaree.

This morning we left the boat behind as my father had opted to hunt a timber hole off the Congaree in Beckham Swamp. Beckham was owned by an old farmer, Mr. William Harper, who had served as a sniper in WWII, and had no interest in hunting. My father had become good friends with Mr. Harper and we were allowed complete access to his swamps and farmlands.

Beckham Swamp is just south of Columbia and is typical of true South Carolina river swamps. Not diked, Beckham would and did flood annually which made the hunting difficult at times but not on this morning. The river was up but not at big flood so we were going to hunt a patch of woods that flooded out of an old oxbow lake. When the water was right a large oak flat was flooded to about a foot deep. The water was right. Summer ducks had been gorging in the oak flat for several days and my father knew that upon daylight, the newly arrived mallards would follow those summer ducks seeking the bounty.

In the 60's and 70's the bounty for mallards was corn. It was poured out of 50 pound sacks up and down our river systems and swamps by hunters in quantities that would boggle the mind today. The fine for baiting ducks in those days was next to nothing and hunters baited with little or no regard for the law. It was not uncommon to pull up at the hill at Old Sparkleberry and see people loading sacks into their boats along with their decoys.

Migrating ducks had been coming to South Carolina for a century to feast upon the rice that was grown on our coast. As the rice culture died, the mallards sought new sources of food in a suddenly bereft landscape. Many, if not most, of the mallards found the midlands. The river swamps and the upper lake swamp suddenly became food rich environments. Corn literally fell from the sky as enterprising Camdenites baited swamps and sloughs by helicopter. Wednesdays saw a run on corn sales from local farmers as hunters made their midweek run to ensure that the ducks did not run out of food by the weekend.

Knowing all of this, my father knew also that the migrating mallards would be tricked by the summer ducks into thinking that their was corn in that oak flat. It had been so for the past few years and he was certain that the logic would not fail us this morning.

At the gate to the swamp we met the rest of our hunting party which consisted of 3 other adults and 2 more youngsters. 2 of us kids were just at the magical age that we are allowed to carry our own guns and the other was about 15 and a seasoned veteran as far as we were concerned.

We traveled through the gate several miles through river swamp and field until we arrived at the equipment shed. Mr. Harper had built a fortress like compound with a huge dike around his shed and tractors to keep the floodwaters of the Congaree at bay. It was there that we kept an old Willys Jeep. ATV's being unthought of at the time, we used the jeep to negotiate the swampy terrain. The old Willy's were much smaller than the CJ's and Wrangler Jeeps of today so we had to make 2 trips to the hole to carry all of us and our gear.

As the adults were needed to put out the decoys and figure out the set up, we kids were all left behind for the second trip. Watching the jeep's headlights shrink into nothingness as we sat and waited was an awful experience. What if they got stuck? What if they forgot us? The wait seemed an eternity to us. We made plenty of prideful boasts about how we would just run through the swamp and find them if they failed to return. We boasted of how no hogs had better get in our way either. Of course, had they not come back, we would have invented many an excuse not to venture into the dark swamp as we were pretty well scared of hogs in those days. Having been told many grisly stories of killer hogs by older and "wiser" boys, we were not going anywhere. To us, hogs meant certain death to any kid unable to shinny up a 30" oak tree. In all of our bundles of clothes we doubted our ability to climb a ladder.

Needless to say, we were not forgotten, and with silent sighs of relief we piled into the jeep to bounce down the dirt roads and into the tree covered envelope of the swamp.

I will never forget the fresh chill of a morning jeep ride into a pitch dark swamp. To the unjaded nose of a boy, the smells were fertile and somehow the air seemed to creep into your very blood. I can't put to words the feeling you get as your blood quickens when you enter a dark swamp with ducks on your mind. Those of you who have been there as a child know that feeling and will not likely forget it.


Upon arriving at the flat, my father issued me my gun. My gun was a trusty old Winchester Model 12 in 20 gauge. He loaded the magazine and told me not to load the chamber until he gave me the word. As he had hip boots and I didn't, he carried me over to a log pile that had been turned into a makeshift blind. I was able to sit and stand comfortably out of the water. The spaniel sat beside me shivering and chattering from the chill of the water.

I was so excited by this time that I felt spontaneous combustion might not be out of the question. I asked my father the age old question- "how long, daddy?". He replied that it would be an hour or so and he slipped off to join the other men who were gathered together by a fallen tree discussing the strategy as if they were going to invade Russia.

Sitting in that log pile I eventually looked up at the stars only they were gone. Hmmm. After about 20 minutes the wild action of the jeep ride and hunt preperation had turned to inactivity. For the first time that morning I realized that I was cold. As daylight neared the temperature dropped and dropped. I remember the men talking about "leading edge" and "it's gonna get nasty". Then they would cackle with glee.

I sat on our pile and tried to warm my hands by blowing in them. My nose was starting to feel as though it might break off. Once while trying to bend a small branch out of my way it came back and slapped my face with all the feeling of a sabre cut.

Finally my father came back over to our blind and informed me that it wouldn't be long. I heard the sloshing of the others as they made their way to certain trees and snags that would become their spots. Suddenly "Did you hear that", my father asked? "What was it", I said wide eyed and wide eared in case he might have heard a charging hog or something equally sinister.

"Ducks", he said. "That whistling was ducks in the air".

"Whew", I thought. "Where are they daddy?"

In a few moments we heard more. That s-s-s-s-s-s of duck wings slicing through the air is a sound forever imprinted on my mind. Soon the first rays of daylight began to glow and the whistling wings were replaced with the cries and screams of summer ducks. The cold was instantly forgotten and even the dog had ceased to shiver except out of sheer excitement.

The booming of guns from other hunters up and down the river began to resonate through the swamp. We noticed that the wind had fairly begun to howl and it was hard to tell which swamps were getting the early shooting. As we were there to kill big ducks we were not shooting the summer ducks that were fairly invading us. I don't know how many thousands of them landed in that hole but it was amazing. Just sitting there listening to all of the whistles and shrieks of the summer ducks was enough to drive a young boy mad. I was to replay the sounds of that cacophony in my head every night as I lay in bed for a week afterwards.

At last my father gave the SSSSTTT sound that meant BIG DUCKS! He gave a low chuckle on his hand, he having learned to perfectly imitate a mallard feeding call by making a fist and blowing into it. A feat I was sadly never able to master. I saw the big mallards working around to our left and as they did he picked up his black Olt call and gave a "yank, yank, yank, yank, yank". The ducks turned and circled us tight as he informed them that there was, indeed, everything that a duck could want down here in these trees. Suddenly, a group of summer ducks dived through the trees and the young hen mallard circling out front had had enough. With a loud series of quacks. she tucked her wings and literally fell through the canopy. With that, the rest of the flock followed suit.

If you have never witnessed first hand 25 or more mallards negotiating a thick canopy of trees, it is a sight to behold. I would submit, that it is the be all and end all of duck hunting. Once they pop through to the understory they are fairly trapped. Once you cut down on them, in the confusion, they cannot get out of range in anything like a timely fashion. Ducks die at point blank range with hunters taking aim and no worries about leading them whatsoever.

It had been agreed that we would let the ducks land and that us kids would get to open up the volley by having at them on the water or on the jump. Then as with now I opted for the water and killed a greenhead that looked to be the size of a swan. With that everyone opened up and our first draw left us with 8 big mallards floating on the water. My father WHOOPED as did the others. The dogs made short work of the retrieving and we readied for the next draw.

Before the morning was complete the weather had turned to a nasty sleet/freezing rain combo. The mallards never stopped coming and I was able to kill my first black duck on that fine morning. As the dogs brought back the ducks that filled our limits that morning, we all gathered on the bank of the hole.

I remember how good it felt to be included in the "man talk" and being congratulated on a good shot was the pinnacle of life at that time. As the men picked up the decoys and took the first trip back to the shed, we boys were no longer worried about being alone in the swamp. Hogs you say? Bring on the lions! We were mighty hunters and no quarry was up to the task of escaping our over inflated sense of selves at that moment.

Floating on air, we piled back in the jeep for the ride out. The men had been kind enough to leave the ducks in the jeep from the first ride so that we could have the singular pleasure of "bringing out the meat" that is ingrained in ever human male even if it is sadly lost on the vast majority.

The jeep was parked and we loaded all of our gear into our individual vehicles. Saying our goodbye's and congratulating each other we headed for town. I was going to have to go to school for the remainder of the day but with conditions worsening we heard on the radio that schools were being let out because of expected icing.

I had mixed emotions about that. I had some serious bragging to do to my partners who were unlucky enough to have fathers who believed that hunting was for Saturdays and after church on Sunday only. That didn't leave them much quality duck hunting time and I couldn't wait to display the pile of mallard curly Q's that I had taken that morning. War trophies. No indian was ever prouder of his scalp collection than I was of those duck feathers.

We had one stop to make before heading home where I was sure to drive my mother batty with tales of my duck hunting prowess. We went over to Mr. Harper's house to thank him and offer him some or all of our share of the ducks. I learned early on that people appreciate you if you will appreciate them. Now that I am grown and have land of my own to hunt, it is easy to see why my father went out of his way to stop by and shake a hand with thanks instead of making a phone call. You can get the measure of a man quickly by how he treats an invitation to hunt. Before, during, and after.

I hope I never forget that hunt, that black duck, that greenhead, or my father educating me on duck hunting and life that morning instead of being educated on who knows what minutia I missed in school. In the afterlife if we get to choose what we want to be, being a shirttail boy growing up in the swamps of South Carolina would just about do.

[GobblerHntr]

My dad introduced me to the sport and mentored me as best he could. He was learning himself. He got me started enough so that when I went out on my own I was able to be successful. Since then I've learned a lot more and continue to learn things in the sport. A lot of what I know has been trial and error from my own expierence. To say I've had a legendary mentor would be a stretch. Bud I would still say my Dad was my mentor.

[nitro5x6's]

Damn fine story JAB. That is what duck hunting should be.

My Dad and Grandpa started taking me when I was 6. Oldest of three sons I am - none of my brothers wanted to be a hunter. The term sometimes defines me.

Still remember my first, a drake Pintail shot on the water from a blind at the Suisun Marsh in California.

[B.Miller]

ShotgunDave taught me all I know about hunting in general. Growing up, I never had a dad around to teach me how to fish, hunt, etc. Super grateful to have a good buddy that was patient enough to teach me the ropes.

[HERRINGBONE]

My dad but we killed deers on dog drives in the swamp and doves in the fields.

[duckslayer92]

My dad introduced me to deer and dove hunting when I was real young. My grandfather and my dad taught me everything I know about fishing. As far as ducks, we started 10 years ago. We pretty much taught ourselves and learned as we went. I have learned a lot in those 10 years and so has he. He is by far my favorite person to hunt with and we still learn something new every time we go.

[Featherduster]

Uncle Phil
http://scducks.com/forum/showthread....ght=Uncle+Phil
I learned later that Phil willed his gun safe to me. Awesome, yet bittersweet collection.

[Rubberhead*]

Life: Dad and, thank the Lord God, he still serves that role in my life.

Ducks: Field and Stream magazines left at Friendly Barber shop in Moncks Corner and the wood ducks in the Old Canal. I still visit the wood ducks in the Old Canal, I just have to pay $5 at the gate beforehand.

[rp]

My mother's father instilled quail and bream in me. A friend of the family and now gone, Bill Kean, got me deer hunting. Another family friend got me on doves and ducks, John Gantt (DHG's father), also gone. Bill and John together and apart got me on my first duck hunts.

My uncle John Wilson of Darlington and also departed, my mother's oldest sister's husband, also did a lot for quail and ducks. He took me to places in SC that Babcock & Rutledge bring to mind. He turned me on to some fine fresh water fishing too.

My dad was there to encourage all I did but he was not raised in a family that hunted. They were from railroad owners and teachers of western Georgia originally from SC & NC with one fella tossed in from New York. Dad sure realized what it took for someone to be a part of the outdoors.

I can't begin to count all my friends I hunt with.

[Mornin Woodie]

When I was around 6 My dad and uncle would take me and my cousin on their annual camping trip the week of Thanksgiving to little pee dee river. We would shoot woodies all week. We did this every year until I graduated high school . I have alot of good memories from those trips.

[LabLuvR]

My dad died when I was 10. He taught me to shoot blackbirds for a pie and took me on a couple of fox chases. After he passed away, my uncles ruined me for life taking me quail, deer and rabbit hunting. I took up ducks and turkey through a couple of friends. If my uncles had not ruined me I would be a rich man today. I only spent more money chasing women than I have on hunting. But I wouldn't trade it for anything.

[ndbrown213]

My dad started me hunting. I been shooting guns since I was 5 or 6. We hunted deer, quail, rabbits and squirrel. I'm blessed to still have him around to hunt with. I became a birdman later in life. Doves and ducks are my passion, turkey hunting is catching up. I drive many miles over the state to hunt them. I will go shoot a small field just to shoot a couple doves. I will get up early as hell just to shoot a couple of wood ducks. Believe it or not SCducks was my duck hunting mentor. I sifted through the bullshit on here and paid attention to the posts of the people who actually killed ducks.

[DJP]

Great read, JAB.

[Mergie Master]

Good stuff JAB. That brought back a lot of memories. My dad taught me everything he knew about hunting, fishing and woodsman-ship. He carried me from the time I was only allowed to carry a BB gun. He wasn't a big duck hunter but he worshiped at the altar of Mr. Bobwhite. I grew up following some fine pointers, setters, rip-raps and drops.

Dad would occasionally find some ducks using a swamp or bottom flooded by an overflown creek while squirrel hunting. When that happened he would take me with him the next available morning before daylight and we would shoot them coming in to the acorns. Those were mostly summer duck shoots.

But I still remember squirrel hunting one bright afternoon when my dad gave me the "be quiet" hand signal and pointed out some bright green heads shining in the sun about 50 yards away in a creek. He whispered that if I wanted to try and put the sneak on them to go ahead. He sat back and watched as I belly crawled from tree to tree across that damp bottom trying to get in range of the dabbling mallards.

Just as I was barely within range of my 12 gauge Ithaca M37 the mallards jumped. I jumped up at the same time.

I can still see, like a photo in my mind, the sun glittering off of the bright iridescent head of the last bird up as it was trying to gain altitude. I can also see the feathers explode out and see his neck go limp as the pattern of #6 lead high brass engulfed him.

I literally ran out into the water that was knee deep to pick up that bird. Once I felt the heft of the heaviest bird I had ever killed in my life I knew I was hooked. You've never seen a happier, prouder 12 year old boy.

I lost all interest in squirrel hunting that day, all I wanted to do was sit and admire the duck. I remember my dad saying I did good and that he was surprised at how quickly I came from the ground, shouldered the gun and dropped the bird before it got out of range. My chest swelled as I told him bird hunting with him must have paid off.

The next day I rode my bike to Western Auto and bought an old black hard rubber Olt D2 call that was in a dust covered box for 75¢. I have never looked back.

[SCmudder7071]

My real dad left when I was 5 but it didn't matter because he didn't hunt or fish. My grandpa started me out when I was 5 shooting then slowly moved to doves and deer. My mom started dating my now stepdad when I was around 11 and he and his father introduced me to waterfowl hunting and I haven't stopped since then.

[mudflat]

My dad was never into hunting but took me dog driving deer hunting on Saturdays till I was old enough to drive. He went for the fellowship and lunch time meal. When friends talked about killing ducks it peaked my interest. I finally begged my dad enough to take me duck hunting and he didn't have a clue where to go or how to do it. I convinced him to take me down to a dirt landing on the PeeDee one evening. There I sat till the sun went down, not a duck to be seen. Around age 14. Had a friend that lived near a beaver swamp that held hundreds of ducks, we had no clue they were woodies. We shot our first ducks standing on a paved road as they would come in. First one I killed I bailed off into the water in sweat pants, chest deep. Mom wasn't to happy when she picked us up as we were headed to a church activity and had to go back home and change clothes. Later that night I found out I had shot a drake woody, yea, we were pretty clueless. We cut our teeth on that one and many others in the Marlboro County area. I imagine you couldn't get permission to hunt a single one now.

[surfcock]

My dad took me on my first dog drive right after the start of school in the sixth grade. Mr. Oscar Vick's stories during those days often were the only thing that could hold my attention when we camped the nights before a hunt at our club. .

I was introduced to dove and quail through my grandfather and great-uncle (on mom's side) shortly after in middle school. I also have my uncle on that side who has continued to mentor me since then.
As far as turkeys go, Willis Jordan, an incredible story teller and friend of Mr. Vick and my father's, planted that seed with stories and by giving me several diaphragm calls to try out in late middle school (around 1994, can't remember exactly when) Not being of an age that I could drive I was dependent on my dad who didn't have a ton of desire to go out of the way to chase turkeys. It would be around the fall of 2008 when I would catch the bug again as I began spending more time in the woods than ever before and looking for opportunities to increase my times out afield before work seeing as how I was working only 10 minutes from FMNF. It was through trial and error and an almost obessive year and a half that I killed my first bird on April 7th, 2010. If I could only hunt 1 animal for the rest of my life, it would be the turkey.

As far as ducks, several friends got me hooked the winter of 2009. I still feel like I know nothing, but I get lucky every now and then.

[YoungBuckTX]

Great read !

My father & grandfather taught me plenty about deer hunting, but no ducks in the hill country of TX. Two years ago, a friend and I stumpled upon a wood duck hole on our club in AL. We shot until our pockets were empty, and then frantically searched for the ones we had dropped in the freezing water. That's all it took for me.

Haha J-A-B-O picture