Every waterfowler has a lifelong story. This is mine and only mine. My intent was to celebrate my sport with what I did, what I remembered, what I felt. My hope is that it elevates to a more profound statement in the end.
One morning,
I followed my father down a bar ditch between the rice fields near Hockley, Texas and sat still. Too young for a gun. Too poor for decoys. Just hoping a specklebelly, snow or blue would fly over low enough so my father could shoot his Remington Sportsman 48.
One morning,
I bought a Faulk’s duck call for $4.95 at the neighborhood Ace Hardware and blew it on the walk home.
One morning,
I shot my first duck — a hen shoveler, decoying into a small lake near Sealy, Texas.
One morning,
I entered a duck-calling contest, did not squeal and came in second.
One morning,
the law said I could not shoot a canvasback.
One morning,
the law said I could shoot two.
One morning,
I painted a duck stamp.
One morning,
I waded in the decoys and watched in slow motion as my Chick Major’s duck call insert dropped in the water.
One morning,
I hunted snow geese in dense fog on a rice field called “Yankee Stadium,” next to an old man wearing a P.E.T.A hat. (People. Eating. Tasty. Animals.)
One morning,
I hunted on a national wildlife refuge.
One morning,
I thanked a veteran with a hunt.
One morning,
I mastered the northwest wind.
One morning,
I watched an 11-year-old Labrador with two ball-less hips chase down a crippled mallard in pure muck.
One morning,
I waded in Arkansas’ flooded timber.
One morning,
I canoed on the Delta Marsh.
One morning,
I passed a school of dolphins on the way to the blind.
One morning,
I witnessed the golden age of waterfowling for just an instant as a flock of 3,000 birds decoyed to our North Dakota field.
One morning,
I broke the golden rule of waterfowling: Never climb a barbed-wire fence in your waders.
One morning,
I grabbed the guns as our overloaded 14-foot jon boat sank.
One morning,
I felt the masterworks of the Ward Brothers and Charles Walker in my hands.
One morning,
I helped pay to save the roof of Charlie Perdew’s old river rock home in Henry, Illinois.
One morning,
I returned to my childhood hunting lease in Hockley, Texas and found a gas station where I once shot snows, blues, and pintails.
One morning,
I bought a 100-year-old duck club — with a storied history of grand hunts with Illinois governors and illegal baiting with barges of corn.
One morning,
I photographed an eider decoy that someone bought at Sotheby’s for $767,000.
One morning,
I couldn’t hunt without my roboduck.
One morning,
I took my daughter hunting and watched her fall asleep in the blind.
One morning,
I hunted with six of my best friends.
One morning,
I hunted alone.
One morning,
I realized I can’t be a waterfowler for just one morning.
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