A Stick in the Mud

A lesson on controversial opinions, feel-good endings and envying thy neighbor.

“I hate wood ducks,”

Chase said, as he picked up the early-season drake out of a water puddle alongside the North Platte River.

I knew why he was complaining: Chase had a chance almost any given day during duck season to fill his limit of woodies less than 800 yards from his bed. If he wore dark pajamas to bed the night before, he wouldn’t even need to change. 

I shrugged the absurdity off. I’ve heard a lot of degrading talk around certain species of ducks, about how their poor table fare, or how they’re easy to decoy and therefore labeled “dumb.” 

Those harsh sentiments usually aren’t reserved for wood ducks. In fact, I can’t recall a conversation throughout my hunting career that made any mention of a distaste for wood ducks, whether they were on the plate or in the field. 

He’s echoed that comment several times since that hunt four seasons ago, and it chips away at my mettle a little each time. 

He just doesn’t appreciate living in the realm of a wood duck. How many guys would kill to have something like he has on his property? 

For someone who claims to “hate” wood ducks, Chase Cook (left) sure was a happy camper after this brief morning shoot behind his house in 2020. Photo by Ryne Berthelot

It’s hard for me to admit, though, that part of him is right for feeling the way he does. Wood duck hunting is almost a different sport altogether. The shot opportunities are faster. There’s more of a  need to listen than there is to call. Decoys work only if the birds are going to light in your pond regardless; They’ll just guide them more appropriately to the barrel. 

So, when we drove 1600 miles and the 7th and 8th bird of the morning were a pair of wood ducks where they shouldn’t have been, he vented his frustration. We had both so desperately suspected that small flock of being wigeon, a more likely culprit along the North Platte. I believe that to be a testament to the meteoric rise in the wood duck population over the last 100 years, though the Mississippi and Atlantic Flyways have seen the largest boon.

Hunting wood ducks and only wood ducks is as monotonous as it is exhilarating. There’s no “slow burn” to hunting woodies. It’s 30 minutes - 45 on a cloudy morning - of quick shots before the birds have settled into their creeks, sloughs and flooded timber patches for the day. In all likelihood, there’s a finite amount of possibilities of what your bag will look like: Wood ducks will be the only bird on the strap.

But how beautiful of a strap it will be! A drake wood duck in his Sunday best is a sight to behold, the green of his head shining with all the hues of an emerald. His crown of green is lined in pure white, as white as the snow that sits on top of a mountain; A piercing gaze comes from his red iris as he surveys the swamp underwing. He’s proof, in my opinion, that God was an artist before Man ever was. 

As I write this, I’ve come to a realization that where and how ducks are hunted are far more important details than how many birds you bag. Three wood ducks and three blue-winged teal are not of equal value to Chase; He’s spent so many years harvesting woodies under the umbrella of a large red oak tree that shooting three teal in a marsh becomes a much more attractive option, no matter how much more laborious the hunt is. 

I hope for Chase, as he grows in his hunting career, that he’ll return to loving wood ducks. A waterfowl hunter, in my opinion, can’t be whole without learning humility at the passing of shadows in the pre-dawn light.

It’s home for him, after all.