A Waterfowler is Made, not Born

A lesson on marking the passage of time, being honest with yourself, and the pursuit of a different feather.

In the years following the pandemic, the world has marked the passage of time by a simple, yet universal phrase:

“Yeah, that was before COVID.” 

Or perhaps, “That was after COVID.” 

Those time stamps come along every once in a while, as a way to scale the events in our lives to the winds of time, forever changing. World War II, the American Civil War come to mind. 

South of I-10 in Louisiana, another trauma bares the stamp of memory for those who lived through it: Hurricane Katrina, circa 2005. It was a devastating time for many, families torn apart in the blink of an eye, left homeless with nowhere to go, or dead. It’s a harrowing time in Louisiana’s history, where all levels of government failed to protect the very interest that they were sworn to serve: the people. 

For me to say my life changed after Katrina would be minuscule in terms of what others lost, and some found; While others suffered from the results of the catastrophe, my life-changing moment came in spite of it, with little correlation between the two events other than timestamp that’s seared into the minds of south Louisianians. 

Nevertheless, when people ask about my waterfowling origins, I tell them I started after Katrina, the season after Katrina hit, to be exact. It doesn’t start from birth. I wasn’t born a duck hunter, or even into a duck hunting family. My family were turkey hunters by nature, who passed the time hunting deer until the leaves turned green and the woods came back alive with the shrill gobble of the eastern wild turkey. To this day, you’re more likely to find the Berthelots listening to a gobbler on the roost than you are to find them wetting a line come spring.

It was in those turkey woods of my youth, nestled deep in the heart of the Atchafalaya Basin, that I found myself shooting four-to-six inches behind every wood duck that dared use a flooded pipeline in the early morning hours. It’s unfair to call them ducks in that mystical hour, rather aberrations of the silence that lays like a blanket over the woods before the sun peaks above the trees. To lay under that blanket and wait for the world to wake up around you is an exclusive invitation to God’s garden, a salutation only outdoorsmen and women - whatever their motive for being there - share. 

I started my waterfowling career by hunting wood ducks in the swamps of the Atchafalya Basin. Along the way my high school friends picked up the sport, and together we’ve made enough memories - both good and bad - to start writing about them. From left: The author, Robert “Chase” Cook, Alex David, and Brennan Shirey. Photo by Ryne Berthelot

I’ve sojourned my way through many a marsh, river and pothole in the United States since those days in the Atchafalaya Basin, the sights I’ve seen along the way being the truest blessing.  The things I’ve learned have come few and far between, like a hopeless gambler who doubles down on 12, making a bad situation worse when the queen of hearts shows up at his doorstep. 

I wish I could say I sport an unruly red beard during duck season out of tradition, or because its of use. But the truth is, a razor and time to shave are hard to come by in a 60-day duck season, and by late January, I’ll concede the war. Photo courtesy Robert Chase Cook.

I like to think when I’m on the leeward side of my time on Earth, I’ll rest on the laurels of a colorful waterfowling career, reminiscing on the faces, the trips, the triumphs, the failures and the scenes that comprised it. I’ll be old, bald, and will have no inclination to leave my the comforts of my desk to venture out in the elements for another go at the birds I devoted so much of my earlier life to. My body, old and frail at that point, will be a shell of what it once was, unable to trudge through the soft mud or carry decoys over my now-hunched back. I’ll sit in my room, typing out the prose that oozes from the stains of those memories, satisfied with the breadth of work, both in story and in the field, that I laid down. 

But, nearing the end of my 30th year, I know better. 

I know I won’t go down so quietly, an unfortunate truth of Ryne Berthelot for my loved ones. The way I hunt these birds may change; The desire to hunt them won’t. 

Promise me this, dear reader: Don’t ever lay too much gravity on my words. You won’t become a better duck hunter by interpreting the things I have to say. There are other publications that can teach you all the tips and tricks that will put more ducks on your stringer. This one will not. 

All I can hope is that you’ll leave this page with a new appreciation for the sport in which we share a love for.

- Ryne