The Bad Habit

A lesson on unpopular opinions, repeating history, and pulling the damn trigger when they’re close enough.

I’m a hopeless romantic who will die on many hills. 

The third shot is the best shot. Calling ducks is overrated. Public land limits mean more. Almost every duck tastes the same (Notice I said “Almost.)

There’s one hill, though, that I’m certain I’ll live a comfortable, tranquil life on: Wood ducks are the most difficult wingshooting you’ll find in the world of waterfowl, and it’s really not even close.

My friends who’ve never shot at apparitions in the timber - nor will they ever if they don’t attempt it for themselves - don’t understand. There’s probable cause that those friends would tell you I’m the lesser shooter of the bunch. That’s because, in the formal terms we use to describe it in North America, it’s not really duck hunting at all. It’s informal. If duck hunting were the Major Leagues, shooting wood ducks in the timber is a beer league softball game, if the pitcher just ended a Hall of Fame career with the Dodgers and still believes he has a few ounces left in the tank.

All that to say, it’s easy to find a wood duck and shoot at him. It’s another ball game entirely to hit him. 

I know there’s a loud and adamant faction of hunters that believe the teal to be the most difficult duck to shoot, an argument largely based on its erratic flight pattern when decoying. Still, others might find the bufflehead - diminutive in size, regal in appearance, and downright tough in nature - as the hardest bird to hit. I happily accept arguments for both. 

Greenwings, while difficult on the first volley, let their curious natures get the best of them, oftentimes leading to a full three rounds expelled from each gun in a blind. A wood duck, screaming through the timber with likely little interest in your decoys, will give you two shots at the most, with a third shot being nothing more than a fool’s hope. 

The bufflehead, on the other hand, may also give you only one or two opportunities. But his line is often straight, as if he were drug by a string just inches above the waves of the lakes and bays he frequents. His path is straight and predetermined, unlike our wood duck, who only makes his presence known prematurely by the occasional shriek of a hen as she and her partner blaze their trail through the trees. 

Any degree of success I had in harvesting wood ducks was born from necessity and ingenuity, both precursors to what some may call, “bad habits.” Others may say it was compensation for lacking in other areas of waterfowling, whether it be improper decoy placement or poor blind brushing. But, after trying miserably to properly lead a wood duck that would dip and dive through the limbs of an oak flat, I gave up trying the right way. 

Instead, I’d identify all the shooting holes I’d have within range of me, and I’d track the line of incoming pair and point my shotgun at the corresponding hole to which they’d pass through. The entire endeavor, from the moment the birds were spotted to the moment I pulled the trigger, typically took no more than three seconds. The shooting performances improved, and many a shell was saved. 

For the longest time, I refused to acknowledge the peculiarity of my method, believing that following through your target was the only proper way to kill a bird. It wasn’t until I read Bert Claflin’s American Waterfowl (1951) that I realized, in the years before shooting science became the norm, there was an anecdotal argument to be made for my particular style of shooting. 

“There are two methods of aligning a gun in wing shooting. One is

to point the weapon at the moving bird and then swing ahead

of it a certain distance before the trigger is pulled. The other 

is to point the gun at an imaginary spot ahead of the target 

and then get the shot off without following the bird. The latter is 

a very fast movement; in fact, it is a matter of instinct

rather than deliberation.”

• Bert Claflin, American Waterfowl (1951)

Though he left it up to the reader to decide which method was better, he admitted that the instinctual method of pointing was something he had picked up naturally. He also made an argument that, regardless of claims, a shotgun that is being lead through a bird will inevitably stop the motion at the point of charge, when the shooter pulls the trigger. Therefore, both methods result in the same action: A stationary firearm at the point of discharge. 

There’s much to be said about the age of this publication, which, as of this writing, is 72 years old. It’s not the writing itself, that makes it feel dated though. It’s the anecdotal points that have since been fallen out favor (i.e. canvasbacks won’t decoy after the first pass, decoys should skew far more heavily to the hen side of a hen-drake ratio), but I think Claflin has a point here, though I’ll refrain from saying he hit the nail on the head.

There are many occasions where a stationary aiming technique is far more favorable, wood duck hunting aside. There are rare occasions where birds will be too pressured to work a decoy spread, but the sheer number of birds in the area will afford hunters ample shooting opportunities well within range. On a morning like the one described, both methods are prudent, and a master wing shooter would employ both: Follow-throughs for birds passing left-to-right, right-to-left or can be followed far enough in advance to afford a follow-through. Other opportuninities will require an instinctual aim, if birds graze a blind far too closely to fully swing, or pop up without warning. 

Of course, in 2023, it’s a universally-panned practice, with hardly any viability among shooter in the public eye. 

But why not? 

When was the line drawn that the stationary method was wholly inferior to the swinging method? 

Where’s the grey area that both could exist in? 

But most importantly, if the bird falls, does it really matter?