Anyone duckhunt here? Its proly my fav thing to do next to MXing. Today was youth hunting weekend in the land-o-tejas! so i went out, hundreds of ducks! Sadly, i only got one, but it was a hen mallard and was quite large. If you hunt at all in general please reply with some of your tips or stories or comments. dirtbiking and hunting are about the most anti-treehugger things you can do besides dirtbiking and running over animals :nener:
Duckhunting, anyone?
- Thread starter RedStreak
- Start date
GETMETOCA
Can't Wait For Tuesdays
- Mar 17, 2002
- 4,765
- 0
This probably wasn't what you were expecting but....here's a story I wrote. I used to be the President of a Ladies Duck's Unlimited Chapter (The Happy Honkers ;) ) This story was based partly on fact...
Dickey Hartley’s Mallards
When Dickey Hartley was eight, his index finger was torn off after he stuck it into the moving machinery of his father’s old farm tractor. At his senior prom, his girlfriend informed him she was pregnant, and then left the party with another young man. In 1976, Dickey’s second-born child tragically died, choking amid the cords of the mini blinds he’d recently installed throughout the house. Ill-fated events peppered his life year after year.
Lately, things had changed.
Bad luck seemed to be a thing of his past. It had been well over eight years since a wayward bullet had killed his best hunting dog, since his wife had left him and then came back, or since a hasty decision had lost a sizeable investment in a dot com stock. At 52, Dickey Hartley marveled that life was finally smooth; his days of misfortune were done, it seemed.
Today, Dickey sat peacefully in the old garage, plucking the glossy feathers off four mallards he’d shot at dawn. It had been an unusually chilly February morning for the coastal California town he lived in. After bringing a thermos of hot black coffee with him from the kitchen, he’d set up the old gas burning heater in the center of the garage where he sat with the dead ducks.
Dickey held a bird in each hand, using his palms like impromptu scales to estimate the birds’ weights. He held each of their dead heads one by one in his hands and said a small toast; a tribute of thanks for giving up their lives for him. Although he was not a religious man, Dickey nevertheless closed his eyes, bowed his head and whispered ten Hail Mary’s over the birds. He never enjoyed the act of shooting the birds, so he justified their killing by ensuring that every bit of their flesh was eaten. Wasting anything would be disrespectful to the bird’s life.
He’d once watched Sandra, his wife, throw away a package of chicken meat because it’d grown old and she said it had that rancid smell. He felt sorry for the chicken, having given up its life only to have the sum of its parts segregated into neat Styrofoam trays of thighs and breasts, then wastefully tossed into the trash. Dickey had retrieved the chicken meat and threw it on the grill out in the backyard. He made sure the meat was cooked through, gave it a shake of salt and pepper then fed it to his Yellow Labs. Now redeemed, the chicken parts seemed less a waste. The act made him feel better, maybe even forgiven.
In the cold garage, the sounds of the old gas heater began to ping and blow lightly on the air. Dickey took a sip of the hot coffee then picked up the heaviest mallard and began to pluck. The old wooden milking stool he sat upon was once his grandfather’s. The methodical task of pulling the feathers always soothed Dickey and he was able to let his mind drift easily with happy thoughts as he plucked. He remembered fishing trips and the impending day of his retirement from the County Water District. He thought about the sweet pea seeds Sandra had planted in preparation for spring blooming, and the last time he saw his favorite cousin, Edward.
Dickey’s pleasant focus on the ducks continued as a gentle draft swirled the teal and downy feathers at his feet then gently, quietly, shut the wooden side door to the old garage. Dickey was peacefully plucking the birds, their plump bodies now barely warm in his hands. He did not notice the door closing or that the 3”ventilation crack he’d created by leaving the door ajar was now gone. He whistled a Waylon Jennings tune as he plucked. By the time Dickey picked up the fourth duck, he’d slumped quietly from the old milking stool to the floor below, his left hand still clutching the pliant bird.
This was Dickey Hartley’s last misfortunate day.
Dickey Hartley’s Mallards
When Dickey Hartley was eight, his index finger was torn off after he stuck it into the moving machinery of his father’s old farm tractor. At his senior prom, his girlfriend informed him she was pregnant, and then left the party with another young man. In 1976, Dickey’s second-born child tragically died, choking amid the cords of the mini blinds he’d recently installed throughout the house. Ill-fated events peppered his life year after year.
Lately, things had changed.
Bad luck seemed to be a thing of his past. It had been well over eight years since a wayward bullet had killed his best hunting dog, since his wife had left him and then came back, or since a hasty decision had lost a sizeable investment in a dot com stock. At 52, Dickey Hartley marveled that life was finally smooth; his days of misfortune were done, it seemed.
Today, Dickey sat peacefully in the old garage, plucking the glossy feathers off four mallards he’d shot at dawn. It had been an unusually chilly February morning for the coastal California town he lived in. After bringing a thermos of hot black coffee with him from the kitchen, he’d set up the old gas burning heater in the center of the garage where he sat with the dead ducks.
Dickey held a bird in each hand, using his palms like impromptu scales to estimate the birds’ weights. He held each of their dead heads one by one in his hands and said a small toast; a tribute of thanks for giving up their lives for him. Although he was not a religious man, Dickey nevertheless closed his eyes, bowed his head and whispered ten Hail Mary’s over the birds. He never enjoyed the act of shooting the birds, so he justified their killing by ensuring that every bit of their flesh was eaten. Wasting anything would be disrespectful to the bird’s life.
He’d once watched Sandra, his wife, throw away a package of chicken meat because it’d grown old and she said it had that rancid smell. He felt sorry for the chicken, having given up its life only to have the sum of its parts segregated into neat Styrofoam trays of thighs and breasts, then wastefully tossed into the trash. Dickey had retrieved the chicken meat and threw it on the grill out in the backyard. He made sure the meat was cooked through, gave it a shake of salt and pepper then fed it to his Yellow Labs. Now redeemed, the chicken parts seemed less a waste. The act made him feel better, maybe even forgiven.
In the cold garage, the sounds of the old gas heater began to ping and blow lightly on the air. Dickey took a sip of the hot coffee then picked up the heaviest mallard and began to pluck. The old wooden milking stool he sat upon was once his grandfather’s. The methodical task of pulling the feathers always soothed Dickey and he was able to let his mind drift easily with happy thoughts as he plucked. He remembered fishing trips and the impending day of his retirement from the County Water District. He thought about the sweet pea seeds Sandra had planted in preparation for spring blooming, and the last time he saw his favorite cousin, Edward.
Dickey’s pleasant focus on the ducks continued as a gentle draft swirled the teal and downy feathers at his feet then gently, quietly, shut the wooden side door to the old garage. Dickey was peacefully plucking the birds, their plump bodies now barely warm in his hands. He did not notice the door closing or that the 3”ventilation crack he’d created by leaving the door ajar was now gone. He whistled a Waylon Jennings tune as he plucked. By the time Dickey picked up the fourth duck, he’d slumped quietly from the old milking stool to the floor below, his left hand still clutching the pliant bird.
This was Dickey Hartley’s last misfortunate day.
Last edited:
Josherichy
Member
- Sep 23, 2006
- 125
- 0
:cool: I went duck hunting with the original NENTENDO system, I even had the gun :cool:
loudandproud
Member
- Jul 29, 2006
- 314
- 0
im more of a deer hunter. But more power to ya.
loudandproud
Member
- Jul 29, 2006
- 314
- 0
mongial said:
:rotfl:
i had to read that twice and then i picked it up
jhodgson-8
Member
- Dec 4, 2006
- 5
- 0
iv been duck hunting since i was 10 and I love it. Also while im hunting ill hear a big flock of geese coming and load some more powerful shells. its a blast
no duck for me, seems no matter what you do to them they taste like liver, some, divers especially, are real strong. I'll pass.(and I hunted ducks/geese from Stuttgart to South Dakota) I've got 2 Springers and for me Mr Pheasant is the sport of kings.I also like going after Bambi with my bow.
