Marsh Madness By Bruce Cochran
THE MIST HOVERED thick and
woolly over the river’s writhing sur-
face, tumbling and swirling in the
cold morning breezes and doing its
darnedest to shield my eyes from
the sun rising above the ridge two
miles downstream. But as it gradu-
ally burned away, the glare from the
water became more than I cared to
deal with, and I angled my old canoe
thirty degrees to port and drew its
bow up onto a mushy mud-and-
gravel beach.
It had been a fine morning so far. I
had launched at first light three miles
upriver in a slow but steady drizzle.
But the rain had begun to slacken and
the sky to clear as I crossed to the far
side of the flow, and within a quarter
Breakfast Interruptus
There's nothing more disheartening than a fine, ambrosial
breakfast suddenly snatched from one's clutches. By Michael Alitzer
mile I had booted a pair of greenheads
from their hidden lair beneath the
brushy, overhanging shoreline. The
first one fell on the rise, and I missed
the second big time just as the head of
Walker’s Island came into view.
The back side of this island is a nar-
row and ofttimes productive little
run, where my brothers and I have
taken many a duck. At the bottom tip
of the island rests a big willow tree
that tumbled into the river a decade
or two ago and which has since pro-
vided good cover, both for ducks and
for duck hunters. And so with the sky
clearing, I eased into position next to
the old tree and carefully spread a half
dozen decoys in the little back eddy
below it, then strategically positionedmy canoe deep in its tangled roots.
I sat there for almost two hours.
But with no ducks flying, I finally
gathered up my decoys and pushed
off downstream, tightly hugging the
southern shoreline and hoping to
surprise some unwitting widgeon or
woody hiding in the thick stuff.
But alas, it seemed every duck on
the river had changed zip codes. So
with the sky continuing to clear and
my stomach beginning to growl, I
angled my canoe up onto the soft
shoreline next to a big cut cornfield
and dug a couple of oranges and a
Thermos of hot tea from my pack.
The warming rays of the sun felt
soothing as I breakfasted, and, when
finished, I yielded to its tenderness
and slid lengthwise down into the
bottom of the canoe, with my head
resting on an oversize decoy. Soon
my eyelids began to grow heavy, and
the rhythm of the partially beached
canoe rocking gently in the lapping
riffle lulled me into a shallow sleep.
But still, I listened for any sound that
might herald the presence of ducks.I HAVE NO IDEA how long I had
dozed before I heard it—the percus-
sive report of a distant shotgun from
somewhere far downriver. I was care-
ful to remain motionless as I opened
my eyes, and with my head still
comfortably propped on the decoy,
I scanned the horizon for anything
that might be flying. But the only
thing that broke the morning sky was
a tiny, dark sliver soaring high over-
head and barely visible.
“What is that?” I wondered, casu-
ally. But it really didn’t matter, for at
the moment sleep was sweeter than
curiosityandI driftedawayanew.104 WILDFOWL Magazine | September 2019 wildfowlmag.com
Fowl ThoughTs(CoNTINuED oN PAgE 103)