We paddle quietly in near darkness, illuminated clouds casting just enough light to make our way upstream. Low branches hang eerily over the water, and my eyes begin playing tricks. An upright branch seems to move, and suddenly the morning stillness is broken by the piercing banshee scream of a great blue heron launching from its nocturnal perch, setting our hearts to racing. No sooner have our nerves calmed when the loud “kersplosh” of an irate beaver’s tail startles us again.

Our presence betrayed, we quicken the pace, switch on head lamps and soon find the familiar shape of our blind in the gloom. Stepping from the canoe I feel delicately for solid footing. The soft mud gives way at first, then I find it. Lifting my boot, the muck begrudgingly gives way with a sucking sound, and the air fills with musky, organic odor.

I reach for the decoy bag, pull the cinch cord and the blocks spill into the canoe with a drum roll. No time for stealth. Lines are unwound and decoys tossed, hitting the water with wet “pops.” Wings whistle overhead in the gray light. It won’t be long.

Coffee always seems to smell and taste better in the duck blind. There’s little time to savor it, though, as overhead we hear more whistling wings. The dog whines and in the distance we hear the dull thud, thud of the first morning’s volley. The hunting day has begun.

The next flight takes us by surprise, a pair of woodies zooming by with a rush of air through their wings, followed by a gliding splash as they touch down. Their commotion has set the decoys to bobbing and we search frantically to discern decoy from duck. An eerie, ascending whistle betrays their location.

We jump to our feet, expecting the birds to flush. Instead they freeze and we lose them again in the dawn’s early light. A shout from the blind sends the birds skyward. Guns blaze and the air is filled with a sulfurous aroma. The birds wing off unscathed, but there will be more.

The next group is big ducks, blacks, the wariest of waterfowl, their white underwings contrasting sharply with chocolate-brown bodies. They’re high and moving fast, but we serenade them with a long comeback call just the same. A straggler seems to cast a sidelong glance, but the rest of the flock kicks in the afterburners and they all disappear over the treetops.

The raspy quacks of a Suzie — a hen mallard — and more whistling wings downriver catch our attention. This group passes by just out of range, but a feeding chuckle from the blind piques their interest. They reappear, making one more pass, before cupping their wings and dropping their bright-orange landing gear.

For a moment the birds hang, as if suspended over the decoys, wings beating furiously. The shot is called and we stand, shoulder our guns and each pick out a bird. The volley is followed by the splash of a fat greenhead falling lifelessly into our spread.

The morning continues in much the same fashion — whistling wings, blazing guns and burnt powder. Eventually the sun breaks over the trees and the action slows.

I break out the coffee again and glance down at a brace of mallards, marveling at how the sunlight creates a metallic blue iridescence on their wing speculum. The sights, sounds and smells of a morning in the duck blind are a symphony for the senses, and I look forward to the next performance.

Bob Humphrey is a freelance writer and registered Maine Guide who lives in Pownal. He can be contacted at:

bhhunt@maine.rr.com

 

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