Speaking of Pintail ducks...
Tumbleweed Wall
All we saw was three or four ducks settling into a harvested corn field a couple hundred yards from where we parked. The pre-sunrise morning light barely enough to spot the cupped wings as the ducks dropped onto the mist covered field. Separating us and the field, the old barbed wire fence was completely covered with tumbleweeds and provide the perfect cover for the two young boys to make a sneak on the field that was hidden behind.
It would be a little over fifty years ago this fall, maybe around 1959 or 1960, that a couple of young brothers arose early one November morning, loaded up there gear and headed out for a morning jump shoot of ducks. The two had never ventured out on their own before. Always in the past, dad would be there with his guiding hand. This was the first of a lifetime of hunts together, the first of a lifetime of memories, a beginning page in a book who's last page has yet to be penned.
Shepard's Lane, today lined with homes, and intersections leading to vast sub-divisions of track homes, was once, not too long ago, very rural, and very much a place that ducks would come to feed in the grains fields after a short flight from the smashes of the Great Salt Lake. Flocks of Mallards and Pintails were not an uncommon sight, and presented too great a lure to just be ignored by these two boys.
Jim, the older brother, would shoot his new Winchester model 12, 12 gauge shotgun and Newt, not yet the owner of a gun of his own, would shoot dad's Winchester model 42, .410, the gun that all us brothers used to learn to shoot. The morning was calm and crisp as we loaded the guns and prepared to make the short sneak across the near field that separated us from the field holding the birds. As we walked, we spaced ourselves a little to make room to move and we hoped we would arrive at the right place to jump the ducks that lay hidden behind the tumbleweed wall. It was our plan that Jim would shoot the birds, if any, that jumped on the right and I would shoot the birds, if any, that jumped on the left. And so we crouched and started our sneak. I still remember the wet grass squeaking on my boots and the silence of that dewy morning, hoping the birds would hold long enough for us to make our sneak. I remember hoping there would be more than one or two birds jump within range of me and the little .410 that I carried, and I hoping I could knock one down. I remember being a young boy, that beautiful fall morning. We crept across the field like little mice and reached the fence, that tumbleweed wall, without stirring a bird...and then we stood up...and as we stood, the field erupted into a frenzy of motion and noise as literally thousands of birds began to take flight. What we assumed was a small field with a handful of feeding ducks was instead a giant field of maybe 50 acres, covered with hundreds and hundreds of Pintail ducks. At first only the nearby birds began to rise, quacking that familiar startled quack, but when we both gathered in our wits and fired our guns, the enormity of the flock prevailed and the sky became black with birds. Jim's first bird dropped, as did mine, and then, my world stood still, the roar of beating wings and quacking ducks became mute...the little .410 had jammed in my trembling hands. I lowered the jammed gun and placed the butt on my leg and forcefully worked the action, ejecting the jammed round. But as I brought the pump forward, in the excitement of the event, I had kept my finger on the trigger and as the action slammed shut, off went the shotgun...and to my surprise, down came two more ducks. The field quickly emptied as did our guns and we stood by the side of that tumbleweed wall shaking, two happy brothers, two happy friends for life.
Copyright 2002, BPturkeys