We don’t as duck hunters talk about how long the beak was, keep track of body weight or tail feather length. Duck hunters just hunt the ducks and that’s that. After we hunt ducks we pluck feathers but we don’t as a rule create wreaths from them like pheasants.

Duck hunters that do brag, brag about there dogs. Might be proud of the way the grandkid got his first triple curl over a cornfield. May make note of how that new double reed really sang the high notes one fine afternoon on a comeback call but the brothers of duck hunting I have shot with shoot there mouth off about themselves, the least.

I never sat with a duck hunter who recalled a two hundred yard crosswind upslope shot with the sun in there eyes through the pine trees. “Yeah, you should have been there”, never gets said. Duck hunters talk to you like you were there, because they know you have been there, and you will be there again, sunny day or downpour, but you’re a duck hunter, down to your down underwear.

Once we’ve gone over a days worth of shooting and untangled the decoys it’s over. We don’t rush to the taxidermist to head mount a greenhead. The closest we come to that is to pet the head of a big chested chessie who probably retrieved are efforts. We might scratch the labs ears while we hope to remember a marsh or lake that soared with wings overhead. Duck hunting, just stays in our heads.

We don’t brag about boat motor size or length. The number of quacks it took to lure a flock is no more important than how many shells we shot or didn’t shoot. The days start with steaming coffee and ends hopefully with steaming dogs in front of a fireplace.

Guns get oiled, but they don’t get the credit. Ducks work well with a set of hunters in hip boots. “Hey birds, nine o’clock, you take em right, I got em left, ready”. Rice around the ducks in the lake or the roaster just makes for better ducks. Im glad I’m a duck hunter.