Like Lewis and Clark, my brother and I ventured into the unknown with our imagination fueling great adventures. Tall Longleaf pines towered over us blotting out the sun. We discovered sassafras trees and made tea. We found swampy areas that had mayhaw trees. We had a Honda Z-50 mini bike and must have put 100,000 mile on that thing on trails we made in the woods. Mom and Dad erected a cast iron bell like the Liberty Bell and they would ring it to call us back home when it was time to eat supper. Many times we were too far out in the "Amazon" to hear.
We were too young at that time to be trusted with a 'real' shotgun, but Dad had a .410 shotgun that was perfect for knocking fox squirrels out of trees. One day I was by myself and had traveled maybe a mile or more eastward into the backcountry. I crossed numerous fences and was wondering if I'd be able to find my way back. The timber company that owned the land used plows on the back of bulldozers to make fire lanes intended to slow a forest fire and protect their investment. At worst, I figured I could follow the fire lane back to civilization.
That's when I approached what appeared to be an old abandoned rice irrigation canal that hadn't been actively used in years. It's banks were overgrown with trees. I didn't even know if it still held water. It could be great habitat for ducks, I thought, even though I'd never seen any in my previous reconnaissance missions into the woods. I dropped to my hands and knees and crept up as quiet as the congregation during the preacher's closing prayer. The late afternoon sun warmed my back, and I remembered thinking that days don't get better than this. It was a special time.
As I peeked over the levee, I almost wet my pants. Six or so beautiful wood ducks dabbled in the water. My heart beat in my chest uncontrollably. I silently clicked the button that moved the .410 from safety to fire as I raised the shotgun. Truthfully, I was too nervous to even aim. In a mad fluttering of wings, the ducks heard me. I shot in the general direction of the torrent of wings and watched as all of the ducks maneuvered in and around the tree limbs, whistling as they flew skillfully out of sight. All but one.
One wood duck drake lay in the shallow water. In my opinion, it is one of the most beautiful ducks on God's green earth.
The next 10 minutes were a blur. I remembering picking up the bird, admiring it and then running as fast as I could get back home to show off my first duck. I darted around brier bushes, around pine trees, and hurdled barbed wire fences (okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a little) to get back home. I was so proud of my first duck. After showing everyone the duck, I wrapped him in newspaper with his head folded under his wing so it wouldn't break off when frozen, and then brought him to a taxidermist in Ville Platte, Louisiana to be mounted. He is still flying (in my mind, at least) on the wall in my office. He's been flying for probably 40 years now.
Great memories of childhood and my first duck that I'll cherish forever. Fly on, wood duck, fly on!
