Hunting success isn't in the bag

I hastily loaded my car and headed west in late September. The trees lining the highways showed hints of fall colors. I cranked up the Jim Croce CDs I've listened to hundreds of times and sang along carefree. The duck opener was on the horizon.

The lakes, surrounded by graying landscape, seemed to glow in the dimming light as I approached our Traverse County campsite. When I arrived, I listened to my father-in-law explain how the next morning would work, despite the fact I'd been up since 1 a.m. Besides, I couldn't pass up cooking brats over the fire.

Under the cover of my little tent, I awoke to the sound of ducks. How encouraging. Then I realized it was my father-in-law's alarm. We loaded up the Suburban, I plopped a tea bag in my water bottle to make "iced tea" and set out to get to our hunting spot by 6:45 a.m. when legal shooting could begin.

Far off in the distance, we could see a steady pulse of lightning in the clouds hugging the horizon. But the wind was on our side (for now), keeping the sky above us clear.

It was great to tag along with seasoned duck hunters. This was my first time. I am a gun owner, and I love to camp, but I never had the opportunity or desire to hunt growing up. Another relative newbie, the dog, tried catching the decoys as my comrades were setting them up in a generous farmer's slough.

As we sat in wait, my father-in-law pointed out different birds as they flew by: grebes, cormorants, seagulls and pigeons. We needed teal or mallards. Though a cloud mercifully hid the rising sun, sparing our eyes as we scanned the horizon for our birds, opportunities were few and far between.

Some groups flew by too quickly to take a shot. Other formations came right toward me, but I missed. I couldn't even get second shots because my gun wouldn't cycle new rounds in the chamber for some reason.

We tried fishing when our second hunting spot was a bust. I didn't want to come home empty-handed. But as cast after cast came back fish-free, my disappointment grew. I couldn't help but feel a bit bitter.

I am told it is common for hunting trips to end with no game in tow.

"That's why they call it hunting," my father-in-law said. "That's why it's called fishing and not catching."

Later that evening my bitterness washed away as we fished from the shoreline of our Lake Traverse campsite. The lake, buffeted by wind gusts, had the same glow I saw from the road the day before - its wave troughs like silhouettes. As I repeatedly reeled in my line bare, I couldn't help but think, "This is fun."

Noah Beardslee is a new father, Air Force veteran, and part-time freelance writer for the Pine Knot News. He enjoys learning about agriculture, conservation, and infrastructure. You can reach him at [email protected].