Bluebills on the East Wind

Mulak Reader - BLUEBILLS ON THE EAST WIND

Here’s one that nearly got lost in the shuffle. I wrote this way back before steel shot was required for waterfowling and duck limits were determined by an experimental point system—a system which permitted a 10-bird bag on bluebills. The story was published in Shooting Sportsman. It is the classic “read piece,” as magazines like to call them: It’s not a short story per se, but rather the story of an event. Most importantly, it contains lots of information that might be translated into a “how-to-do-it article” by a writer who wanted his facts presented in an unadorned manner. I’m a much better talker than instructor, so I naturally fell into this arrangement for my stories.

BLUEBILLS ON THE EAST WIND

           John yanked the starter cord and, for once, the outboard caught on the first pull. But then, after idling roughly for a few moments, it quit when the choke was pushed in. Half-a- dozen pulls and several curses later, the motor caught once again and we started off into the early darkness, leaving a cloud of smoke squatting on the water behind us.
          I leaned forward onto the piled decoy sacks in an effort to keep them from tumbling out of the boat. Overloaded and propelled by the aging 4-horse outboard, our 14-foot skiff wallowed through the water about as you'd expect. There'll be no water skiing today, folks.
          On bluebilling mornings like these, I sometimes think of the pictures in some of the old hunting books on my bookshelf—photos of Gene Connett poling his trim punt out to his gunning blind, and one of Shang Wheeler in a sneak boat, looking for all the world like he belonged there. If they were watermen of hunting's most romantic era, what does that make us, with our aluminum Noah's arc and our cloud of air pollution?
          First light had appeared during the time it took to motor out. From across the harbor, a lighthouse's patrolling beam cut what remained of the darkness. We followed the shoreline to a cove containing a small forest of rotting pilings—remains of a pier that once jutted out into deep water. This was our sheltered bluebill hunting spot. On west wind days there is a rocky island on the other side of the harbor that we use, but with a storm in the forecast, this spot in the cove was our choice.
          "How about the head of the rig out in front of us there, with the tail curving out across the current that way."
          John nodded. "Okay," he said. When you think alike, it's that easy. We had put out decoy rigs often enough so that, by now, we're a fairly accomplished team. It wasn't always so: Decoy cords and outboard motors have an affinity for one another, and there were times when, if brothers could get divorced, John and I might have.
          It's a popular non-theory to scorn decoy rig patterns in favor of the "throw-'em-any-old-way" method. That might work on a marsh pothole or a bend in a river where you might be putting out 10 or a dozen blocks, but on big water with a big spread, organization counts. All divers, it seems, have a propensity to fly over other ducks on the water and land at the front of a flock. We arranged our decoys to take advantage of this bit of predictability, placing the landing area right where we could get our best shot at birds dropping in. It took us fifteen minutes to put out seventy-odd blocks.
          Before legal shooting, while we were still maneuvering the boat to put out the last of the decoys, three bluebills landed. They swam to the tail of the rig where they tucked their heads under their wings and dozed off. This, more than any exaggeration I might make, says a great deal about the sort of ducks we're dealing with here: Nobody's ever going to get a bluebill confused with a rocket scientist.
          Bluebills (In the west they're broadbills, and blackheads around the Chesapeake, but nobody really calls them scaup, be they greater or lesser.) are not only plentiful, but, at a time when most species of waterfowl are in trouble, their numbers are increasing. One of the reasons for their good fortune is that they breed in the barrens north of the arctic circle, so, unlike redheads and canvasbacks, there's not a big problem with folks draining their nesting grounds to build shopping centers. Also unlike cans and redheads, they are not highly sought as table fare—A lot of hunters consider them "trash ducks". Maybe if I was a real lover of duck there might be a bluebill recipe that I could recommend, but I'm not and there isn't. Nonetheless, they're hardy ducks that decoy well, and where the point system is still in effect hunters can take very liberal bag limits. They winter in harbors all up and down both costs, although why they hang around icy places like New Haven and Providence when they could be in the Caribbean is beyond me.

          Once, a few years ago, I was on a tanker headed up the Mississippi. The riverbanks are lined with grain elevators, especially around New Orleans. As we passed one such terminal where a freighter was loading wheat, I noticed the surface of the water immediately behind the docked ship was blanketed with something that stretched back a quarter of a mile or so. I'm sure you've seen pictures of swarms of bees or herding animals so tightly packed that it takes you a moment to realize what it is you're seeing. That's the impression I had when I realized the coating on the water was made up of bluebills—thousands upon thousands of them. They were there, of course, because of the wheat being loaded: Ships carry 20 or 30-thousand tons of the stuff, and although spillage is minimal, even just a fraction of one percent of a shipload of grain can figure out to several tons chummed into the water. (That's tons, not bushels.)
          Just before we came abreast of the grain ship, a river tug passed by and stirred-up the raft of ducks. Old-timers like to talk about by-gone days when there were flights of ducks so huge that they blocked out the sun—It's gotten to be a waterfowling cliché. But the swarm of bluebills that billowed up and circled over the river would have impressed even the most cynical of old timers, because their numbers really did make it noticeably darker. A hundred thousand ducks in flight? A million, maybe? It's always hard to estimate huge numbers, but it's enough to say there were a hell of a lot of 'em. And, as far as I could tell, every one was a bluebill. The sight of them impressed me as few things have before or since.
          I'm not even sure if that's pertinent to the story—I just thought you'd like to know about it.

          When the final decoy was in place, we pulled the skiff among the pilings and made it fast. Had we been hunting more civilized ducks we might have needed a more sophisticated hide, but here in the harbor with old tires, uprooted trees, and all manner of flotsam bobbing around on the tide, we blended right in—The boat looked like just another piece of junk caught in the old pilings. The three volunteers in our decoy brigade had slept through it all.
          When the first bluebills appeared, they were just dots in the distant graying sky as they came into the harbor. On the wing, they appeared as compact birds with the rapid wingbeat that is characteristic of all divers. The impression is that they're unable to fly at any speed but "fast".
          The big flock broke up, with some staying out over the ship channel as they headed farther upriver while other splinter groups worked closer to shore, looking for sheltered water. A flight of about 20 birds veered towards the pilings where we hid. Our farthest decoys, a pair of oversized tollers, were 100 yards away at the very tail of the spread. If this was to be a typical day, some overly cautious birds would put down out there with the tollers before the morning was over and we would curse and mutter. But now the big blocks did their job of calling attention to our main spread, and the small flock passed over them and followed the line of decoys toward the head of the rig.
          Coming in, bluebills seem to be more falling than gliding as they coast on short wings, then their feet and fannys drop and they have just a moment to maneuver before they hit the water. We straightened up from our crouching positions and fired the first shots of the morning. I'd like to report that it was the Saint Valentine's Day massacre all over again, but I wouldn't want to lie, either. We took just one bluebill. And since we also succeeded in scaring off our three sleeping volunteers, more flew away than came in.
          We reloaded, and before the current could carry the lone casualty out of the rig another small knot of bills winged in and banked around, trying, as did the first flock, to put in at the head of the spread. Our shooting was slightly better this time, and a pair hit the water. Three birds down, and behind the heavy cloud cover the sun had not fully cleared the horizon.
          "A singleton—It looks like a hen, though." John indicated a wave-topper approaching. On the wing, bluebills can be very tough to tell apart: Drakes have slightly more contrast to their dark breast/pale belly pattern than do hens, but it's the sort of thing that is noticeable only in comparison. This time, the white mask around the bird's bill was very visible as she approached gun range, and we allowed the duck to put in unmolested. Unimpressed by her stoic company in the decoy flock, she, like the earlier trio, drifted back through our rig and went to sleep, somehow paddling in the current to keep her place just at the rear of the spread.
          Both John and I are decoy carvers, and when we started, all of our bluebill decoys were hand-made. But as our rigs grew to the size necessary for big-water hunting, we resorted to plastic birds. They don't look or ride as well as our cork-and-cedar decoys, but, in reality, it hardly matters—Bluebills seem to decoy equally well to the best and worst of decoys. Numbers seem to matter more than quality, and long-range visibility is far more important than accuracy of detail. Toward that end, we paint the rig "Bayman style", using pure shades of black, white, and gray. (The blocks are painted top and bottom, just in case one overturns.) And, since hens are all but unnoticed in a mixed flock, all our decoys are painted as drakes.
          None of this would be true with more sophisticated birds, but on bluebills, it works. Our highly visible rig draws like crazy. Not many bills pass by without at least a close look, and we regularly out-draw rafts of wild birds.
          During the morning, several mergansers decoyed, but the whistlers that worked the bay only looked as they passed, and the few black ducks that flew by gave us a wide berth. And, predictably, a pair of bluebills sat down out with the tollers, well beyond gun range.
          A single buzzed in from behind us. I was drinking coffee at the time, and there were a few seconds of panic from not having my hand actually on my shotgun. He came through low and fast, not decoying at all. My first shot patterned on the water out beyond the bird, graphically illustrating my failure to swing through the target. He was climbing when the second shot also passed behind him, and out near the limit of shotgun range when the third did the same. It happens to everyone, I'm told. Me, I only mind when it happens to my wife's husband. The duck flew on, then, for some reason known only to bluebills, he swung around and came back for seconds. John put him out of his misery with a single shot. As I said, they ain't rocket scientists.
          We waited for the current to carry that bird out of the decoys, then untied the boat once again and motored out to make the retrieve. The bird was an immature drake. It's always a disappointment to compare any actual in-hand duck with its painting in the bird book: The ducks I shoot are usually gray-brown with unobtrusive dark markings. But wildlife artists, it seems, have trouble resisting the temptation to use their colors straight out of the tube, and invariably paint waterfowl at their gaudiest. All birds suffer from this misrepresentation, not just ducks, and as a result, the only bird books I trust any more are illustrated with photographs.
          A squadron of eight broke away from a passing flock over the ship channel and headed for us. They came in low and fast, and after the shots were taken two of the four ducks that had dropped swam out of the rig, down but not out. I put in a load of 7-1/2s and we started after the swimmers.
          Chasing down cripples can be discouraging, especially with ducks that have the diving capabilities of bluebills. In a big water situation, they can outswim and outdive even the best of retrievers. We use full-choked loads of number four shot in an attempt to either "kill 'em dead" or "miss 'em completely", but cripples are an integral part of the game, and a part that isn't a lot of fun.
          The weather had been worsening as the morning had worn on, and now whitecaps began invading even our sheltered bay. Across the harbor, the beam of the lighthouse served to make the lowering sky seem all the darker. We weren't in a big hurry to leave. We're no different from most duck hunters: A good duck hunting day is any day when we can get out, and we end up playing the hand we're dealt, regardless of tide, wind, weather, and phase of the moon. We had been out on enough duckless mornings to appreciate the waterfowling weather we were experiencing.
          Out beyond the breakwater the ocean must have been getting nasty, because ducks started to pour into the harbor around mid-morning. In the distance we watched as yet another huge flock moved in. They seemed to favor our shore as they came up the harbor, and several stray knots of ducks joined the flock as they worked their way towards us.
          There are times when the gregarious nature of waterfowl will work in your favor; A lone bird will come into your decoys with reckless abandon, or a pair heading somewhere else decides instead to join the party that your spread represents. But it works both ways, too, and there are just as many occasions when several members of a passing flock are obviously interested in your rig, but are overpowered by whatever instinct it is that keeps ducks grouped together. And then there are those all too infrequent times when you really luck out and decoy the whole flock.
          We did.
          There was suddenly a swirl of hundreds of targets as the ducks piled in—overhead, out front, even behind us. It was gloriously exciting and a little bit frightening, too—Some of the shots bordered on self-defense. Being in the middle of a swarm of a thousand bluebills will invariably sentence a man to a lifetime of attempting to get in the middle of another. Or, in my own case, it sentenced my friends to a lifetime of bluebill hunting stories. It's marvelous.
          We put four in the water, but the chop had increased to the point where we had some difficulty retrieving them, and the weather appeared to be growing steadily worse. On the point system, we were still several birds shy of a limit. Had we been hunting a marsh, we might have gathered up our few decoys and moved to a more sheltered spot. But here it became an all-or-nothing decision, and John only nodded his head when I said, "I think we'd better pick-up"
          Gathering in a decoy spread on an ordinary day is a lot like work. In a storm, it's no fun at all. It went slow. I made no attempt to bag the decoys as we gathered them up—it was important to simply get as many as possible into the boat. We were getting wet, and the idea in duck hunting is not so much to stay warm but to stay dry. Each time we swung the boat around, the waves nearly rolled over the transom.
          "That's it." John said. "To hell with the others."
          The only decoys that remained were a few plastic blocks that had been dragging anchor and were now drifting away. I nodded, and we turned toward shore.
          Bluebills continued to crowd into the bay, passing over us in broken groups. There was some sleet mixed in with the rain now, and it stung my face and bounced off my parka. My hands were painfully cold. We had at least a half-hour's onerous work ahead of us; stowing the gear, bagging the decoys, bailing out the boat and hauling it onto the trailer, a bunch of ducks to be cleaned—And all to be done under the worst of conditions. Yet, when I glanced at John, he was grinning. A small knot of bluebills whizzed past us, barely 10 yards away.
          I grinned, too.
          Since this is the end of the story and I've led up to it anyway, I might as well admit it and have it over with: Bluebilling comes as close to fulfilling all the things duck hunting is supposed to be as anything I've done yet. It can be exciting, frustrating, frightening, and plain hard work, but it's always an adventure in the truest sense of the word. It is everything a duck hunter loves about duck hunting. And when all is said and done, how many other things are there left in life about which you can say, "When it's good, it's marvelous. And when it's bad, it's still pretty good."
          Other than that.

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This site was last updated 09/20/06