Bacon, Widgeon, and Winter Memories
Alex A.
A hard north wind swept across the rice fields north of Little Dry Creek, carrying the smell of wet stubble and cold water. By first light, Julian (aka Jules), Matt, and I were tucked into the blind, watching the eastern sky brighten over a winter landscape that looked made for ducks.
The birds cooperated from the start. Small groups of teal zipped through the decoys, followed by pintails and widgeon riding the wind. The cold weather had ducks moving, and before long we had a respectable pile of birds behind the blind.
Around midmorning, Jules decided it was time for breakfast. He fired up a camp stove and soon the smell of bacon and eggs drifted through the blind.
"Nothing better than hot food on a cold morning," he said, working a spatula over the skillet.
Just then Matt looked up and whispered, "Widgeon."
A flock of about thirty birds was approaching from the north, wings flashing in the sunlight. They were headed straight for the decoys.
Julian glanced up. His shotgun was leaning against the blind wall.
In his hand was a spatula.
For a moment he stood there, caught between cooking breakfast and shooting ducks.
"You've got to be kidding me," he laughed.
The flock dropped lower. Matt and I were already reaching for our guns while Julian carefully set down the skillet and grabbed his shotgun. By the time the birds committed, all three of us were ready.
The shooting was fast and clean, and when it was over we were laughing almost as hard as we were celebrating the birds we'd added to the strap.
The bacon survived. So did the eggs.
By the end of the hunt, we had nearly three limits of ducks, a couple of specklebelly geese, and full bellies to match our full game straps.
Looking back, the birds were only part of what made the day special. What stands out most is the friendship, the laughter, and the sight of Jules standing in a duck blind with a spatula in his hand while a flock of widgeon dropped into the decoys.
The ducks filled the straps, but moments like that are what keep us coming back. Years from now, I may not remember every bird we shot, but I'll remember that winter morning north of Little Dry Creek, sharing good food, good hunting, and good company.