As I sit in my fish house on a slow night for walleye, I can’t help but feel that familiar itch. Duck season is still over eight months away here in central Minnesota, but it’s already calling me. The early goose season will come and go, but even then, the hunting isn’t great.
“Waste of time,” my dad says every year. “The only time to hunt ducks is our Canada trip.”
It’s funny—he’s the one who got me into waterfowl hunting when I was just eight years old. But he has a point. This past season, I hunted the Mississippi River six hunts straight and came home with just four ducks. One of the worst seasons I can remember. I’ve been waterfowl hunting for 21 years (I’m 29 now), and I don’t remember struggling like I did this year. Central Minnesota hunting has never been lights-out, but you shouldn’t have to grind for four ducks and a goose.
Still, I keep going—because of one season. One hunt. One perfect day.
The Hunt I’ll Never Forget
The best year I remember, I was 24. Snow hit in late October, and the migration pushed hard. My black lab, Sadie, was a big girl. Taking her in a tippy canoe on the Mississippi in 25-degree weather was risky, but we made it to our island—me, my buddy Matt, and Sadie.
It was Matt’s first duck season. He had bargain waders—no insulation and more holes than I could count. While he questioned his life choices, I spread decoys, trying to ignore the voice in my head that maybe Dad was right.
Even Matt said, “I wonder how many big bucks my cameras picked up today,” as I waded through the cold. But I couldn’t shake it—this thing I have for waterfowl hunting. No matter how bad the season is, I can’t let it go.
Shooting light came. The north wind howled at 20 mph. We stood in the cold, 25 degrees and silent. I started to think about packing up the decoys and focusing on bow season. That’s when 10 mallards tried to drop into our spread. Neither of us was ready, but I managed to fold one greenhead. Sadie retrieved it with a look that said, “That’s it?”
I was sure that was the only flock we’d see.
Then Matt whispered, “Big flock to the left.”
Sadie was locked in, trembling slightly but focused like a statue. Four mallards peeled off and dropped in. Then the geese started coming. One after another.
It was a day you hunt for. The kind you dream of the night before opener.
We had to pack up early—Matt’s feet were blocks of ice. But we walked out with seven mallards, three wood ducks, and a two-man limit of geese. Sadie earned every kernel of popcorn she got that night.
One More Morning
We went back the next morning—this time, only shooting greenheads. After the hunt, I told Dad we got eight. I showed him the birds, and to this day, he still doesn’t believe it. Honestly, I’m not sure I do either.
Every time I head out, even when the odds are low and the birds aren’t flying, I think about that snowy October morning. The cold, the calling, the wind in our faces, Sadie on the stump.
Because maybe—just maybe—today could be like that day.
Written by Brett Stack
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