M R Ducks!

Whose duck is it, anyway?

We'd spent an entire morning in our make-shift blind on the mud flats at the east end of the high mountain reservoir the day before. Yes, a quiet day together outside. "Restful" to be sure. But of course, that was not the goal of the outing. In spite of our pre-dawn arrival, our carefully constructed, fully camouflaged "hide," and strategically spread decoys, the ducks just weren't coming in. A couple times a flock of some other (tiny, inedible) species came and fed from the lake-grass under our bobbing, plastic mallards. But the object of our quest flew by just out of range. As if they somehow knew that 20 ducks floating contentedly in the shallows was just too good to be true.

So the next morning, we headed to the river that feeds the reservoir. As we arrived at the west gate in "plenty" of time before opening, we were a bit daunted to find that we were not to be the first in line. Indeed, a monster truck full of what appeared to be professional duck killers, had come all the way from Alabama to snake our precious few waterfowl from we desperate Coloradans. As we waited in the dark for the park employee to come and unlock the gate at the appointed time, what looked like a commando of Marines were gearing up in state-of-the-art hunting equipment. They might have been here to film something for a Cabella's TV special. When we were finally released into the parking lot, they jumped out with weapons loaded, and literally RAN the mile long trail down to the inlet. Figuring we were surely out-gunned, my dog and I headed up-river.

We stealthily worked the river, hoping to "jump-shoot" some early risers. But just as the morning sun was beginning to peek over the eastern mountain range, we saw high in the pale morning sky, two large flocks of ducks leaving the reservoir; It had been our first sub-freezing night, and the locals were headed south. But it wasn't yet cold enough in Wyoming, for them to send us any of theirs. It was gonna be another quiet day.

Finding nothing, we headed back down the river toward the reservoir. We noted from a polite distance that the well-equipped, physically superior, super-aggressive, Crimson Tide, had set out a large spread of... goose decoys. Ha! Geese don't arrive for  at least another month,! But the spread was pretty impressive, and well-placed in what would be ideal water-fowl habitat. So we hunkered down in some tall grass just over a berm from them, and hoped to perhaps shoot "clean-up," might any ducks accidentally come into their spread, then perchance escape their assault. We didn't have to wait long.

"Blam! Blam" shattered the early morning silence. Then, sure enough, a "winged" Merganser comes erratically "flying" over the thick, riverside willows. It was getting away, wobbling westward in pain, it would soon die alone somewhere up-river. Even if you don't believe in Natural Selection, this dumb bird should have left with his flock-mates, right? Now he was doomed to be scavenged by ravens or perhaps a desperate coyote. Being a compassionate sort, I blasted it out of the sky. It splashed down into the dark river. I sent my faithful, four-legged partner to fetch it. She was born for this, right?

She lept into the fast flowing water, and had to reset her course as the current swept the flopping mess downstream. She quickly caught up to it, but was hesitant to grab the blood-spattered, beak-snapping, wad of feathers. With a little encouragement, she finally grabbed it, and dutifully paddled back to my booted feet on shore. She released it to my hand, just like we'd practiced a thousand times, shook the cold water from her fur, and sat down with a very self-satisfied grin.

Before I could get out my camera for a victory pic, rustling in the willows on the hill soon delivered a camo-clad teen, carrying a very expensive, brand new shot-gun. (OK, so they weren't all huge Marines as earlier perceived.) He stopped on the far shore, taking in the scene. I quickly explained that it hadn't been dead, that I'd finished it off, and my dog kept it from drifting away towards Pueblo. Reluctantly, with all the class and manners you'd expect from a Southern youth, he replied, "Well, I guess it's yours, sir." He then asked, "What is it?" (Not a goose.) I handed it back to my dog, and encouraged her to bring it to him for a look. She lightly gripped the now fully dead duck in her mouth, and swam it over to him. (Yeah, I was impressed, too.) He examined it. Blessed and encouraged my gifted dog. Then, assuming the delivery had implied a gift, he said, "Thank you sir. It was my first bird."

Before I could think it through, I accidentally blurted out, "Congratulations. Enjoy it!" It was time for us to head to church. No more birds seen or shot.

Not technically "skunked," but still coming home without any meat, I still wonder, "Who's bird should that have been?" What do you think?