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This article appeared in Jan 2002 issue of Wildfowl Magazine
Wild rice is a powerful
attractant, and a successful crop virtually guarantees the area will hold
birds. But they came even in years when yields are low. Seeing the river as
it winds through the forest, its sheltering backwaters, bays and welcoming
tributaries, tell you this is a premier duck staging area. Ample gourmet
food, cover and myriad places to settle for the day draw the migrants to an
area where the only disruptions come from boating moose hunters, the
occasional die-hard autumn walleye angler and Peter Martin. For a few hours
each day he, his clients and a good dog lie in wait.On
my first morning, Peter buzzed the miles of river looking for a quiet bay
where big flocks were feeding. He put the birds to flight, set the decoys,
hacked down a few shrubs and built a shore blind, then concealed his big
aluminum boat and motor, and we waited. By the time the last touches were
applied to the boat, the first of the returning ducks were wheeling overhead.
In two's, threes and more they came, eager to enjoy a second course of ripe
rice. By my side sat an alert, perfectly trained, steady retriever. At the
shot he didn't blink When sent for the bird, his line was arrow-straight and
the return identical. These dogs knew their job and did it with happy
precision. From above a twisting tributary
we spotted a small flock, heading for the river and our setup. At the shot,
one fell with a badly broken wing and mortal wounds. Peter's Lab watched. We
moved quickly to the opposite shore and Dr. Martin jumped out, called his dog
to his side, lined him up and he was away. A swift search came up empty. One
whistle blast and the Lab sat 40 yards out, took a hand signal then went
deeper and farther into the bank brush. Silence. Moments later he appeared,
duck in mouth, entered the creek and swam powerfully toward us. The delivery
was perfect. In the fog the next morning we could not see six feet ahead but luckily found the channel through the reeds on a small lake outside town. A half-dozen decoys floated off a point facing the rice-ringed late. To our right was an attractive bay. Ducks whistled overhead unseen while more quacked insistent greetings from the fog-bound northern lake. We couldn't see to shoot. A pack of timber wolves began howling in the forest behind our blind, an experience that few waterfowlers have on a September morn. Gradually the fog burned off ands we gave our retrievers some work, watched a golden eagle check out the decoys, then Peter took me exploring on back bays, a couple of nearby lakes and a D.U. project. There were birds everywhere and other than our own, there were no other human sounds, not even an intercontinental jet at 45,000 feet. We were in a vast and lonely land virtually unknown to all but a handful of lucky waterfowl hunters.
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