 |
2007 Youth Power Hunt: Day Two
By Avery Youth Field Staff Team Captain Aaron Hitchins |
Passing on the waterfowling tradition to our youth” is a common saying heard at shows, in magazines, and on television hunting programs. To put that saying into practice Avery Pro-Staffers and a crew of Avery Youth field Staffers put together an all Avery Youth Field Staff hunt in central Kansas. Pro-Staffers Zach White, Sean Evans, and Derek Rambo along with Avery Youth Field Staff Captain Aaron Hitchins were the organizers. Zach had the places in central Kansas, Sean and Derek put together all the logistics, and Aaron put together a list of 14 AYFSers that could attend this awesome opportunity. After months of planning it all came together. The first night had 14 AYFSers buzzing with excitement as they picked “roommates” at the lodge, had a short meeting to make some announcements, thanked the people who needed to be thanked, and picked the hunting ”teams” for the first day. To top that off goodies were passed out to each youth compliments of Rob Jepson and Avery Outdoors. Few slept with the uncertainty and wonder of what a freshly snowed on Kansas field would bring them. Two days prior they were dreaming of Christmas presents and tonight it was geese. (Derek Rambo / Avery Pro-Staff)
(For more Journal Entries of the 2007 Youth Power Hunt please look on the Youth Hunters Forum on the Avery Message Board)
Front Row (L-R)- Isaac White (KS), Parker Sharpe (VA), Eric Bragg (TX), Aaron Hitchins (ON), Colton Lynch (KS), Garret Dietz (KS)The morning couldn’t come fast enough, but when it did everyone quickly realized how little sleep they’d been getting in all the excitement. Trucks were loaded with gear, and before long everyone had returned to their dreams, while our guides drove on in hopes of making them reality.
The hours trip south was a long one for those of us still awake, following the back of the trailer in front of us, anxious to get to the field and get to work, setting up a spread that would be the canvas for the best hunt of our lives. After a long wait Zach’s trailer turned off the road into their cornfield, and everyone was quickly awakened and became restless with anticipation. Shortly afterwards we arrived in our wheat field, and Evans’ truck took the lead along the edge of the field.
There was some light drifting snow on the edge of the field but Rambo and Evan were equipped with giant testosterone-mobiles in the form of the two biggest Dodge Rams I have ever seen, so that along with the cold temperatures left nothing for us to worry about as we followed Evans’s lights along the edge of the field. Soon, though, the taillights stalled, and there was a rooster tail of water shooting from under Evans’ back wheels. Rambo kept on the gas and we managed to keep enough momentum to blow past the other truck as it was momentarily bogged down in the snow and mud that was still somehow present despite the previous week’s constant freezing temperatures. Evans managed to pull through though, and we proceeded onwards.
Over the next few minutes the scene repeated itself, the black truck in front of us bogging down while our fearless Texan guided his steed and trailer past the stalling Kansan. The trend became apparent, edge of field=bad, but still we forged on, ignoring of the fact that each time we got bogged down it was worse and worse. Fear of rutting up the middle of the farmers field and an early morning inability to come to the conclusion that we were on thin ice had us dismissing the possibility of a change in direction. We finally reached the corner of milo that stretched out into the field, and though we were under instruction to drive in it we did not as there was almost a foot of snow, so we continued along the edge of the winter wheat.
As we crested one of the rare Kansas hills that were in the field, Evans bogged down again, but we pressed on, our course unaltered by the soft ground that had the other truck scrambling to advance. We charged proudly past his vehicle, taking the lead for the first time in this rather dramatic advance towards the middle of the field. We came down the hill, a brave and glorious sight in the Kansas darkness, our fearless leader guiding us triumphantly forth, his foot to the floor. Suddenly, our glorious charge faltered, our tires lost purchase, and those of us inside the vehicle felt it sink along with our hopes for a successful day.
The diagnosis was fatal, the truck was not getting out. Buried right to the axel, one of the wheels even floated, spinning freely. A few hundred yards short of the world’s greatest honey hole, and we weren’t getting any closer. The charge of the Dodge brigade had come to an end, our manly ignorance having left us stranded. Once we realized we weren’t going any further we began to search for alternative ideas. I advocated hauling all of the decoys into the field manually, but more logical minds were at work and Rambo and Sean decided to load us into Evans’ truck and take us back to the cornfield Zach was hunting. When we arrived we all loaded ourselves with as many of Sean’s FFDs as we could carry and we started walking. Zach’s good friend and co-guide Bryan Boxberger was making trips on the four-wheeler, and he did his best to get a few more blinds and some more FFDs into the field before first light. When we finally made it out to the spread Zach walked over and greeted us, discussing the spread and where he wanted the new decoys to be placed. Once everyone was at work he turned to me and reassured me, telling me “Everything happens for a reason”. Little did I know how right he’d be.
There weren’t enough blinds for all of us, so some of us spent the morning at the pivot of the irrigation system, watching and waiting our turn. The sunrise was upon us, and we were looking forward to a long day in the field with all of the Avery Youth Field Staffers. We were all enjoying the dawn and a few moments of calm when we heard the faint sounds of gunshots, followed by the thump of 70 000 pairs of wings scrambling for air and a roar that we became accustomed to over the course of the day. We watched as the geese that had yesterday flown in small flocks all got up at once, a cloud lifting from the roost so thick that in places it was actually just a black mass. They all lifted as one and flew as one, a flock that stretched for miles, the equivalent of every bird I’d seen in my life multiplied by 10. The roar grew louder as they approached an incredible spectacle as the orange glow of the horizon became alive with the swarms of birds. The flock had drastically reduced our chances for a successful morning, but it was hard to regret such a powerful sight. Disappointment was mixed with awe as we watched the flock move slowly onwards, stretching thinner now, literally miles long with no end in sight. We hoped that the group would break up into smaller, more vulnerable flocks, but they all knew where they were going, and so had we. Soon the line began to stall and collapse, the stream of birds becoming a mob once again as they all began to circle, a tornado of birds with it’s epicenter about 300 yards off the front bumper of Rambo’s Dodge. Soon the entire group had descended into the field, and we were haunted by the constant roar coming from where we would have lay in our Power Hunters, deafened by the swirling masses.
The morning seemed lost, but slowly some of the more antisocial birds began to leave the big feeding flock and would come by our spread for a look. Most ignored our efforts, but those that noticed our tiny little spread of about 25 dozen decoys made up for all those that flew by as they gave it up like only little geese can, dropping recklessly into our barrages. The first flock to fall victim was 4 specks and a lesser, and we watched from the pivot as they saw the flag, heard the calling and locked their wings for a direct descent to their death, all 5 birds being dropped effortlessly. It was this kind of action that characterized the day, either we ignored by the fickle birds that were drawn to the live crowd next door, or the birds absolutely committed, and were greeted by a 13 gun barrage.
The morning saw only sporadic groups of specks come in, with the occasional lesser, but we remained confident that the geese were planning on washing down their winter wheat breakfast with some corn. This coupled with the prospect of field ducks had us looking forward to the afternoon as we did our best to capitalize on the loners that mysteriously ignored the legions of birds in the wheat field next door. Slowly the sun climbed, and with it our tally of dead birds rose. As the sun reached its zenith our trickle of birds eventually ran dry drawing the end to a mediocre morning, made bittersweet by the thought of the successes we would have encountered were it not for the stuck truck. We prepared for the afternoon, Cody Gillette stubbling the blinds to perfection while others flattened the corn stubble in the kill hole to give the birds an obvious landing zone. Once we finished fine-tuning the setup for the afternoon, we retired to relax in our blinds, unprepared for what the sun’s descent would bring.
Some of the guys at the pivot had gone for lunch, and they returned with Rambo’s truck, which two of Zach’s friends, Bryan Boxberger and Isaac Spare, had spent the morning helping Evans and Rambo get free. The liberated truck brought with it 6 dozen more full body mallards, and as we unloaded the 12 slots from the trailer the first flock of ducks appeared over the field, spurring us into action. The timing was perfect, and we hurriedly got the mallards set and hunkered down. Looking out over our foot bags and seeing what appeared to be a flock of feeding mallards a couple hundred strong had us with eyes to the sky, daring a flock of mallards to resist the temptation that our spread offered.
At last the call was given, “Ducks on the right”, and everyone retreated into their blinds, gripping calls in one hand and guns in the other. Those of us who had experienced some Kansas mallard action the day before knew what to expect, but we were not prepared for this first flock of the day. They glided downwards, quickly advancing with wings set until they got close enough to see the 9 dozen full body mallards, 4 dozen mallard shells, half dozen pintails, and the lucky spoonbill, at which point they threw the brakes on and changed their movement from horizontal to vertical. The 9 ducks descended wings forwards, bodies back, and feet down, drifting from side to side as they seemed to parachute down into the field, their landing zone almost on top of 12 young men who had traveled across the continent to watch this descent and others like it. The parachuting birds hung in the air, calmly surveying the decoys as we hysterically surveyed them, the harsh contrast of the green, chestnut and white that the drakes presented to us a hypnotizing sight. “7 drakes” was all the advice Zach gave us as the birds parachuted down, and they didn’t land safely. The call was given, the Avery Youth Field Staff rose in unison and every drake mallard in the flock fell in response. The best afternoon of our lives had begun.
Once the flight started, the relaxation of the morning had ended, and we were having trouble keeping our guns loaded. The second flock was about 50 strong and bombed in swooping low over the blinds without the shot being called. In his frustration, Joe asked Zach “Why didn’t we shoot those”, and before he was offered a reply the flock had circled back, having multiplied five-fold in size. The column of mallards descended, such an enormous flock that the birds at the back of the flock were still small black X’s in the sky while we could see the water droplets on those in the front. As the first birds touched the ground Zach called the shot, with mallards backpedaling everywhere in front of us. “That’s why” was what Zach finally offered in response to Joe’s query as gun smoke and feathers filled the air along the row of blinds, orange feet sticking in the air among the corn stalks. Before the dead birds could be retrieved there were live ones upon us, droves and droves of them, flock after flock swarming the blinds. Nobody could believe the action; we sat transfixed in our blinds trying to immortalize the sights that we were seeing.
A pattern soon emerged, upon coming over the field the birds would slow up, spattering their wings before seeing the decoys, at which point each flock would lock up and glide until they were almost directly above us, to the point when they saw the duck decoys. Once they hit that point they would drop straight down on top of us, bodies almost vertical with feet and wings straight out, heads swiveling looking for somewhere to set down. When they dropped like this it seemed like it took an eternity, we would sit in the blind in admiration as they floated down, counting greenheads until it seemed like they were going to go over us for a second pass. Just when we released our grip on the stock of our guns the birds would seem to hit an invisible wall above the blinds, and would begin to coast like kites back and forth in the wind, before backpedaling the last 15 yards, stalling midair as heads frantically searched for a corn-filled gap in the decoys in which they could spend the afternoon. The flock would build up 5 yards off the ground and with the early birds just touching down Zach would give the call, unleashing the 12 gun barrage that quickly culled the green from the flock. Sometimes the groups were big, and sometimes it was just a pair, but they all seemed to follow this invisible path to their ends.
At the start of the action we had decided to store the greenheads between my blind and Cody Frazier’s, as I have a profound affection for greenheads seeing as how I hardly ever shoot them, and having dead ones nearby is a passion of mine. After the first half hour the gap between Tennessee and Ontario was looking pretty green, with birds piled up almost as high as our shoulders in the mayhem. After one volley Zach was running through the decoys hurriedly collecting the dead mallards that “covered the ground”, and he and a few others returned with handfuls of green to toss into the pile. Zach was the last one to drop his birds off, and when he did I stole a glance at the devastation that we made of this latest Kansas tornado. Almost instantly my eyes were drawn to a fat drake right on top of the pile, his iridescent green head the beacon that had drawn fire the moment before, with the harsh lines of his plumage being overwhelmed by the two bright orange feet that had slowed his descent, all highlighted by a little aluminum ring. Instinctively I called “This one’s banded!”, and every head in the field swung in my direction. Nobody could believe it, but there it was the silver ring plainly visible against the orange foot. Many AYFSers who are notorious for lacking band mojo were paralyzed by disbelief, having finally been on a hunt with a band being harvested. Soon the duck was passed up and down the row of blinds, and soon the excitement was replaced by the question of who should get to keep the band. It was quickly apparent that just about everyone had shot a duck in the volley, and as a result giving the band to anyone because they had shot it was out of question, especially since we didn’t know where the duck was retrieved from in the spread. It was soon decided that the most deserving recipient was Isaac Spare (H2O Ike), who had spent the previous week scouting for the trip, and who had sacrificed his weekend to help haul decoys and salvage Dodges.
The sun emerged and Joe and I broke out the Canons, trying to capture some of the birds with Mega Pixels instead of steel. The birds were so close I was having trouble finding them with telephoto on full, but between Joe and I we managed a keeper or two among the memory cards of images, the best photo being one Joe got of a mallard with a hen widgeon in the background, which I mistook for a drake and killed while Parker Sharpe and Cody Gillette doubled up on the real drake, an absolutely beautiful specimen. The accuracy with which we shot the greenheads astounded me, consistently dropping all of the drakes that worked in the smaller groups, and taking up to 10 out of the larger flocks, harvesting only 3 hens over the course of the day. Regardless of the gun, from Colton Lynch’s zip tie bead to some of the high tech semis, they all did they’re job well. Slowly the action began to become more sporadic, ducks still filling the air but they were more reluctant to commit than their predecessors. Zach left the blinds briefly to allow for good friends Box and Spare to have a taste of the action, and it was difficult getting everyone on the same page. With the sun out the blinds were more obvious and we were less diligent after our earlier successes, and we began to have to work harder for the flocks we did finish.
The geese started moving, and the sky was filled once again with streams of birds overhead, but our focus was on the ducks. Isaac White was relentless with his Speck call however, and we had the occasional single talked into committing by his persistent yodels. The only birds holding priority over the ducks were snow geese, and though thousands and thousands passed overhead we did not expect to have a chance to shoot any. None of the bigger flocks had time to work us before we shot into the ducks, but at one point we had a pair miraculously commit, two beautiful adults succumbing to the 6 dozen TnT shells before becoming targets for everyone in the row of blinds. The pile between the blinds continued to grow as the sun started to fade, and we made the most of a few more groups of mallards before it was time to call the end to the hunt.
What we discovered were figures that were in no need of exaggeration; 29 geese, (2 snows, 23 specks and 4 cacklers) a successful goose hunt by any measure, but the geese were an afterthought to the 60 ducks, of which 56 were Greenheads! As I piled the birds, cameras emerged everywhere, everyone hoping to record the layers and layers of greenheads on the Finisher; the foreground of green a testament to the effectiveness of the full body mallards in the background. We all climbed in for hero shots as the light emerged perfectly, 89 birds before us and 12 of the most passionate hunting youth around us, the perfect end to the perfect day.
I stood admiring the pile in the fading light, reflecting on how this image would remain with us forever, the light dwindling as the sun succumbed to the horizon. It was the end of a day that had seen so much for all of us, a day of firsts. A day that started at 4:00 am, but that will never end, a story told and told again by the 12 Youth Field Staffers that were in the field that day. Next to me Cody Frazier was doing the exact same thing as I was, and as the sun finally relented he turned to me and said "Back where I come from, we call this wearin' 'em out". His Tennessee twang hung in the air momentarily as I realized that he was doing the same thing as everyone else there was trying to do, quantify that which we had just experienced in this Central Kansas cornfield. I struggled with how I would describe it, thinking that everyone here would have an expression similar to Cody's. Descriptions could have come from Virginia or Utah, North Dakota, Nebraska, Michigan, Minnesota, Missouri, Texas, or Ontario, young men of different ages from different places and different backgrounds but with an incredible shared appreciation for that which we had just witnessed. None of the expressions from any of the places could have done the hunt justice, expressing our thanks and appreciation for the sacrifices that allowed this to happen, but I’ve done my best.
