Got Winter? Not on the Prairies…Yet!

A miraculous thing happened the other day in Bismarck—it snowed. A light skiff of snow finally put a white frosting on a brown landscape in the Dakotas. Duck hunters everywhere have been waiting endlessly for a cold front and some snow “Up North” to dislodge the ducks and reenergize the migration. Up here, our sleds haven’t left the shed, our winter boots are still in the closet and a brown Christmas was had by nearly all. 

I haven’t had to spend time on my 4-wheeler plowing the driveway or shoveling, and while that has been a nice reprieve, it certainly ruined my treasured late-season pheasant hunting. In fact, my buddies who chase deer with a bow feel a little cheated too.

What is extraordinary is how quickly weather changes. Just mere months ago, flooding across the prairies made big headlines; crops couldn’t be planted due to flooded fields, and everyone was just flat-out soaked. Virtually every nook and cranny of the prairies was wetter than heck and set the table for nesting ducks.

See Ya! Adios! Sayonara!

I watched the final flights of birds -- waves upon waves of snow geese, Canada’s and mallards -- depart North Dakota on Saturday with the same sort of sadness I always do. But I also recognized that while we were blessed by a long, productive season, it is now someone else’s chance to enjoy the birds.  

The duck season here lived up to expectations (at least for me anyway). We had remarkable duck numbers early. My favorite marsh was jammed-packed with birds. And the teal. Oh my! The teal…

I enjoyed some of the best blue-wing shooting I have ever enjoyed. Strong breeding numbers, coupled with the appearance of great production and favorable habitat conditions meant we had blue wings far longer and in greater abundance than I can remember. There were days that were simply staggering with flights of teal in untold numbers. I have never gunned teal in Nicaragua or Mexico, but I can only imagine our hunts here rivaled those more exotic locales. While I could have easily filled straps with shabby mallards and pintail, I chose the fat, juicy teal I would relish as much at the table as the marsh.

My November Quandary

I hate November. 

Hunting with Seamus

But I must say there was a day when I relished the month. November used to mean the exclusive domain over (or nearly so) the big flights of diving ducks that would wing their way through Minnesota’s Great Lakes: Leech, Winni and the like. 

In Minnesota, the first week of November meant deer season, a time when the cervid-crazed masses would chase Bambi and Buck through timber and corn country. Which, of course, left the ducks essentially to, well, the nine of us who didn’t hunt deer. 

Almost without fail, the deer opener coincided with the peak of the migration too. That meant I had these new, fat and unsuspecting bluebills, ringnecks and whistlers to myself. Oh, the experiences I had; alone on thousands of acres of unclaimed country to do as I pleased. 

But then I moved to North Dakota and, worse yet, I developed a fondness for venison. In the early years, my insatiable appetite was easily satisfied—I could always find folks who were willing to part with some back straps or roasts so I could continue to pursue ducks. It was a truly symbiotic relationship with no tradeoffs, no pain. But all of the folks who had enabled me as a charity case for lo those many years cut me off, declaring that I should shoot my own deer and that I may actually like it! 

So I went deer hunting, and while I enjoyed it, I had a fairly practical view of the world. It was grocery hunting with a rifle: get a doe tag, kill Bambi quickly (with little energy invested, of course) and get back to chasing ducks. That worked…for a while.