Excerpt 1

On the way back to the launching ramp, I thought back on the first time I had hunted here many years ago. The cold wind and sea water had combined to form a glaze of salty ice on our coats as the boat made its way through rough seas to the same little patch of land that we had hunted on this trip. Although the action had been faster on the earlier trip, the hunts had, in different ways, been great. The sky had been full of ducks then more than I had ever seen and likely will be again, if only I can catch the weather right. But for now, success could be measured in a strap full of ducks and the excitement in a young hunter's eyes.

I'll take that kind of hunting any day.

Excerpt 2

Tucked away in a small pocket surrounded by heavy foliage, we awaited dawn on the beautiful Altamaha River. First light fought through the cypress trees only to find a silver mist shrouding the stream so much fog, in fact, that it almost hid our decoys. We listened in awe as, somewhere above the river, wing beats sweetened the air.

As more light brought soft hues of color to our forgotten world, a faint breeze stirred above the decoys. That and the rivers current gently pushed the decoys from side to side. As we watched and smiled at each other, not daring to speak, shadows overhead whisked through the wonderland. Turning into familiar shapes, wood ducks raced low through the morning sunrise.

Two, with wings cupped, rolled toward our small spread and landed without hesitation. Soon others could be seen darting past with a few dropping from the heavens as if on cue. Sailing through the eerie mist, they came from one direction, then from everywhere.

As five woodies turned and started to land, three figures arose from the boat blind and shattered the early morning silence. Three woodies tumbled as the rest disappeared into the crimson sky. It was opening day of duck season in Southern Georgia

Excerpt 3

As Tommy and I finished the chores, we spoke of good times and, finally, with heavy hearts, about closing out yet another season. We looked out at the sunset and swallowed the bittersweet pill of closing day. God willing, we would return next year but, in the interim, we promised to remember times well spent with friends and ducks. We hoped that we had learned well the lessons of the marsh, for there are always shadows on the future of hunters and the wild birds they love.

"Thanks for taking me again this year, Dad, even if we didn't kill a lot of ducks."

Something like that sort of puts it all in perspective.

Excerpt 4

Wigeon, teal, pintails, and bluebills made up the bulk of the shooting for the day. When Tommy dropped a drake bluebill from a flight of ten that had come in from behind us, we had filled our limits.

The drive home was filled with stories of South Carolina experiences and laughter over errant shots at fleeing ducks. We passed the old plantations that rekindled stories of the old days. Mixed with nostalgia, the cool air was filled with reflections of today's Low Country good folks, good friends, good food and good hunting.

Excerpt 5

If you go looking for old decoys in the area, I can only wish you luck, for I have found none during the past few years. The old wooden and cork decoys have disappeared, but one does turn up here and there in the most unlikely spots, like the one I found sitting in the General store in Englhart a few years ago. It was a little doll a bufflehead with a body crafted from cork with a beautifully carved wooden head, all carefully hand-painted. With honest scars from years of travel in the decoy bag and hard use on the waters of the lake, it had character and charm. Regardless of the price, the decoy came home.

If it could somehow come to life, surely the little bufflehead would beckon us to the shores of old Lake Mattamuskeet for just one more hunt. No doubt, it would recall those cold mornings in the blind spent searching the dawn for ducks and listening in awe to the sounds of geese on the wing.

To some, it is just a decoy; to me it is a symbol of our heritage, a reminder of how wonderful—yet fragile—our great sport remains.

Excerpt 6

When Ebby was 94, he made one last trip with his son Samuel to the bay and the islands that he loved. Armed with an old, rusty gun and the deadly eye of a life-long hunter, he brought home his limit of birds.

Samuel called me when his father passed away in 1979. He said that the last days of Ebby's life were spent talking of the hunting and the ducks that he had loved for all those years. It was fitting that he was laid to rest along the shore of the bay, beside his father, in a small family cemetery. It overlooked the bay and his old blinds.

With the passing of Ebby and the other men of his era, many stories of fact and fiction are lost forever. I regret that our children will never be able to hear the old men talk fondly of the big shoots and rafts of waterfowl again. I wish I had taken the time back then to record more of the old hunters' stories. They would have made great listening on cold nights by the fire with friends old and young.