Tales of a Louisiana Duck Hunter

JUST IN CASE

In the process of writing this chronicle of duck hunting, I was one day hit by the sudden thought that maybe people from other states, other areas, may not understand some of the things I'm trying to say. This being because things are sometimes different in Louisiana.

So, in case you're not from South Louisiana, I will try to explain how it was and, in most instances, how it still is; I mean of course, growing up in South Louisiana.

The people of the area are usually the fun-loving type. They like to hunt, fish, dance, eat, and have a good time. There is a heavy French influence because of the many Cajun people who inhabit the area. A Cajun is simply a descendant of the Acadians, who came to Louisiana from Nova Scotia because they were being denied religious freedom by the British. They had come previously to Nova Scotia from France.

The Creoles are also French or a mixture of French and Spanish. The fact that they came to Louisiana by way of the Caribbean Islands and not Nova Scotia distinguishes them from the Cajuns.

There is also a large population of black people living in the area. They, of course, being descendants of the slaves that were brought in from Africa. Many of these people also speak French and are sometimes referred to as Creoles by the English-speaking blacks.

Among the other earlier settlers were many people of English, Irish, German, Indian, and Danish blood. These people were called Americans by the Cajuns.

Throughout South Louisiana the Cajun people make up a majority of the population. They are a very friendly people, hardworking, and always eager to help their neighbors. Having carved what some writers have referred to as a Garden of Eden out of a semitropical wilderness, they are exceptionally good hunters and fishermen.

I have lived in other states and have spent time in other nations, but I have never found another place where I would rather make my home. The old axiom once you drink the water from Bayou Teche, you will always return may be true.

I know I will never leave South Louisiana. Every morning I wake up and thank the Lord that I was born here.

When I was growing up in Franklin every boy of six years or older had a Daisey BB gun and roamed the streets day afer day taking potshots at bluejays, English sparrows, blackbirds, cedar wax wings, and shrikes. The latter we called butcher birds because they killed other birds. My best friend, Rodney Davidson, and I became crack shots with our Daisey pumps. We even learned to allow for wind drift and for shots that were a little out of range.

Pirogues were another piece of equipment we all used. Another friend, Granville Cookie Shaw had one of the best pirogues in town. He also had access to an old cypress dugout. Dugouts, boats carved from a cypress log, were the first pirogues made by the Indians and early Cajun settlers. Today there are very few men who are capable of building one of these boats. It is a lost art.

We often had pirogue fights, in which two opponents would meet in the middle of Bayou Teche in separate pirogues. Standing, they would then try to jostle one another overboard with the use of a paddle or pole. Now, admittedly, this wasn't the safest form of recreation for boys of thirteen, but it damn sure taught them how to handle a pirogue.

We were taught to swim at an early age, and during the three months of summer vacation we would usually swim every day. If we weren't swimming, we are always somewhere near water, maybe in the swamp building palmetto huts or killing garfish with clubs in flooded sugarcane fields.

In the South Louisiana of the 1930s and 1940s you grew up in the land of quarter horse racing, cock fighting, airboats, bingo, hunting and fishing. We caught fish, shrimp, crabs, turtles, frogs and crawfish. When we reached our teens we hunted snakes with .22 rifles. But I guess the big day for all of us came when we were allowed to own our first shotgun. I had been hunting with a shotgun since I was eight, but I became owner of my first one when I was thirteen. I hunted ducks for the first time that same year and I've been at it ever since.

We called scaups dos gris; shovelers were spoonbills; gadwalls were gray ducks; black ducks were summer mallards; and, of course, coots were pule d'eaus. We're still calling them that, and we're still hunting them just like we always did. I hope you enjoy reading about it.

THE FIRST ONE (1943)

I was sitting on the front steps of the Opera House Theatre on Main Street in Franklin, Louisiana, a few days after Christmas in 1943 when Rodney Davidson walked up and asked this simple question: You wanna' go duck hunting tomorrow, Dee?

Where? I asked in return.

In Jackson Marsh - I got an outboard motor for Christmas and I borrowed a skiff from a trapper on Yellow Bayou. We'll have to leave early, but we'll kill plenty ducks, Rodney explained, with all the authority in his voice that a boy fifteen uses when talking to a child of thirteen.

Well, yes - I'll go, I replied, sort of in doubt, because I had never been duck hunting in all my thirteen years and I began to wonder whether I could hit those fast-moving waterfowl that I had heard all the old-timers talking about.

Wear your hip boots, warm clothes, and bring your gun and plenty shells. I'll bring everything else we'll need. I'll come by for you at four o'clock, said Rodney, and he turned and walked away.

I sat there on those steps a long time and tried to get a picture in my mind of what duck hunting would really be like. I wondered if I would like it; I wondered if I would be a good duck hunter. I had been shooting guns since I was five years old, when I was given a Daisey BB gun for my birthday.

I thought back to a day when I was eight and my father stood me on the bed of a pickup truck, pointed to a butcher bird on a power line, put a twelve-gauge shotgun in my hands, and said, Knock that bird down.

I took a careful aim and pulled the trigger. I saw the bird fall as I was on the way down to the bed of that truck. My father laughed as I got back on my feet again, but I didn't think it was funny a damned bit and I swore that day that no gun would ever kick me on my rear again. I killed my first dove on the fly that year with a twenty-gauge Model 12 pump.

Still sitting there on the steps of the Opera House, I thought abut the winter afternoon when I had reached the age of eleven and I walked up with my father on two beautiful pointers as they held a covey pinned at the edge of a small wooded area in a sugarcane field. When the birds flushed I knocked two of them down and my father bagged one. That was a day I will never forget. It was on December 7, 1941.

My father was a good bird hunter, but he never hunted ducks. He didn't like the marshes, didn't like the swamps, and he had a deadly fear of snakes. He was strictly a highland hunter and that was the reason I had never been duck hunting in all my thirteen years.

I left Main Street, walked the one block to my home, and started getting my gear together for the hunt in Jackson Marsh. I didn't sleep an hour that night because of the overwhelming anxiety that wracked my youthful mind, but I was ready to go when Rodney drove up in his father's '41 Mercury.

During the fifteen-mile drive to Yellow Bayou, Rodney told me of the previous duck hunts he had made and he also made a point of letting me know that he knew all the finer points of bringing 'em in, knocking 'em down, and getting 'em home. I sat there listening to him and looking at him with that duck call hung around his neck and all my anxiety seemed to vanish. I would just do what Rodney said and everything would work out all right.

We turned off the black-topped highway and onto the shell road that led to Yellow Bayou. In a matter of minutes, the shell road ended and we parked the car, unloaded our gear, and walked down a dirt road to the east bank of Yellow Bayou. The little bayou cut its path through a typical coastal marsh, but along its banks there stood beautiful moss-draped, but stunted, live oak trees, somewhat similar to the ones found on the chenieres in the marshes of Southwest Louisiana.

Through the darkness I could see that the foliage of the small oaks draping the path we followed lent the effect of walking through a tunnel, as we trudged on through the mud toward the trapper's camp. There we would find our cypress skiff that we would use to complete our journey to Jackson Marsh.

Upon reaching the camp I saw the skiff in the bayou, and the reflections of the moon danced upon Rodney's new motor, which was stoutly attached onto its transom. We loaded our guns, the decoys, and other gear into the little boat and set out toward our destination, in an attempt to beat the rising sun. Rodney guided the skiff through the many bends in Yellow Bayou and on into the salty waters of East Cote Blanche Bay.

The bay was made choppy by a moderate wind from the south, but the little motor brought us on until we reached our landing point, which was marked by a small grove of willows that stood some twenty yards above the beach. Rodney shut off the motor and we dropped the anchor and secured it in the sand and silt that lay beneath the waters of East Cote Blanche Bay.

To compensate for the outgoing tide we left the skiff anchored some way out from the beach in order that we would not find it high and dry upon our return from the hunt.

As the sun began its ascent over the eastern horizon, we gathered our gear and waded toward the beach through the shallow waters of the bay.

We'd better hurry, Dee, said Rodney; sun's coming up fast.

We hit the beach in record time and Rodney led the way into the Jackson Mrash that I had never before seen. I followed him across the murky beach and into a thick growth of roseau grass that stood directly behind the store. As we walked on we entered the marsh that was known far and wide as one of the best winter duck habitats in South Louisiana.

Each step I took seemed to sink deeper into the mass of humus and decayed vegetation that lay beneath my feet. There were small islands of solid ground that supported my weight and there were deep watery holes that seemed to have no bottom, but I followed Rodney along the trail he cut through the tall grass that engulfed us and finally we reached a small pond. In the center of this shallow lake I could see a large pole, to which several pirogues were tied.

We'll use this pirogue, said Rodney; put your stuff in it and let's get started. We've got a short way to go yet.

He was right, the distance was not long, but it was trying. Rodney was a pretty big boy. In fact, he weighed in at two hundred and twenty-five pounds, and when he distributed his body weight into the stern of the pirogue the bow automatically climbed several inches above the water surface of Jackson Marsh. From my lofty perch, I attempted to push the little boat forward toward the duck blind, using the short push pole that I had found in the boat, but I was having trouble reaching the bottom of the pond. Rodney sat in the stern with a longer push pole, and as he grunted and pushed, the pirogue inched forward a very short distance.

Come on, Dee - push! he said, with a tinge of irritation coming through in his voice.

Move you big butt forward and maybe I'll come down out of the sky so I can reach bottom with my pole, I shot back.

I felt the boat shift a little as it leveled off and our forward progress increased 1000 percent. We made our way through a large marsh lake laced with hundreds of tiny islands. Dawn was beginning to interrupt the darkness, and I could see the golden color of the tall marsh grass that grew on the minute parcels of land that surrounded us. It was in this tall vegetation that we buried our pirogue when we reached the island on which the blind stood.

Hurriedly we crossed the island on foot, and I knelt on the soft floor of the blind as Rodney waded out into the pond and carefully set out his twenty decoys. He used the fish-hook pattern he had seen illustrated in the last issue of Field and Stream.

The blind was nothing more than a small clearing in the thick marsh grass, but it hid us completely and it blended perfectly with the surrounding terrain. Little did we think, back there in 1943, that the day would come when these natural blinds would soon disappear completely from Jackson Marsh.

As we kneeled there, loaded our guns and waited, the marsh was quiet except for the sound of a trapper's outboard a half mile away and the whistle of wings to my right and I peered up over the yellow grass and stared straight into a flight of decoying mallards that had slipped in on us from the east. Chills went up my spine and my heart beat rapidly as the beautiful birds flared and sped away from the range of our guns.

When you hear wings like that, Dee, don't never look up. A duck can see the whites of your eyes a mile away. Pull your cap down over your face and be still. I'll tell you when to shoot, Rodney said.

He was irritated again, but before he had finished speaking I heard more whistling wings. I froze and looked out the corner of my eye at Rodney. He was hunched over and peering through the voids in the marsh grass.

Okay, Rodney mumbled softly, as he jumped to his feet and blasted away at another flight of mallards that were dropping their feet into the bobbing decoys. I stood and brought my gun to my shoulder, but mallards fly fast and they were well out of the range of my little twenty-gauge double.

One drake lay in the decoys, and Rodney told me another one had gone down about twenty yards behind our blind. He suggested that I walk to the back of the small island and see if I could see the duck in the water. I laid my gun down on top of some matted grass and started on my errand. As I reached the other side of the island I saw the second duck floating on the surface of the water some thirty yards off the shore.

I walked to the hidden pirogue, slid it into the water, and poled toward the dead mallard. Another shot rang out from our blind and I heard a thud as another green head landed on a large mud flat that projected from the south edge of the island. I retrieved the floating drake and poled the pirogue to the mud flat.

My first step broke through the soft mud, and I sank to the very top of my hip boot. My second step was not quite as bad but I felt every muscle in my back pull as I flexed my knees forward and used them to free my sunken feet with each step I made on my third retrieve.

As my fingers stretched out and I touched the duck, a flight of green winged teal buzzd me and almost knocked the cap off my head. I thought about my little double lying in the blind. Lesson number two in the an of duck hunting had been implanted in my youthful mind.

After I hid the pirogue again I walked back to the blind and laid the three greenheads at Rodney's feet like a good retriever. I checked my gun barrels for mud and assumed my kneeling position in our little hiding place. Next time I'd be ready to shoot.

Rodney put this call to his mouth and gave a few chuckles of his best bird call, and I saw his eyes following a flight of circling mallards, I felt both triggers with my fingers and held my breath as I followed the flight and watched them come in low and set their wings over our decoys. Rodney and I went up together this time, and one of my two shots dropped a drake. Rodney's three blasts from his twelve-gauge pump dropped a hen and another drake.

As quick as we loaded our guns a flight of teal hit lit in our decoys and we jumped up and shot as they left the water. Rodney brought down two and I bagged one. This time I was happy to resume my retrieving duties, and I forgave Rodney for all the impatience that I sensed my presence had caused him, while introducing me to the art of duck hunting.

I killed three ducks that day and Rodney finished the hunt with the limit. When I think back to that mild winter day in 1943, I fully realize that Rodney's shooting was quite exceptional for a boy of fifteen, but his greatest accomplishment was that of introducing a thirteen-year old to the dedicated sport of duck hunting.

As we left Jackson Marsh that day, I somehow knew that I would return to that exciting section of marshland many times in the future.

GRANDPA'S GUN

          I climbed into the old dark attic;

something drew me there.

          Through dust and cobwebs nd broken furniture,

I placed each footstep with gentle care.

          Between thick joists of old red cypress,

amid papers from yesteryear,

          lay a piece of heritage,

which I held so dear.

          Its wood and steel were dulled by time,

but its new life had them begun,

          for in my hands I held with pride

my old grandfather's gun.

          Though gone for years, I knew

Grandpa would never disagree,

          if my aim in life was to shoot that gun as

true and straight as he.

TRAPPER BROOKS

During the summers of 1950 and 1951 I frequently hunted frogs and alligators with Frank Brooks, a black man who made his living in the swamps and marshes of St. Mary Parish. Having roamed these same wetlands since I was old enough to carry a BB gun, I thought I knew just about all there was to know about those prolific hunting grounds. After hunting with Brooks for two years, I was surprised to learn how very little I really did know. I had cooked the meat, but didn't make the gravy.

Frank Brooks was not the best shot I've ever seen, nor was he a superfine hunter. He was, however, without a doubt, the finest woodsman I have ever known. He could travel a swamp at night like the navigator fo a supersonic bomber equipped with the latest radar instruments. Time after time we would walk into a swamp on the darkest of nights, meander for miles in every direction, and come out over the same footprints that we made when we entered.

Brooks once told me that he started trapping when he was a boy. I was born in 1903 on Susie Plantation; my daddy worked in the cane fields, he said. "But every year, a few weeks before Christmas, he would go in th woods and set traps. He would use the money he made trapping to buy Christmas toys. I watched what he did and I said to myself, 'If he can do it, I can do it, too.' I started trapping and hunting, and I been doing it ever since.

I set traps in the winter and I hunted frogs and gators in the summer. The Lord was good to me, and I always seemed to be able to make a living. I very seldom had to work for another man, but when I did, I always gave him a good days work.

Whenever I think of Frank Brooks, there is a particular incident that will inevitably come to mind. It happened on a sultry night in June of 1951. Brooks, Bill Howe, and I had made a very successful frog hunt deep into the Maryland Swamp, at an area known as Little Marsh.

We were walking out of the swamp along the bank of an old pull-boat run, single file, with Brooks in the lead. The ground was hard beneath our feet and we walking at a fairly rapid pace, when he suddenly came to a dead halt. Walking closely behind, I bumped into him before I could stop.

The first thought that flashed across my mind was canebreak rattler, but I managed to ask, What's the matter?

I missed my mark, Brooks uttered, as he slowly turned, took two steps backward, reached into a bush that grew along the side of our trail and pulled out a small broken limb. That, of course, was his mark, I mean the one that he had made on the way in. This way, he said.

We left the bank of the pull-boat run at that point, took a new direction through the flooded swamp, and came out into the sugarcane field at the very spot from which we had entered.

I guess Frank Brooks has spent almost half of his living hours in the swamps and marhses. He was always a walking book of knowledge