It was teal season, a special opportunity to hunt blue-winged teal and green-winged teal, the smallest of North America's wild ducks.
Teal by nature, especially the blue-wings are reluctant to face cold weather. They are the last ducks to leave the wintering areas in the south in the spring and the first to desert the breeding areas in the north in the fall.
By the time the regular duck season opens in October, a blue-winger is a rare specimen in most Indiana marshes. Though green-wings are sometimes present in the regular season, the bulk of that population is south of these latitudes before the first skim ice forms, as well.
"We do this every time," I told my hunting partner as I took off my camouflage hat and wiped the sweat from my brow.
I know." Doug replied, "I think it's a part of the tradition. Hand me the water jug."
I passed the insulated container sitting the shady corner of the blind, a spot too small for either of us hunters. We gazed across the silent marsh from our hiding spot. Nothing was flying save a few dragonflies. There were no blackbirds, marsh wrens, not even any rails making their jungle calls from the shoreline stands of cattails. There were certainly no teal.
But there was potential. That's why we were sitting out in the duck blind that day. A quick glance at the quiet marsh baking in the September sun would convince nearly anyone that only the most optimistic waterfowler could be anxious about being there. Perhaps there would be ducks there in a month or two, certainly not that day--or so it would seem.
We knew better. At least we hoped we knew better.
There had been teal there a few days ago when teal season started. Most of those were gone now; a few had been gathered by ourselves and the hunters with whom we shared the marsh, most were scared off or had pushed on south towards wintering areas.
There was reason to believe there would be ducks at our marsh later that afternoon. There was little reason to believe they'd be there at four o'clock, but we were there, optimistic, baking, while everything else in the marsh, save a few dragonflies, lay low in the afternoon heat.
The weatherman showed a cold front marching southeast across Minnesota and Wisconsin. Night temperatures had dropped into the 40s in the Dakotas and we knew that would prompt more teal to latch on the north wind and head south. As they passed through the frontal zone into the warm air we hoped they'd spot the marsh where we waited. It had happened before, it could happen again.
"When do you suppose they'll get here?" I asked.
"About 6," Doug answered.
"Yeah, that's what I figure, too. Why did we get here so early?"
"Tradition."
At 5:58 we spotted a half-dozen teal sliding out of the stratosphere like squadron of F-16s bent on strafing our marsh. By 6:30 we'd each bagged our four-teal limit but we stayed to watch additional flights appear from the northwest. That's tradition, too.
Don't' think the season is over after your favorite marsh has been gunned a few days at the beginning of the teal season. Each cold front pushes additional birds from their prairie breeding grounds and being in the marsh just ahead of a frontal passage can insure action.
Don't time the passage too closely, however; get to the marsh early--that's a tradition!
Copyright (c) 1996 Mike Schoonveld. All rights reserved.
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