The darkness was viscous. It pooled like water only to evaporate in the high-beams of the Silverado.
We sped down the dirt road. Everything rattled from shotshells stuffed in the door pockets to the lanyard of calls on the dash. The wind pounded the windows and only got stronger as night prepared to give way to a dreary dawn on the prairie.
Ice pellets bounced off my glasses and hung in my beard. The mojo’s swayed in the wind waiting for shooting time. The ducks didn’t wait. Flocks poured into the bay. Landing a few feet from my numb fingers. We scouted this spot for two days and it was about to pay off.
Gadwalls, widgeon and mallards set their wings. They struggled to descend in the building winds. We fired shot after shot and struggled to keep enough ammo in the guns. Ducks were down everywhere. Only 10 minutes into the morning and both of us were out of shells.
A quick trip to the truck put both sweat and ammo in the waders. The sleet stopped momentarily but the wind hung ducks in the air like beach balls. We finished our limit and had everything packed up in the truck by 8:45. So what’s next? More scouting? Or walleye fishing? The best questions answer themselves.
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