 Reflecting upon the beautiful, aero-agile baldpate, my mind casts
back to a cold November morning from my youth. A friend and I hit
the slough in the pre-dawn darkness to find the trusty Alumacraft
frozen quite solidly in. Some heavy kicks broke it free, and more
ice-breaking was required through the shallows just to get to skim
ice out in the middle of the wetland.We paddled around in that
just to break it up, and I'll never forget the sound of all those
clinking ice shards against the aluminum hull -- painted dead-grass
and in dire need of a fresh coat. After liquefying about 40 square
yards of water, we threw out a dozen or so mallard decoys -- some
old handmade cork dekes that had duped their fair share of
greenheads over the years.
The decoys wouldn't be doing much swimming that morning, as there
wasn't a stitch of wind to move them. Oh well, that's duck hunting.
Satisfied with our meager spread, we push-poled the boat into the
cattails and poured some hot coffee from a battered thermos.
Dawn dawned.
And the sky filled with -- nothing. Neither a duck in sight, nor
a whistling wing to be heard. Dejectedly we sat with our coffee,
gradually accepting what we had feared -- that every feathery fowl
had taken the southbound express to beat the freeze.
Then, suddenly, it began to snow. Light, small flakes at first,
gradually building to giant flakes by the billions -- all falling
straight down. It was lovely. And in such heavy volume that we could
scarcely see our closest decoy just 15 yards away.
Beaten, we made ready to collect our corks and head home for
bacon and dry clothes. That's when we heard it. The
wheep-wheep-wheep whistle of drake baldpates. Like 30 phantoms they
materialized from the flakes in a low pass over the decoys and
disappeared just as quickly and magically, restoring the air to
silence. We were dumbfounded and frozen in befuddlement, until ...
the whistles returned just before the phantoms did -- and we were
ready for them this time.
Pow! Pow!
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 One round each is all we could manage in the eye-blink of clarity
through the heavy snowfall. Within the ringing echo of the shots,
two plump baldpates floated belly-up amid the blocks.
My pal and I traded smiles for the unexpected and sudden gift of
ducks, and then we heard the whistles again. Who knows if it was the
same flock coming back undeterred. Or maybe they were fresh birds.
It didn't matter, because they came back -- rocketing through the
calm blizzard like kamikaze Zeros on a mission.
Pow! Pow! Two more snap shots and another wigeon joined his
brothers in the great beyond.
And so the morning went. Every few minutes the squadron would
return, hell-bent on getting into that water before a two-shot
volley sent them rising, save for the fallen. It was the most
thrilling and challenging wingshooting either of us had ever had.
And when the barrels cooled, 10 drake baldpates lay lined up across
the center bench of the old Alumacraft. We were convinced that the
entire flock was drakes, sent to us as a gift from some kind angel
in duck hunting heaven.
Boy, if there was a day I would love to relive, that November
baldpate bonanza would rank right up there. But I can replay it in
my mind whenever I choose, as I have done today. I hope you liked
hearing the tale as much as I enjoyed telling it.
Good hunting.
[By BABE WINKELMAN]
Babe Winkelman hosts "Good Fishing" and
"Outdoor Secrets," the most-watched fishing and hunting programs on
television. Tune in on NBC Sports Network, Destination America,
Velocity, Time Warner Sports Texas & New York, and many local
broadcast channels. Visit
Winkelman.com for air times and more information.
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