Field Journal
January 20, 2018
The day started overcast and gray, with a stiff breeze. I set off for Big Flat for another day of waterfowling. By the time I arrived, the clouds had thinned out enough that some sun was shining through, creating glittering trails of glare on the choppy waters. Once in my kayak, the waves were high enough to knock me around. The water was opaque with sediment, turning it a gray-green clay color. Paddling upriver, the action of the waves and wind kept slewing my craft to the right, requiring me to paddle on only one side. Between the bobbing around and twisting, I wasn't sure if I would be able to hit anything even if I could get a shot off. I figured that no ducks would be sheltering on these wave-tossed shores in any event, so no loss there. As I got further upriver, my orientation changed so that the wind was blowing me straight, and I only needed to paddle for basic station-keeping.
The power lines cross the river at a point, or bend in the river. Once I passed that area, I was in the lee of the land, sheltered from wind and waves. I could now glide among the tules on the smooth waters. A number of coots swam away from shore as I approached, but without much urgency. I suspect no one really hunts coots around here.
The cry of a red tailed hawk caught my attention. The bird sat in a tree near the water, then took to the air as another glided in, bright orange tails flashing. The pair of hawks circled, screech-screaming their piercing calls. Beyond the hawks was the bald eagle nest, which by the looks of it had an adult eagle sitting in it. Surely it can't be eagle nesting season? Do the eagles around here migrate? There's so much I don't know.
At the inlet, rounding a bend showed the water black with coots. A few buffleheads sat among them. I could have shot a bufflehead, but it would have killed a number of coots along with the duck and then I would have to eat the coots.
At the far end of the inlet I shot a drake wigeon. The first shot injured it, and it began making for cover. A second shot did not stop it. I pushed the kayak up to the bank among the bushes and reeds to flush out the bird. I saw it at close range, but not wanting to disintegrate it I did not shoot. It scooted off under some low branches of the Russian olives. Seeing it at a more favorable distance I gave it a load of duck shot, nicely killing it.
Upstream of the inlet, I spied a large flock of geese through the tules. By now I am highly skeptical of any large geese flocks on this side of the river, and didn't even bother loading goose shot into my shotgun. Sure enough, it was a decoy spread. I paddled past, waving a greeting at the hunters in their camouflaged boat and exchanging a few words.
At the upper end of Big flat, I flushed a mallard drake, but missed. I crossed over to Fishhook HMU, putting me back in the realm of wind and wave. The clouds had nearly vanished, leaving a blue sky and sunshine. Hugging the shore, I encountered no waterfowl until I reached the entrance to my secret pond. Passing through the culvert, upon exiting I immediately flushed a Canada goose at extreme close range. Loaded with duck shot rather than goose shot, I aimed for its head as it was powering up its takeoff run. I didn't take into account that it was only a few meters away when I pulled the trigger - I took the front of its head clean off, leaving the back of its head a pulpy mess. At the sound of the shotgun blast, all the other ducks on the pond took to the skies leaving only the coots.
I circled the secret pond a couple times, then drove the kayak through the tules and beached it on the shore. A map of Fishhook HMU I had seen earlier showed a second pond not far away. I covered up my birds just in case a scavenger came by, and then began walking over the hills. A large buteo soared past, almost hovering in the wind. Soon, I crested a ridge and saw the pond, nestled like a blue jewel in among the yellow-brown of the sage and scrub and ring of cattails. A large number of hawks soared over the top of a nearby hill. As I approached, I heard a splashing among some of the reeds. Not long after, the source of the splashing revealed itself - several pintails took off, I was not able to get a shot. I circled the pond, then returned to my kayak.
Going down past the power station would have been pointless, with the rocking, splashing waves on this side of the river. I headed back to the inlet. A pair of scaups caught my attention, and I paddled toward them. They took off out of range, but began angling toward me. I dropped one of them with a shot, as it plunged toward the water the other followed it, only pulling up before it would have augered into the water as well.
Heading back, I encountered only coots along the tule fields. If it were not mid-January, it would have only been mid-afternoon, but with the short days and the sun low in the sky, I found myself directly facing not only the sun but its blinding glare on the water. Hugging the shore partially blocked the glare, when i could properly position myself. As I reached the power lines, a cloud drifted in front of the sun. I was back in the wind again, but the waves were not as severe as before. I returned, passed they bay I launch from, investigated the tules downstream, and then came back to my take-out point.
After hauling my kayak up to the trail, I watched as the coots on the pond on the other side of the jetty began flying around. I rarely see coots fly - if disturbed, they usually either swim or flap just hard enough to run across the water's surface. But here they were taking off, the whole flock of them taking to the air and circling like some vortex of birds, occasionally launching themselves over the jetty like flapping avian projectiles to land on the lake.
The day started overcast and gray, with a stiff breeze. I set off for Big Flat for another day of waterfowling. By the time I arrived, the clouds had thinned out enough that some sun was shining through, creating glittering trails of glare on the choppy waters. Once in my kayak, the waves were high enough to knock me around. The water was opaque with sediment, turning it a gray-green clay color. Paddling upriver, the action of the waves and wind kept slewing my craft to the right, requiring me to paddle on only one side. Between the bobbing around and twisting, I wasn't sure if I would be able to hit anything even if I could get a shot off. I figured that no ducks would be sheltering on these wave-tossed shores in any event, so no loss there. As I got further upriver, my orientation changed so that the wind was blowing me straight, and I only needed to paddle for basic station-keeping.
The power lines cross the river at a point, or bend in the river. Once I passed that area, I was in the lee of the land, sheltered from wind and waves. I could now glide among the tules on the smooth waters. A number of coots swam away from shore as I approached, but without much urgency. I suspect no one really hunts coots around here.
The cry of a red tailed hawk caught my attention. The bird sat in a tree near the water, then took to the air as another glided in, bright orange tails flashing. The pair of hawks circled, screech-screaming their piercing calls. Beyond the hawks was the bald eagle nest, which by the looks of it had an adult eagle sitting in it. Surely it can't be eagle nesting season? Do the eagles around here migrate? There's so much I don't know.
At the inlet, rounding a bend showed the water black with coots. A few buffleheads sat among them. I could have shot a bufflehead, but it would have killed a number of coots along with the duck and then I would have to eat the coots.
At the far end of the inlet I shot a drake wigeon. The first shot injured it, and it began making for cover. A second shot did not stop it. I pushed the kayak up to the bank among the bushes and reeds to flush out the bird. I saw it at close range, but not wanting to disintegrate it I did not shoot. It scooted off under some low branches of the Russian olives. Seeing it at a more favorable distance I gave it a load of duck shot, nicely killing it.
Upstream of the inlet, I spied a large flock of geese through the tules. By now I am highly skeptical of any large geese flocks on this side of the river, and didn't even bother loading goose shot into my shotgun. Sure enough, it was a decoy spread. I paddled past, waving a greeting at the hunters in their camouflaged boat and exchanging a few words.
At the upper end of Big flat, I flushed a mallard drake, but missed. I crossed over to Fishhook HMU, putting me back in the realm of wind and wave. The clouds had nearly vanished, leaving a blue sky and sunshine. Hugging the shore, I encountered no waterfowl until I reached the entrance to my secret pond. Passing through the culvert, upon exiting I immediately flushed a Canada goose at extreme close range. Loaded with duck shot rather than goose shot, I aimed for its head as it was powering up its takeoff run. I didn't take into account that it was only a few meters away when I pulled the trigger - I took the front of its head clean off, leaving the back of its head a pulpy mess. At the sound of the shotgun blast, all the other ducks on the pond took to the skies leaving only the coots.
I circled the secret pond a couple times, then drove the kayak through the tules and beached it on the shore. A map of Fishhook HMU I had seen earlier showed a second pond not far away. I covered up my birds just in case a scavenger came by, and then began walking over the hills. A large buteo soared past, almost hovering in the wind. Soon, I crested a ridge and saw the pond, nestled like a blue jewel in among the yellow-brown of the sage and scrub and ring of cattails. A large number of hawks soared over the top of a nearby hill. As I approached, I heard a splashing among some of the reeds. Not long after, the source of the splashing revealed itself - several pintails took off, I was not able to get a shot. I circled the pond, then returned to my kayak.
Going down past the power station would have been pointless, with the rocking, splashing waves on this side of the river. I headed back to the inlet. A pair of scaups caught my attention, and I paddled toward them. They took off out of range, but began angling toward me. I dropped one of them with a shot, as it plunged toward the water the other followed it, only pulling up before it would have augered into the water as well.
Heading back, I encountered only coots along the tule fields. If it were not mid-January, it would have only been mid-afternoon, but with the short days and the sun low in the sky, I found myself directly facing not only the sun but its blinding glare on the water. Hugging the shore partially blocked the glare, when i could properly position myself. As I reached the power lines, a cloud drifted in front of the sun. I was back in the wind again, but the waves were not as severe as before. I returned, passed they bay I launch from, investigated the tules downstream, and then came back to my take-out point.
After hauling my kayak up to the trail, I watched as the coots on the pond on the other side of the jetty began flying around. I rarely see coots fly - if disturbed, they usually either swim or flap just hard enough to run across the water's surface. But here they were taking off, the whole flock of them taking to the air and circling like some vortex of birds, occasionally launching themselves over the jetty like flapping avian projectiles to land on the lake.