A Different Duck Camp

Whoever said that youth is wasted on the young, never attended the Minnesota Waterfowl Association’s Woodie Camp. I returned as a counselor again this year for the second year in a row. It was another great experience for me as a waterfowl hunter and a person. I attended the camp as a youngster and cherish the memories that are triggered from that experience.
Hunting has allowed me to make many friends and hunt in many different places. The least I feel that I can do is give something back to the sport. I feel that if I am not here for the younger generations of waterfowl hunters, then who is?
There are many different aspects of waterfowl hunting that are taught at the Minnesota Waterfowl Association’s Woodie Camp. Each one of these topics serves a purpose; helping to mold young hunter’s aged 13 to 15, into educated waterfowl enthusiasts.
It would be harder to rate the specific topics of the Minnesota Waterfowl Association’s Woodie Camp on a scale, than it would be to discuss them in any detail. If I were to discuss all of the aspects of the many topics I would certainly fill all of the pages within this publication. With that said, I will discuss only a few.
With 70% of all ducks being produced in the prairie-pothole region of North America, it is hard to ignore habitat. Luckily, the camp is held at the Prairie Wetlands Learning Center or PWLC, in Fergus Falls, Minnesota were there is plenty of prairie for the campers to study under the guidance of educated instructors.
Instructors walk with the campers along prairie trials and discuss different aspects of the prairie while they are in the field, so to speak. Campers learn about different prairie plants, their root structures, and why the different plants are important.
They also learn about the drastic decline of the prairie. The grasslands of North America are just as vital to our Ecosystem as the rain forest. The grasses produce valuable oxygen and actually contain more types of life forms. Still you don’t see ‘Save the Prairie’ bumper stickers plastered on cars.
Not only do ducks face habitat decline, many different predators also target them. The predator that kills the most ducks on the prairie is the Red Fox. It is important to remember that roughly 87% of all ducks never make it off the nest, because of the abundance of predators.
Campers are taught how to build nesting structures for waterfowl, and the importance of them. Mallard ‘hen houses’ are designed to keep the female ducks elevated and away from predators. Wood duck ‘boxes’ are used by female Wood ducks in the place of tree cavities.
Bird banding has been one of the many highlights of Woodie Camp since the camp started. Band data allows biologists to track the life spans of waterfowl and the migration patterns of waterfowl. The bands help to insure the future of hunting through this data, and provide a souvenir for waterfowl hunters.
There have been approximately 300 ducks banded by the Minnesota Waterfowl Association’s Woodie Camp attendees since 2003. Since then hunters have harvested 22 of those banded ducks and 1 was found dead. These bands were recovered in 8 different states: Minnesota, Missouri, Louisiana, Wisconsin, Arkansas, Oklahoma, Texas and Alabama. 5 of the 23 ducks were Mallards and 18 were Wood ducks.
The Minnesota Waterfowl Association’s Woodie Camp runs for 1 week, from Sunday to Saturday. Like any summer camp, it starts slow and finishes fast. Even after my third year at camp I am impressed by the amount of information that can be taught about waterfowl hunting in one week.
As hunters it is important for us to share our passion for the outdoors with others. Edmund Burke has been given credit for saying, “Tell me what are the prevailing sentiments that occupy the minds of our young men, and I will tell you what is to be the character of the next generation.”

Memorable Retrievers

Memorable Retrievers
Life is just a series of moments were you connect with another person, place or feeling. Every bird dog I have ever owned has had it’s own moments. These were times when dogs did remarkable things based on minimal training and experience. These moments seem to burn deeper in my memory for the dogs I only had for a short period of time. I do not know exactly why this is but I believe that it falls into the category that only the good die young.
I would like to say that one of the best dogs I ever owned was named Java. The female black lab was my family’s second dog and we purchased her when I was 13. The first hunt my dad and I took her on was stopped short due to a thunderstorm. It was opening day of the duck season and the wood ducks were coming into the decoys like kamikazes. Unfortunately, lightning forced us off the lake shortly after the noon opener of the Minnesota duck season. Java was barely six months and was the only one in the boat without fear in their eyes.
The thing I remember most about Java was that she had a knack for doing blind retrieves. I did not do a lot of extensive training with her but we seemed to have an understanding. She completed one of the best blind retrieves I have ever seen on my younger sister’s first duck. It was a beautiful drake wood duck that now graces a coffee table at our cabin.
At only two years of age Java was killed crossing the street in front of my house on Halloween night. She was a runner and was greeting trick-or-treaters across the street. Java had made her last retrieve a few days prior on a green-winged teal. I had shot the bird moments after shooting time at Carlos Avery Management Area in Minnesota. It was a blind retrieve through an ever-changing maze of cattails.
Daisy was not supposed to live past six weeks. When she was brought into the vet with her two siblings they were aged at ten weeks and marked stray. When she pranced into my college house the “duck shack” she was six months. A little Shorthair Pointer with a love for retrieving. She was not only the best looking dog I ever owned she was the fastest.
Daisy spent spring break my senior year of College in South Dakota snow goose hunting. At eight months she gained tons of experience about traveling and hunting. She slept on hotel beds, chased pheasants and tried to retrieve snow geese. Daisy would try and try to remove the birds from the ground with her mouth but could not even move a Ross goose.
Daisy, like Java, was a runner by nature. She would have made a great field trail dog; she had the speed and the nose. Daisy was the only dog I have ever had that caught turtles in the weeds and muck at my cabin. Shortly after graduating from the University of North Dakota I took my first job in the Twin Cities. Daisy however was not a city dog and I had to give her away to a nice family in Northern Minnesota after countless efforts to urbanize her.
When reminiscing about dogs I often forget about the dog that is lying by my feet as I write this. Cullie is a ten-year-old black lab that has retrieved more game for me than any other dog. At ten, she is also the oldest dog I have ever owned. Although she is not steady enough to hunt from a field, she always helps me find the birds that sail at the end of the day.
Cullie has embarrassed and amazed me every season. She is only dog I have ever hunted over that has a knack for flushing pheasants back towards approaching hunters. This unorthodox approach gets me more than a few raised eyebrows when she is working on the fringe of shotgun range. I don’t know how many times I have been thinking to myself she is a little rangy, when the next thing I know I have a rooster barreling towards me that I have to dispatch in self defense.
Cullie has an excellent nose; in nine hunting seasons I have lost very little game while hunting with her. I refer to her as my jump-shooting retriever because it is the style of hunting that she excels at. She is one of those dogs that has a hard time sitting still in a duck blind. She makes unusual marks on fallen game and searches with her nose not her eyes. “It looks as though she is chasing the falling ducks shadow.” Phil Bettenburg, a friend, commented once on an afternoon duck hunt. Cullie is an average retriever, but most importantly she is an excellent family dog and companion.
Every dog has its day; it’s just easier to brag about the ones whose days are over. Dogs are like kids, only they never really grow up. So if your retriever embarrasses you or steals a bite of your sandwich, remember to take it easy on them.

All My Heros are Duck Hunters

The Old Man and I spent many summer afternoons discussing the usual topics: investing, religion, fishing and of course duck hunting. He was a strong Catholic, the kind that kept a painting of the last supper by the dinner table. We said grace before we ate our meals, and we enjoyed many a glass of Burgundy from the box he kept hidden in the cupboard. It is important to understand that the Old Man and I had no blood relation. He wed my Grandma’s sister in the forties and spent the summers of my youth across the lake from my cabin. Regardless he was referred to as Grandpa, although I never said it to him in person.
The Old Man loved to tell stories about waterfowling in North Dakota, particularly Devils Lake. Years ago a good friend of his owned a duck shack and a piece of land North of Devils Lake that was engulfed by Wildlife refuge. It was the kind of place where mice would scamper out the front door when the shack was first opened for the season. For years he would go there, bringing a handful of my cousins along in the station wagon, and hunt ducks and geese.
I was a quiet child and could sit and listen to him for hours. We had a few things in common; crappies were our favorite fish to catch, and chasing ruffed grouse was our passion. The old Man could remember the smallest details of hunts that had occurred years ago. Like how the sun caste shadows the day he doubled on ruffs near Bemidji. The stories I would hear more than once were his favorites, and the memories would bring a smile to his face.
I usually would bring one of my bird dogs across the lake with me. The Old Man called my dogs: mutts, soup hounds or lap dogs. They were allowed in my cabin and not in his, so they sat outside whining. He loved to tell stories about his Golden Retriever, Ginger, that had spent some nights in the finest hotels in North Dakota, but never in his house. Unless the weather outside was predicted to be well below freezing, then exceptions were made.
Once on a trip to Devils Lake a young man he worked with complained that Ginger was stinking up the station wagon. “What’d ya bring the dog along for anyway?” the young man inquired. The Old Man, who was not so old at the time replied, “She will retrieve our game for us.” He looked into my eyes and a smile swept across his face like a gust of wind across the prairie.
He explained to me that they used to pass shoot snow geese coming off a body of water North of Devils Lake; I have to believe is what we now call Dry Lake. “The geese came off into the wind real high. About like the ceiling!” The Old Man would lift his arms and smile up at the imaginary geese.
“The young man, boys and I were on the East side and I cannot remember how many geese we dropped but we sailed one into the sheet water.” He sent Ginger on the long retrieve. “She got about as far as half way down the point and stopped and looked at me like. ‘Dad, you cannot shoot this far.’” He sent Ginger out into the ankle deep water another hundred yards and stopped her with a whistle blast. The Old Man paused and made a motion with his left arm like he was a quarterback dropping the football over an incoming defensive tackle on a screenplay. “Like power steering she turned left and caught the wind.” With her nose to the ground she plucked the white bird the muddy field.
When Ginger returned with the bird the young man noticed something odd about it. “The snow goose was wearing a target!” It was a collared bird that had been banded earlier that year in Canada. The young man asked if he could have the collar and the Old Man graciously gave it to him keeping the leg iron for himself. “The young man commented that he had never seen a dog perform such a task.”
Yes the young man in the story certainly did learn the value of hunting with a well-rounded retriever. Losing birds is a waterfowler’s worst nightmare. When his last dog passed on, Blaze, I was about Eleven. I offered to let him take my Water Spaniel, Cocoa, hunting anytime he wanted. As I was leaving he gave me a bag full of steak scraps for Cocoa. He brushed his white hair down his brow with his palm and said, “I shoot big ducks PJ.” The Old Man chuckled and returned to his coffee.
The Old Man still has the goose’s leg band and we still sit at the lake. When he is not yelling at the television during a Twin’s game the Old Man still tells stories. Now that I am older I have my own stories too, but I’d rather listen to his.

Canvasbacks of Lake Catahoula
The Internet is a beautiful thing. It has given me hunting opportunities I only dreamed of as a young boy paging through outdoor magazines wishing to hunt ducks in the exotic places featured in the stories. So… when I got the chance to hunt waterfowl on Louisiana’s Lake Catahoula how could I say no?
My good friend Matt Jones has been in contact with a great man, a true waterfowl hunter known only in this article as “Duckster”, for many years on various hunting websites. Duckster and his hunting buddies have a comfortable duck camp on Lake Catahoula with a beautiful view of the lake. Matt is a taxidermist at the Sportsman’s Taxidermy Studio in East Grand Forks, MN and wished to travel to Louisiana to hunt full-plumage ducks. Joining him would be the owner and operator of Sportsman’s Taxidermy Studio Jim Benson, Matt Vanderpan of Grand Forks and myself.
Lately Minnesota hunters have not been blessed with a high abundance of waterfowl. I enjoy hunting my traditional Minnesota spots, but every once and awhile I like a change of scenery. One thing I believe Minnesota hunters need to do more often is visit other states to pursue waterfowl and see how other states manage and hunt waterfowl.
When the four of us arrived at Duckster’s hunting camp on Thursday afternoon it was dark. Waves from Lake Catahoula quietly swept up against the shore and the stars shone extra bright against the Southern sky. It was the last weekend in January and the last weekend for waterfowl hunting in Louisiana. Pork chops, sausage, white beans, rice and fresh brownies awaited us. By the time I would return to the North, I would understand the true meaning of “Southern hospitality”.
The duck camp was a haven where people could relax and enjoy themselves. Duckster only had one rule for us Northerners, “Do not wash the caste iron pans with dish soap.” Other than that, anything went. It was my kind of place.
On the wall of the duck shack there is an article about the 1985 duck season forecast. “Duck Shortage Means Shorter Season” is the title of it. The old paper has turned yellow but the message is still clear. Droughts across the prairie and changes in farm practices had resulted in less than ideal breeding conditions. Fortunately today the duck populations indicate “liberal” hunting seasons. As waterfowl hunters we must still keep one eye on conservation to keep the topic from the 1985 article from repeating.
Duckster had informed us that the water levels on Lake Catahoula were about twelve feet higher than normal. The abundance of water had spread a lot of the ducks out into the rice fields. Hunting had been slow the last couple days, especially for puddle ducks.
Friday morning we awoke to fresh biscuits and a plate full of sausage and bacon. Duckster was kind enough not to wake us weary travelers until coffee was brewed and breakfast was ready. Outside it was calm with the familiar summer sound of crickets chirping. I was glad to be in a more comfortable weather.
After gear was loaded into a duck boat that rested upon a trailer we headed to the lake to launch. The four of us Northern boys rode in the boat while Duckster drove his tractor that pulled the boat. It reminded me of going on hayrides as a kid to pick out the perfect pumpkin for carving.
After an easy ride across the calm water to a hole surrounded by flooded treetops we slipped into a floating blind. I was highly impressed by these floating blinds; they are probably the slickest structures I have ever hunted ducks from. Already set in front of us was a mix of mallard and pintail decoys. In the mix there was also several dozen bleach jugs with the ends painted black to mimic resting Canvasbacks. The five of us quietly awaited the morning flight.
The ducks that flew Friday morning did their best to stay clear of our decoys. The lack of wind did not help our cause either. Most of the ducks did not fly, and rested instead on large rafts in open water bays. That is hunting.
We did manage to take a single canvasback before we broke for lunch back at the camp. The wind was going to pick up towards evening and we would surely hunt again. On the way back Duckster checked one of his “trot lines” that was set the previous day. It was a twenty five-hook set but there was only one catfish on the line. It was my first experience checking a trotline.
As we drove across the lake we could see the sun reflecting white off of thousands of rafting canvasbacks. There were so many birds that they almost appeared to be snow geese. Wide eyed, Matt Jones leaned over and whispered to me, “This must be what Lake Christina and Heron looked like years ago in Minnesota.” Today Lake Catahoula in central Louisiana winters between 150,000 and 200,000 canvasbacks.
By the time the sunset across Lake Catahoula, signaling the end of the first day of hunting, several firsts had occurred in my life. It was the first time I had been to Louisiana, the first time my hunting party has taken a limit of Canvasbacks, and the first time I had shot a duck in January.
I awoke on Saturday morning to the smell of fresh biscuits, sausage and bacon. Even after feasting on boiled crawfish, corn, and potatoes the night before I managed to scarf two biscuits and multiple pieces of bacon. Staying at Duckster’s duck camp on Lake Catahoula in Central Louisiana was like being royalty.
On this particular morning, the second of our three-day trip, we would be hunting in a Cyprus swamp named William’s Lake. Duckster, our friend from the South, has a permanent blind and another duck shack there. The sky was spitting light rain and the temps were in the mid-20s. We let the two Ford pick-ups warm up for awhile before heading out with a single boat in tow.
A quick, twenty-mile drive brought us to a locked gate, which was the only access I know of to the private Cyprus swamp. It was still dark, but I could make out ghostly outlines of flooded Cyprus trees wrapped in Spanish moss at the boat launch.
The five us loaded gear and guns into the duck boat, and Duckster backed it down the launch into the quiet water. By the poise Duckster had on the boat landing, and the way he kept his boats rigged, you could tell this was not his first voyage into the swamp. Duckster tied a rope to the trailer, which was also attached to the boat. By doing so when he backed the boat into the water, it did not float away. What I cherish the most from new hunting experiences are the little things like that which can be applied to waterfowl hunting everywhere.
Duckster slowly maneuvered our boat through the trees in the predawn darkness. It was exciting and eerie to be in place I’d never see before in any light. Before we reached the blind we made a quick detour to the duck shack, which could only be accessed by boat with the high water levels in the area. The shack had no electricity or running water. Duckster had earlier decided that as “Northern Boys” we should probably stay with the comforts of the camp at Lake Catahoula for our first Louisiana trip. Our next trip however, may be a different story.
Just before shooting time we pulled the boat into the boat garage attached to the back of the blind and climbed up onto the shooting platform. As I loaded my scattergun I heard the cries of distant wood ducks in the trees surrounding the swamp. Shortly afterwards wood ducks began to fly. Singles, doubles, and little flocks flew, staying out of our blind’s reach, knowing instinctively the safe passages through the trees.
Duckster explained to us that wood ducks are one species of duck that are born and raised in Louisiana. Sure most wood ducks are migratory, but some have been around those Louisiana waters since the opening day of the season, making them just as wary and sly as our own local mallards back home.
Unfortunately, neither the weather nor the birds co-operated that soggy morning. Around ten we left the blind, stopped at the duck shack and took a walk for a different view.
Duckster led us down paths through the woods where he has walked with his father and other family members for years. Like Minnesotans, there are deep-rooted family traditions in Louisiana when it comes to hunting and fishing. The terrain we walked was very similar to ours as well. If I hadn’t known better we could have been in Northern Minnesota, except for the unique tracks left by the Armadillos.
Along the way Duckster pointed out some of the better spots for harvesting squirrels and deer. Louisiana has both a fall and spring squirrel season. For some reason squirrel hunting is not as popular in the Midwest as it is in the South. I believe that the South has more of a tradition of hunting and fishing for substance. Duckster told me one of his observations while visiting the North was, “Seeing all the critters running around.”
The five of us hunted that afternoon and the following morning back on Lake Catahoula. We shot a couple more birds and ate terrific home-cooked food. Memories were made and good times were had. Duckster apologized for the lack of decoying birds, but it was not necessary as we were all very satisfied with the trip. The experience of being part of the last day in the Louisiana duck season, the company, beautiful scenery, and pleasant weather were enough to keep me satisfied.

Leg Irons

Every year the U.S. Fish and Wildlife service, and agencies ran by the states, place leg bands on a variety of birds across the country. Migratory birds, like ducks and geese, are some of the most commonly banded birds. Harvesting a bird with a leg band on it is a special joy for waterfowl hunters.
After harvesting a banded bird, most waterfowl hunters place the band on their lanyard, which holds the hunters duck and goose calls. “It’s like earning a buckeye sticker and putting it on your football helmet. It’s a badge of honor.” Explained Lyle Sinner, an avid waterfowl hunter and Fargo native.
Traditionally one must harvest a lot of ducks and geese before shooting a banded bird. Therefore, it is assumed that if a waterfowl hunter has a lot of bands, they have shot a lot of birds.
Some people can hunt their entire life and never shoot a bird that is banded. Other waterfowl hunters have shot quiet a few banded birds. It all depends on where you hunt and how many birds get banded in your area. However, you could potentially shoot a banded bird anytime, in any location.
The U.S. Fish and Wildlife service uses data reported from leg bands to track the flight paths of migratory birds. Bands are also useful in determining harvest information and life span data of specific bird species. A few years ago I witnessed my friend shoot a banded drake mallard that turned out to be 12 years old and was banded in North Dakota about 50 miles from where it was shot.
Each band has a unique number that identifies the species of bird and the specific information about it. When you call a band number in, an operator will ask for the date and location of where the bird was harvested. You will then receive a certificate in the mail containing your name and information on the banded bird.
Along with regular bands, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife service puts ‘reward bands’ on some birds. Usually they put these bands with a monetary value on adult birds. Reward bands are typically worth any where from 25 to 100 dollars. The government sends you a check only after you report the information regarding the banded bird to them. Getting paid to hunt, now that’s a nice bonus for anyone!
The U.S. Fish and Wildlife service are not the only ones that band birds. Some hunt clubs put leg bands on birds they release. Pheasants Forever, an organization for the preservation of pheasants, sometimes bands pheasants that they raise and release.
One of the rarer forms of waterfowl bands are Jack Miner bands. These bands have bible verses engraved on them. The Jack Miner family bands the birds in Ontario, Canada. It would be an incredible feat to shoot a duck or goose that was carrying a Jack Miner band.
Nicknames for leg bands are a common place among my friends and I. They are often referred to as: Jewelry, bling-bling, shine, hardware or leg irons. We refer to hunters who shoot a lot of banded birds as having “the force.”
Roughly 3.1 million leg bands have been reported to date. That is pretty small considering that since 1904 about 58 million birds have been banded in North America. Both of these numbers represent hundreds of different species of birds.
It has often been speculated in duck shacks and blinds across the country just what the ratio of banded birds to un-banded birds is. I have wondered this myself and have decided that there just isn’t any way to know for sure. Anyone could shoot a banded bird, and that is a beautiful thing.
Across North America roughly 85,000-banded birds are recovered or recorded annually. They make the hunt just a little bit more memorable and leave the hunter with a little souvenir. The first thing I do when I retrieve a harvested bird is check for a band. I encourage you to do the same. Band information can be reported to 1-800-327-BAND.

The Old Retreiver

Grey face,
Cloudy eyes,
Never jumps,
Always lies,

Scratch the belly,
Itch the ear,
Toss a treat,
Hold back tears,

Dog of a lifetime,
Companion of the ages,
Friend to the end,
Through all life stages.

Why I Hunt

In the fall of my senior year of college at the University of North Dakota I spent most of my time outside the classroom hunting. Inside the classroom I was learning valuable lessons taught by professors in the business school. One of my Profs was, Dr. Greg Patton, a great storyteller who related classroom information to real life. The class was Organizational Behavior; there I related many of the psychological theories to my own life.
As a hunter I found, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, which maps out the path to self-actualization, to have a special meaning for outdoorsmen. The theory states that a person cannot pass to the next tier towards self-actualization until the lower needs have first been satisfied. I believe that by participating in outdoor activities, particularly hunting and fishing, we can see who we truly are.
The first tier on the hierarchy is the basic physical needs that all humans require. This includes; food, water, shelter and warmth. Early humans hunted and fished not only for food, but for shelter and warmth as well. The pelts from large and small game animals were used make clothing and shelters.
In the U.S. today we have plenty of food and shelter, hence we engage in outdoor activities for more spiritual reasons. Yet nothing brings the hunting or fishing more full-circle like the actual consumption of the game. With food on the table and a roof over your head, most humans can easily step onto the second tier in the Maslow theory.
Safety; is security, stability and a freedom from fear in one’s life. Stability can be witnessed first hand with the changing of the seasons. With the end of winter comes spring, with green grass and warm water. Being in the outdoors and witnessing sunrises brings a sense of security that there is more important things in life. Interacting with nature gives one the feeling of actually being alive.
Belonging-Love is the third tier humans most face on the road to self-actualization according to Maslow. This sense of belonging can be received through family, friends and life partners. Spending time with others while hunting and fishing strengthens relationships. A love for the outdoors has taken me many places and allowed me to relate to many people along the way. The hunting trips of my youth brought me closer to my cousins and uncles.
Self-esteem comes from achievement, mastery, recognition and respect. With a passion for the outdoors you strive to be successful at what you are doing. One reads articles, studies game habits, surfs the web, learns new techniques and spends time participating in outdoor activities. Mastering anything is a continual process.
Once you become confident in yourself and abilities one can move to the fifth and final tier of self-actualization. Discovering oneself is all about pursuing your inner talents, creativity and self-fulfillment. Through hunting and fishing you discover who you are by overcoming obstacles and challenging the elements.
I often get asked why I hunt and I try to explain to people that it is my total existence. I am not saying that the outdoors is for everyone. There are many ways in which humans search to discover who they truly are. Through my college education I discovered that I belonged outdoors. I am as sure of it, as I am that the sun will rise over the St. Croix in the morning.