The Unbelievable Power of Cocoa

Before leaving the house for a morning hunt, I will often fill my thermos with coffee, and if Charlie is coming along, I will fill his thermos with Cocoa.  After all, it was Curious George who extolled the virtues and unbelievable powers of Cocoa, who am I to argue?  

In the early days, our morning hunts started with a familiar rhythm long before the coffee and cocoa was ready.  I would wake first, making my way through a dark bedroom so as not to wake Karen.  Sometimes I would forget my glasses, thus what was a perilous journey in the dark, quickly transitioned to ludicrous as Karen awoke and wished us well on our coming adventures.  

Once dressed, I would go to Charlie’s room to rouse him from a sound sleep.  My boy has always been a heavy sleepier and no matter how softly I’ve tried waking him, the result is always the same - some form of panic and confusion.  I can’t blame him, getting up that early to sit either in a cold boat or tree could be considered by many as a form of corporal punishment.

In those early days my little boy needed help getting dressed a kin to Randy from a Christmas Story. As we learned from Randy, the key to warmth is found in layers, copious amounts of layers.  Layers of course, add an algebraic quality to dressing and the skill required to avoid folds, lumps, and otherwise general discomfort is worthy of a merit badge. After many mornings honing my skills, I wove a tapestry of obscenity that as far as I know, is still hanging in space over Crosslake Minnesota. 

So here we are, the morning of yet another hunt.  It is far to early, though not as bad as years past due to the proximity of water - our back yard.  My little boy is taller than me now, and fortunately for both of us he is very good at waking and dressing himself.  Just the same, here I am readying yet another delicious thermos full of Cocoa. 

Closing time

I'm not sure why, but I neglected to snap a picture my last day out on the lake.  Charlie was tired, and opted to sleep in.  Moose on the other hand was eager to jump in the truck despite the cold and the light blanket of snow.  

It is amazing how quickly the golden sun of a beautiful afternoon can be transformed into the silver dull gray of early winter morning in the span of only a week.  But that is what happens in the woods - time does not stop, it may go by even faster out here.  But the time I spent here this season was truly remarkable. 

And scary.

I am not going to lie, our little "adventure" earlier this fall scared the hell out of me and reminded me of quickly things can go to shit.  There will be times when I start thinking about the "what if" and I can feel the fear creeping in.  Fortunately for us there was no "what if", there is only what's next?

The boat is put away and the lake is nearly frozen over, it is time for different adventures in different venues.

It is time for what's next.

Evening Hunt

Grandpa txted at the close of the evening, “any ducks?” I couldn’t help but giggle as I relayed the message to Charlie. He giggled too.

We had played to the wind today, and rather than sitting in our familiar spot in the rice, we hunted the closer side of the lake nestling our decoys amidst a lily pad puddle that is difficult to find unless you’ve been there before.

Pushing the boat close to shore, I hopped out onto the bog and pulled our bow into the reeds. The sun was low and behind us, casting it's pallor across our puddle and the decoys in front of us.  The tree line at our backs kept our little rig hidden from the shine and prying eyes.

It didn’t take long for the birds to appear, first it was the Mallards and while they were curious they were also weary, circling high above just out of range.  Charlie would likely argue that they were well within range, nonetheless, it was exciting to see movement given a quiet couple of days.

A short time later, Charlie spied a pair of Wood ducks flying low from the channel of an adjoining lake. Having seen our decoys, the pair of Woodies locked on, making a beeline for our spread. With a quick arc they came in low and before we could even react they skidded across the waters surface.

Charlie and I rose to our feet as the two birds in front of us realized the ruse, starting to motion out of the pond we quickly dispatched the pair.  

Moose was elated, and while she is a great retriever she is not very good at waiting for direction. Jumping out of the boat before being given the command, she peered back at me and the look of surprise on her face was palpable. “Get the birds”, I hollered after her.

She made quick work of them, and proving that she hates losing birds as much as I do, she brought back both the hen and the drake in a single retrieve. Charlie and I were giddy with a perfect retrieve and birds in hand.

The next hour or so proved to be equally exciting as the Mallards decided to come a little closer and the Woodies continued to consider that little patch of water their home.  Throughout my years I’ve had very few opportunities to see and experience that much action.

At one point, Moose brought back a beautiful drake Woodie that I had hit. Charlie took one look at it and proclaimed "we have to get that mounted!" I told him we would mount a bird that he bags, “Daddy, that was a family bird!” The rest of the night Charlie did his best to preserve that bird, going so far as to put it in his duck bag.  Suffice it to say, a family mount is in our near future.

It had been a great evening, likely one of the best that I've had the opportunity to hunt, and it was made that much more special being that I could share it with Charlie.  Sunset quickly made way for darkness as we pushed out of the reeds with birds, a happy bog dog, and some fantastic memories all in hand.

Flash Dance

A pair of high flyers rocketed past our meager decoy spread, following the shoreline they made their way back into the open bay. From their posturing, I could tell they were circling back, “Charlie, get ready! They’re coming back in!”

The birds covered the distance between us quickly and had started their descent before I had the opportunity to stand. Rising to my feet, I drew a bead on the second of the two birds leaving the first for Charlie. With my target in range, I pulled the trigger and the bird cartwheeled into the water with a splash.

Pivoting to my right, I followed the path of the lead bird and realizing that Charlie had lost sight of it, I pulled the trigger dropping it into the pond not far from the first.

Moose, eager to participate in the fun, made quick work of each retrieve, bringing back our first Green Wing teal of the season.  Resettling ourselves amongst the cattails, I passed both Moose and Charlie a celebratory chunk of wildberry fritter. 

Charlie and I munched on our pastries and scanned the skies for more birds in relative silence, while I quietly celebrated our return afield.  It was good to be home, with my boy by my side, exactly where he belongs.

Saving Grace

I was reaching for the last of the decoys, an errant drake woodie that had broke free from its mooring. While it was a little early to be packing up for the day, the ducks had proven wiser, opting for cover from the wind and the rain.

In spite of all the gloom, Charlie had been such a trooper, earning his share of melting marshmallows and hot coca. 

Reaching into the water for that last decoy, I missed my quarry as the boat drifted unexpectedly from a gust of wind. Reaching a little further, a little too far, I lost my balance and started to fall towards the water below.

As I fell, instinctively I lunged toward the front of our Larson v-hull, trying anything I could to regain my balance and perhaps save the cell phone in the non-waterproof pocket of my waders.  I had no idea then how quickly it could go from bad to worse.

For a brief moment nothing made any sense. I had been falling into the water. But now, somehow I was standing. But I wasn’t standing either, I was lying across the bow and I could see the bottom of our boat. It took me a moment to piece it all together that our boat had pitched dangerously into the bog and was taking on water. 

"Oh Jesus, we were tipping!” Still perched on the lip of the bow, I tried to pull my weight as far starboard as possible to bring us back on keel. But sometimes, might isn’t enough. Sometimes, a father’s love isn’t enough. Sometimes, it’s just too much fucking water.  

Having had its fill, the boat spun violently to port and tumbled upside down, throwing me into the bog. Surfacing, all I could hear was Charlie’s screams. It took me a second to focus, forcing the cold water from my eyes. In doing so, I inadvertently knocked my glasses into the lake.   

With blurred vision and rapidly filling waders, I pulled myself to our boat realizing that Charlie had not cleared the rig when it flipped. Instead, he had been trapped by our blind as the boat rolled and was now trapped underneath the boat as it continued to sink.  

His screams, I will never forget what they sounded like, "Oh God, Oh Jesus Christ! Please save my son!"

Yelling for him, I lunged at our boat, raging with everything I was, am, and will be to lift it off of him. But the water was too much and as I pushed up, it pushed me back under the muck.  

I surfaced again, screaming for my son as he screamed for me, “Daddy, I’m drowning!” I raced alongside the boat, feeling my way with my feet, searching for anything that I could stand on for leverage.

I was a maniac and I thought this was how it was going to be. That my son was going to die, right there in front me, for me to listen to. I’ve never known such powerlessness and terror as I did at that moment.  

Clinging to the boat, I made my way to the aft and stumbled across the remnants of a long sunken pine. Stepping onto it, I grabbed the rear of the boat and thrust upward with everything I had left.

The corner of the boat emerged from the water just enough that I could see Charlie's fingers grasping for daylight. I took his hand in my own and pulled him to me as tightly as I could. He exploded into my arms crying, "I thought I was dying daddy, I thought was going to die down there!"

And while I tried my best to console him, I had thought the same.

I pushed Charlie onto the bow of our upturned boat, which was floating precariously above the water line. With little concern for himself, Charlie started calling for Moose, worried that she too had been trapped underneath the sinking boat. Fortunately, Moose had made her way out safely, and having cleared the debris, she found her perch beside Charlie on the bow. 

I tried climbing next to them, but my weight was too much and the bow began to sink. I slid back into the water. Scanning the tree line, I was at a lose for words.

Reaching into the pocket of my waders, I pulled out my phone which had been fully soaked. With the screen still illuminated, Charlie’s spirits were buoyed, but his enthusiasm was quickly tempered when we discovered the keypad no longer functioned. Then abruptly the screen went black.

With no way to call for help, Charlie started yelling. I was taken aback at first, for some reason I had never considered doing that. Together we yelled for help, our pleas echoing across an empty lake. There was no response, no cavalry, no saving grace. Seeing my son shiver, I feared hypothermia, and while his clothes were wet I was reticent to pull his gear off.  

I made the decision then to swim to the nearest cabin for help, but with a 100 yards of bog before me, the prospect was daunting. Having just started packing up and pulling the decoys, neither Charlie or I had been wearing our life jackets, which were now trapped in the darkness of the overturned boat.  

Shedding my coat and waders, I placed them next to Charlie and pushed off into the water despite his nervous protest. I sunk down into the mire with my head just above the water and thought to myself, “this is how I am going to die.”

Resuming my perch upon the sunken timber, I noticed my floating gun case, empty and bobbing beside me. I told Charlie that I would use it for buoyancy and that I needed to swim to shore for help. He was terrified, but he understood. “Daddy, make sure you empty the case and zip it back up”. I grabbed the case, and following my little scouts instructions, emptied the water from it and readied myself for the swim.   

Pushing off from our boat, I paddled slowly through the rice. With my gun case pressed against my chest and wrapped underneath my arms, it raised my head ever so slightly out of the water.

Having lost sight of me in the rice, Charlie yelled nervously, “Daddy are you ok?”.  His voice cracked, and I could hear the cold creeping in along with the tears.  For the next twenty minutes or so, father and son played a harrowing game of Marco Polo amidst the rice and lilies.  He would call my name every so often, and I would respond with my progress.  

The water became increasingly shallow, thick with hidden stumps and debris, and while they slowed my progress, they gave me hope that I was nearing dry land.  

Reaching shore, I pulled myself onto the dock. Shivering from the cold, I ascended the stairs to the cabin above.  I knocked on the back door having seen a light on in the kitchen.  I explained to them that my boat had sunk and that my boy was stranded, but no one was home to hear my cries for help.  

I went to each of the doors, I peered into the windows hoping someone, anyone, would wake up and help. But the cabin was empty.  

Returning to the shoreline below, I lowered their little red fishing boat from its lift into the water. Rocked back and forth by the wind, I attempted to start the motor but there wasn't enough juice in the battery to coax it to life.  

With no oars or engine, and my son still adrift and out of reach, I felt so feeble, so goddamn useless.  I was unable to fix this thing that had happened to us, this thing that was still happening to us.  

Surveying the little red fishing boat, I noticed a trolling motor and turned the dial. The prop spun to life and I immediately lowered it into the water.  It was slow, and I was worried that it might fizzle mid-route, but I managed to power my way back to Charlie and Moose.

Reaching our capsized boat, and not waiting for an invitation, Moose jumped in. Charlie on the other hand, calmly passed me my gear and made his way next to me in the little red fishing boat. 

Having Charlie there out of the water, I was flooded with emotion and I pulled him close. I was crying, and spitting, and shivering, and happy, and terrified. I was all of these things and it was all too much, it was just too real.  

And Charlie knew it was too much for me, and my son put is arms on my shoulders and told me, "It's going to be okay Daddy".

With Charlie's help I was able to position a second trolling motor into the water and we made our way back to the cabin. With no phone, and no neighbors to speak of, all we could do was walk to safety. Still concerned about the cold, I was unsure how I was going to get the little red fishing boat back on its lift and my son out of harms way. 

Then, as had become our new normal, the unexpected happened yet again. Two duck hunters, who just happened to be scouting locations on a rainy, horrible day, cut through the rice within earshot of us.  

Both Charlie and I started yelling and waving our hands. Confused, the newcomers kept their distance and for while I thought they would just leave us. Then they spied our wreck and one of them yelled, “there’s a capsized boat over there!”

Realizing our predicament, their trepidation was quickly replaced with compassion. They helped me position the little red fishing boat back onto its lift and welcomed the three of us into their own rig. Huddled on the floor, with my son in my arms and my dog by my side, they whisked us away from the rice and all my worst fears.

The whine of their engine, the chill of the air, the rhythmic bobbing of their boat as it crested the waves, none of it seemed real. But all of it was real. The boats pilot, his last name a fuzzy memory in the back of my brain, was a mountain of a man and when we reached our dock all I could do was hug him. 

I’m grateful to those two men, for their compassion, for their kindness, for the grace they bestowed upon us. I am also grateful to whatever God sent them to that remote patch of rice. They saved us, just as that sunken limb had saved us. And I do mean us, for had my little man drowned, so too would his father.

I will never forget that feeling of approaching death as it settles into the soul, or what utter hopelessness feels like when all is nearly lost. But more importantly, I will never, for as long as I live, take another moment for granted that I have with my son at my side.

Today the bog nearly took away the best part of me, but by the grace of God, we made it home to hunt another day.

Into the Light

Against my better judgement, Charlie and I sped across the lake towards the rice, the remnants of a stormy night still hanging low overhead.  The lamplight from fellow water fowlers darted in out of view as they sought concealment from the coming dawn.  

We were running considerably late for opening morning, but certainly not for lack of effort. While Charlie and I had decided the night before to be the first on the lake, lightening and thunder had kept us close to shore.

With the rain at bay and the looming thunderhead behind us shifting to the west, we ventured out into the darkness.  Nearly across the lake, the sky exploded with the whitest and brightest light that I’ve ever witnessed.  

In that moment forever frozen in my mind, everything before us went from darkness to light.  The rice, the hunters, the trees, all of what we are when we are in the blind was shown to me at that moment.  And then it was dark.

Reaching the edge of the rice, and seeing that other hunters had beat us to our niche, we took refuge in a familiar corner near the mouth of a small river.  The water was thick with rice as well as birds.  Startled by the noise of our engine and our proximity, they erupted to the skies above.  

I cut the engine and lifted it out of the water, assuming my position at the bow with push-pole in hand.

Our mornings journey concluded with a half dozen decoys spread out in a small clearing before us, the boat tucked gently into the bog, and my son and I with shotguns in hand ready for our next adventure to begin.

Boy & Bird

The morning was clear, calm, and unseasonably cold. What Charlie had mistaken for fog, was actually steam rising from off the lake.  Tucked in our boat in small niche of rice and water lilies, the birds sliced through the predawn light, mere shadows and phantoms, made real by the air thundering through their beating wings.

Shortly after day break I had managed to connect with a lone hen Mallard.  While Charlie was only able to watch, his excitement and happiness was palpable, setting the tone for our morning hunt.  “Can you believe it Daddy, we already have a bird!”

A short time later, a hen Wood Duck flew in from the east and landed with a crash in our bay, coasting to the outer edge of our decoy spread.  Instinctively, I tightened my grip on the Beretta braced against my shoulder.  Moose, no stranger to the rustle of wings on the water, let out a soft whine and sat up quickly to survey our spread.

As I reached out a hand to calm our eager retriever, Charlie leaned in and with hushed excited tone asked, “Daddy, can I get this one?”  My little boy has been patient all season, and his anticipation for his first bird has grown a little more with every outing.  Today was no different, and the opportunity before him could not be any better, “Sure, thing buddy, he is all yours.”

In my experience Wood Ducks are notoriously difficult to decoy, and I have learned first hand that when they realize they have landed amongst imposters, they will not stick around for very long.  Time was not on our side.

I drew my gun on the bird as a precaution while Charlie slowly stood to take aim.  It is amazing how time can virtually stand still in situations like this. I sat there watching, waiting, hoping that my little boy would shoot true.

Our hen surveyed her surroundings, making small, gentle circles in the rice. Then, just as quickly as she had landed, she burst from the water retreating to the skies.  She quickly gained speed and altitude, reaching the edge of our niche just as Charlie’s 20 gauge erupted beside me.  

With his quarry hit square, she buckled and plummeted lifelessly from the sky.  Carried forward by her own momentum she crashed with splash just out of sight.

Charlie has been by my side for many years, watching, waiting, hoping to be a duck hunter.  Today, just like his Daddy 15 years before him, Charlie brought home is first hen Woodie and in doing so, came home a duck hunter.