Back from our pilgrimage... SUCCESS!
A Man of My Word
by Jacob Baldwin
Friends,
Today, I have a lot to say... Go grab a cup of coffee and pull up a chair. I feel another story coming on.
Well, where do I start? For my Nebraskan friends, the story picks up from last Wednesday when I promised pictures and a story from the North Dakota trip. For my family and friends, the story begins on October 5th when I last saw my home. But, perhaps most importantly, this story begins about ten years ago on the banks of the James River where I first saw a wild Tundra Swan with my father and my brother... That beginning of the story is no one's but my own.
I remember shutting the door on my father's '73 Pontiac Catalina and double checking that I had all the gear required for another day of river hunting in western Virginia. I gave my gear a once over and turned towards the pass in the fence. In the corner of my eye I caught a hint of movement over the river, it was high. I said, "Dad! Look!" He squinted his eye and told me, "That's a swan." I remember being aggrivated that I only saw it for a second.
We whipped the decoys out and climbed back up on the bank and dug in and waited. I can't even remember if we shot anything that day but on this particular occasion, dead Mallards aren't the focal point of the trip. While we were standing out on a high rise point on the bank, an enormous white bird that appeared to be straight out of Greek mythology came coasting out over the river and lit a ways down the water. Head held high, it was a sight to behold. "Whistling Swan", Dad said. To clear up the vernacular for you new comers to birding, Tundra Swans were traditionally and still are locally reffered to as Whistling Swans, for obvious reasons. The smaller of the two native North American Swans (the larger being the Trumpeter Swan, the largest existing species of Waterfowl on the planet), the Tundra Swan isn't much heavier than our Virginia geese, but dwarfs them in appearance, length and wingspan. They are, in a word, breathetaking.
I remember father's words imprinted in my mind for years to come. He said to me, "I'd sure like to shoot one of those one day." He'd spent a lot of time (at around my age now) on the Eastern Shore of Virginia where the world of waterfowling began. I don't really think he was a stranger to seeing swans... But I know I was. After a few minutes, the bird turned it's huge frame back into the wind and with a running start (not unlike a Canvasback), the bird was airborne and returned to sky from which it came. It was at that moment that I made a promise to myself. "One day, I'm going to shoot a wild Swan."
Back to present day.
About a month ago, my financial plans to take a trip to Canada with Avery Pro-Staffer and friend Paul Cupka came to a screeching hault when I found out that there was simply no way the pocketbook could swing it. I had to hang my head in shame when I told Scott (who all the while was planning a trip up to NoDak to hunt ducks, geese, Sandhill Cranes, and maybe a Swan) about my misfortune. After thinking about it for about 24 hours, I realized that the timing would be perfect for the now cancelled Canada trip and already had the time off from work... SO... The ol' cogs began to turn. Soon, it was official. We're putting in for Swan tags.
You guys have to realize something about ol' Scott Sharp, when he plans a trip, particularly one after "NEW" things, the guy does his homework. And by homework, I mean, researching every possible detail to the point of exhaustion...Literally. My eyes and brains were WORN OUT spending every last moment of free time helping learn about Sandhill Cranes and Swans and the state of North Dakota and this and THAT AND THIS AND... AAAAAGH!!! It was a terrible suspense. The more we talked about it, the more it became clear that there were two different agendas to be executed on our trip. Myself, I NEEDED a swan. Scotty, well, for reasons I'm sure as deep seeded as my internal craving for a Swan, NEEDED a possesion limit of the wiley Sandhill Crane (or as we have come to know them, "Crazy @#$%in' jerk, punk-ass, impossible to find #$%^*&@^$%ers). There was no question that this trip was a special one. The two of us are no longer strangers to saying "What's the weirdest thing that we've never hunted?", and then going out and killing a bunch of 'em. I have to admit that a little part of me likes the attention I get from posting pictures of posession limits of Prairie Chickens, or a pair of Egyptian Geese, or a Eurasian Collared Dove, or somethin' like that. Over the past 5 years, I've counted myself very lucky to have not only had the oppurtunity to do that, but to have found a close friend that not only enjoys it also, but is very good at what he sets out to do, whatever that may be. It's a pretty fun feeling. But this trip was different. And here's how. This time, we were both strangers to a completely new state, and coincedentally we both had different objectives, both of which were completely new to both of us... Sort of a veritable "double whammy". It made for a great "what if we actually did that?" type of hypothesis but then came the hard part... "Ok, we know what we WANT to do, so how do we actually do it?"
As you may have already read, I was here in time for the general duck season opener and broke the seal on three days of duck limits to "get warmed up for NoDak". That was fun in and of itself, but gearing up the night before we hit the road, I gotta admit I was ready for war. We jammed every possible piece of hunting gear we could figure out... We even went as far as to pack Scott's fishing float tube in the event that we had another "Jacob's-getting-ready-to-die-in-quicksand-because-he-was-a-little-over-excited-about-retrieving-something" episode. We had a "no decoy left behind" policy that ended up getting scrapped because we simply couldn't fit anything else in the damn truck. And with that, away we went.
Heading north through South Dakota, we began seeing a few ducks here, a few geese there and the insanity ensued. We were playing "I spy a Coot" for a few hours and immediately after we croosed the border into North Dakota, the birds disappeared... A little nerve racking after you've been seeing ducks for 6 hours and then suddenly NOTHING. As we approached our first scouting destination, it became clear that we had nothing to worry about. It seemed like every single piece of puddle in the state had Gadwalls, a few Canadas and get this... TEAL!!! That's right nay-sayers, Blue-Wings and Mourning Doves still abundant as of three days ago in North Dakota!
The very first pitstop yielded our first glance at a small flock of Tundra Swans. Remember the frustration? GONE at that point. Sitting out in the middle of a private mud flat were 16 Swans surrounded by a splendid number of Mallards, Redheads and a few other ducks. Approximately 4 seconds later, I was at the farmer's doorstep. The farmer's wife answered and said that they do indeed let people hunt but I'd have to talk directly to him and that he'd be back in about three hours. That gave us a decent amount of time to go scout for some duck hunting. A few miles down the way, we were on ducks like a Coot on Algae. After returning, I had a brief talk with the farmer to lay down some ground rules and we were in.
The following morning we crawled out to the flats where they'd been and slipped three Snow-goose full bodies out on the mud and let the sun come up. The Swans sat motionless on the water for about three hours with ducks and geese coming and going without so much as twitching. Finally, we'd had enough of staring... So creepy crawly we went. All the way around to the other side of the lake, we crawled and inched like a couple friggin' earthworms or somethin' until we got about 100 yards away from 4 of them. Scoping through the binoculars, We had AMPLE time to get to know the Swans. In a moment of self-doubt, I nearly had a nervous breakdown when I had convinced myself that they weren't Tundra Swans but rather the SUPER-ILLEGAL Trumpeter Swans. I simply forgot ALL of the DAYS of reading I had done to establish a positive ID on the bird I'd been wanting for a decade. We were debating on who to call from the marsh to ask and we drew a blank. Finally we came to the consensus that Tundra Swans bills come up in a point to the eye much like the bill of a Canvasback Duck to where as the Trumpeters look much more like that of a puddle duck bill. The conspicuous yellow spot on the adults is so unbelievably IMPOSSIBLE to see from 120 yards... In hand though, it's a dead giveaway. After our panic attacks, we derived a plan to creep 'em... Not my dream scenario, but hey... It's a Swan right? We stood up and ran to our positions and both became very doubtful about the distance... Them jokers can flat-out fool a man. So the flock gets up all at once and (of course) land in our three Snow Decoys all the way back where we had just crawled from. It was decided that we'd split up and one of us would for sure have a pass shot at the flighty birds. I watched as Scott put yet another sneak on the entire flock and just as I thought things were going to get intense, a pair of birds get up, turn back with the wind and wing RIGHT OVER him. From the distance I knew I'd see the bird fold before I heard the shots actually go off... Scratch one. Scott tumbled his Tundra Swan dead as a doornail in the weeds by his side. By that time, the remaining birds on the water have their heads up and are giving the "congregational bugle". The whole time, my only thoughts were, "Man, just be happy for him... We set out to kill a Swan and we just did. Good thoughts... Happy thoughts... GOD-@#$% IT!!! I WANT ONE!" Realizing the positioning, Scott then put himself in postion to continue the squeeze. THIS is where years of teamwork and KNOWING the other hunter's actions before he actually does it is an irreplaceable thing... That's why I love hunting with Scott. In the field, he's got my back. Knowing full well what he was going to do next, I crouched, crossed my fingers, and turned to face with the wind as the flock rose from the water. The 20 seconds it took the flock to wheel out and turn directly in my path felt as long as last month. At the moment of truth, they cut slightly upwind, giving me an oppurtunity to pick a bird out of about the last 6 or so in the flock. I knew they were far, but I was prepared. I stood, chose the biggest, whitest bird in the flock, and let the Benelli loose. My first shot found it's mark as I saw the Cob's legs drop, shaken but focused, I let him have round two... It felt uncertain. No bird dropped immediately. Just as I had prepared my favorate cussword, he peeled out of the flock and came sailing back to the lake... He was coming down. With the final graceful cup of his mighty wings, my beautiful swan was down. Uncertain of his mortality, I sprang into the marsh, once again forgetting about every safety rule I try to preach, all the while stuffing shells in the gun. The mud was thick and the walk was far. With a victorious fist in the air, Scott alerted me that the swan was dead. We both let loose cries of pain and happiness. After collapsing in the mud with my bird, Scott began gagging and heaving. I thought he was on his death bed the night before with a bad case of Influenza and a Sinus infection. But the fight went on. Dry mouthed, spitting, and spent, we tagged our Swans, and moved on.
To keep you guys involved, I'm skipping the duck hunting... I like to vary the details a bit, but the punchline is we shot a limit of Teal and Gadwalls later that evening, Bluebills, Pintails, Mallards, Gaddies and a few teal the next day, ate all of those, and then shot gaddies, teal and a fine pair of Bufflehead Drakes (a'la Uncle Scary) on day three...
We did not put out one duck decoy or one robo duck the entire trip... After the Swan decoy thing, we never even took another decoy out of the truck... NOT ONE.
The state was so thick with Canadas, biggies and little'uns, that (in Scott's now immortal words) "I just lost all respect for Canada geese." We didn't even bother hunting geese the entire time we were up there... We'd have drug all that stuff out of the truck and into the field for 6 Geese shot out of flocks of two or three hundred at a time... Why even bother at that point? Afterall, Scott had his own personal vendetta out on some Cranes... This is where the trip actually got hard. And I seriosulsly mean hard... Not hard as in we had to wait a few hours, hard as in, these damn things are the single hardest bird I've ever had to try to hunt in my entire life. They make the oldest, smartest Tom Turkey look like a blind hen Wigeon with one wing. Guys, these things are smart... I'm SO not even kidding.
We found our first small flock of about a dozen Cranes while mugging on a flock of Canvasbacks sitting on a small lake in the area. The chase was on. We located the small roost flock (I'd guess 150 or so) and aquired permission to hunt 'em the next morning. After crawling down a ditch for a few hundred yards, confirming they were still out in the pothole they'd slept in and repositioning about a million times, we were in place for some pass shooting... 5 here, 2 there, a dozen here, 6 there, they began relaxing their flight paths to the point to where we were comfortable with the ranges. Just as the last 40 or so got up, we had the prime shooting advantage point and waited for the inevitable. I watched as about 8 or so strungout and made a b-line for my pile of rocks, Scott however had the remaining 30 or so headed dead into him. My safety comes off, when "BANG BANG BANG BANG!!!" A farmer fired four shots from a high-powered rifle at a coyote in his cow pasture and the entire flock lifted and changed course. I looked over at Scott in time to see him unload into the flock that had previously had my name on it. He crunched one that lawn-darted directly out in front of him. In the chaos, a juvenile had taken a sharp turn and made his way back over Scott's head where he was promptly shot down. Scott had won the battle against the *******ized prehistoric storks. We made it a point to put the guns down and go toe-to-toe with the rained out crane. There is nothing more satisfying than Crane-kicking an actual Crane. It did however put up a valiant attempt... It fought like a man, and lost like one too.
I was satisfied with what we'd done. Mentally drained and worn out, I looked to Scott for a decision to end the trip, full of duck meat and happy... But I should have known. Unlike my Swan, Scott didn't just come for a Crane, he came for as many Cranes as the law allowed him to bring home, and damn him, he aimed to do it.
So the second Crane episode started with hours of driving, relocating the flocks, looking at other flocks, and trying to strategize the death thereof. Finally, Scott (who by the way has an extraordinary eye for those things) spotted a flock down at the edge of a scrubby field bordered by freshly sprouted wheat. They were at least (and this is no exaggeration) 1/2 mile from the section road sitting out in the open with sentries posted at every strategic point along the way. Scott said, "Ok man, you ready?" I knew he was going to try it...
Guys, I'm not going to mince words here. I take a LOT of pride in my ability to sneak waterfowl. I've grown up sneaking as many as I decoy in Virginia and some years I may actually shoot MORE that way. I've snuck everything from Teal to Turkeys and about everything in between... And in my book, this sneak was impossible. It was completely flat. NO COVER on the way out to 'em and the ONLY thing I saw in between flat ground and the flock of Cranes was a tiny clump of tall grass about 1/3 mile out. I looked at Scott and said, "Uh, man, I dunno know about this one dude. I think I'm gonna chill in the truck." I was kind of hoping that Scott would get the hint that I thought it was hopeless, because I really did think that. Really.
What I saw next may have been the single most memorable display of stealth tactics that I have ever witnessed. It was like watching one man march into battle against impossible odds. I was seriously pulling for him despite my doubts. Before this goes any further, let's talk about a Sandhill Crane for a second. These birds have had their migration plans routed here in the Midwest long before any ****-sapien ever walked on ice from Siberia to Alaska... They are literally the oldest known existing species of bird in existence... I'd say that pretty much gives them homefield advantage. Secondly, their eyes are bigger than a hawk's. I'm not sure if any actual biological confirmation has been made about their superior eyesight, but I can tell you all that my mind is damn well made up about it. We blew half a dozen sneaks over 500 yards away, and we were in tree lines wearing camo... WHAT GIVES?!? Folks, they're crazy. They're like a Blue Heron on Crystal Meth AND there's a bunch of 'em all working together... Primary objective: Avoid humans at all costs.
Ok, so there went Scott out in the middle of what looked like my lawn to "sneak" up on these Cranes. Using nothing but the one tiny clump of grass as a sight breaker, he walked right into their living room. My heart was racing looking through the binos and my gun was still in the case! Once again, I saw the tumble of a Crane and panic in the flock way before I heard the shots... That's a neat thing to see. With my jaw in my lap, I watched as Scott crept within 25 yards of a group of standing Cranes, flushed 'em and popped a perfect specimen...UNREAL right? Well it gets worse, just to keep instride, he reloaded and ducked down as part of the string wheeled back over his head where he then picked out a beautiful red-headed adult (his third one of the trip) and tore it down. Counting his two from the previous hunt, AND all alone, my friend Scott Sharp, defied all logic and shot his possession limit of Sandhill Cranes in less than two days. All I could manage to say for the next half an hour was, "I seriously can't believe you just did that." A little frustrated with my lack of producing a Crane I sat back and let it be what it was... Those were Scott's "Swans". But, just in case there was any doubt that we hadn't killed everything we set out to, he put us smack in the middle of MORE CRANES.
After a very tricky sneak down wind from a flock of Cranes near a Standing cornfield, we crawled and crawled until we were directly underneath birds decoying to the live flock. A group of five approached unexpectedly from the side, I stood and punched out my first Sandhill Crane. It was Scott's final "I told you so". I swear I think I'd have had to held him back from trying to fight those things heads up with his fists. He'd have won that fight too.
In the end, the trip was ultimately complete. We called ourselves out, the pressure was on, and we both let it go to our heads until we were finished. Dynamic duo?
You be the judge...
Enjoy the pictures fellas,
Your friend,
Jacob
P.S. - pics will be up as soon as Scott loads 'em...
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My first decoy trailer 
Re: Back from our pilgrimage... SUCCESS!
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