The air was razor-sharp that morning, the kind of cold that settles deep into your bones and makes you understand why sane people choose to stay in bed. I cinched my waders a little tighter and slung my shotgun over my shoulder. The flooded timber spread out in front of me, the water’s surface glazed with a thin layer of ice that gleamed under the first light of dawn.
Hunting ducks in flooded timber isn’t a game of patience; it’s a game of movement, grit, and an unhealthy tolerance for discomfort. With each step, I had to break through the ice, the shards crackling like glass around my insulated waders. It wasn’t graceful. Every few steps, I’d use the butt of my shotgun to clear the thicker sections, chipping away at the stubborn frost like some half-mad ice sculptor. The noise echoed through the woods, loud enough to make me wince, but there was no other way to push forward.
The water wasn’t deep—just high enough to make you feel vulnerable, like the swamp was testing your resolve. I trudged on, my breath hanging heavy in the frigid air, scanning the canopy for any sign of movement. The flooded timber was eerie in the morning light, the skeletal trees casting long shadows over the ice-coated water. It was beautiful in a way that made you feel small, insignificant, and utterly alive.
The first wood ducks caught me off guard, appearing like ghosts from the tangle of trees. They zipped through the timber with an agility I’ll never understand, their wings slicing the cold air. I raised the shotgun, steadying myself as best I could on the uneven bottom. The shot rang out, shattering the quiet, and one of the birds tumbled down, crashing through the ice before disappearing into the water.
Wading out to retrieve it was an adventure in itself. The ice crackling around me with every step. When I finally reached the duck, I marveled at its beauty—the rich browns and greens of its feathers glinting even in the dim light. It was a humbling moment, as it always is, holding something so wild and perfect.
I kept moving, carving my way through the frozen timber, the weight of the first duck pulling slightly on my shoulder. The second came about twenty minutes later. I caught it flying low, weaving through the trees like it knew this land better than I ever could. Another shot, another splash, another trek through the freezing water to claim my prize.
By late morning, the sun had started to creep higher, and the ice was beginning to thin in spots. I stopped for a moment, leaning against a tree, and pulled out the thermos of coffee I’d packed. It was lukewarm by then, but I didn’t care. Even slightly warm coffee is the nectar of the gods when you’re standing knee-deep in freezing water.
I didn’t shoot again that day. However, two birds was more than enough. It wasn’t about the number of ducks, anyway—it never is. It’s about the challenge, the quiet moments between the chaos, and the raw, unfiltered beauty of being out there in the thick of it.
As I made my way back through the timber, the ice groaning beneath my boots, I felt a deep sense of satisfaction. Not just from the hunt, but from the struggle it took to make it happen. It’s not comfortable, it’s not easy, and it sure as hell isn’t glamorous. But it’s real. And in a world that feels increasingly artificial, that’s enough for me.
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