Blinded!

My mental alarm got me up just before 0500 and then the physical alarm kicked in, not to be outdone by my not-so-smart-phone, buzzing with textual insistence above the din of the cheap made in China plastic clock. 

At this point you have two options. Turn the racket off and go back to sleep, in which case your position's likely to get overrun, or turn the din off, answer Putin's texts, get up, and advance to contact. I chose the latter option and one gassed up rig later I was on my way to a duck blind, somewhere in Texas.

I got there pretty much on time, after driving through the narrow, winding, pitch black rural roads of the Lone Star State, and walked across a field through fierce cold wind to the blind. Red light, camo, and a group of guys with guns in the enclosed metal space.

It brought me back to the army, the smell and the sight of it, along with the building adrenaline of putting those guns to work any time soon in the predawn. I liked that, I liked the strong black coffee that came with it, too.

Then, just before first light, calling began and several flocks of ducks flew over, fast overhead and out of range. Up! Front! A group of birds appeared like magic out of the half-light in front of the blind. A split second of action, the explosion and muzzle flash  of the guns, and it was over. 

I shot poorly but several birds were down and we waited for more. No joy. Perhaps the stiff chill wind and choppy water of the lake persuaded the ducks to look for a calmer place to land. Maybe an incoming cold front had altered their flight plan. Who knows.

What we do know is that it was worth getting up early and getting out in the field. Big fun. It might even make sense to bivvy up overnight and be in position to shoot the next day, which would save the drive but make for a cold evening. We'll see.

So, a good morning was had by all and then it was back to the Compound to regroup and the next evolution, visiting the sick. But that, readers, is another story.

Don't be a pathetic comsymp lib, LSP

Don't be a pathetic comsymp lib, get in the blind.

Gun rights,

LSP

Don't Go Blind

Get up before first light, scan the perimeter and head down the road to the Cowboy Church's men's prayer breakfast; good bunch of guys. Then visit the sick and drive back to the Compound to take care of business. A pretty regular Friday morning, and then I got the call.

"Hey, LSP, I've got oars."

"Oars?" I replied, sharp as a tack. 

"Yes, oars. To activate that boat. See you at the lease in an hour."

"Right on."

Look. Oars and a YETI. #TrumpsAmerica

Before too long I was staring at the old V Hull on the banks of the Big Pond, while GWB wrestled with oars. The idea being to get the thing in working order to serve as a short order duck craft and fishing boat. Get out there, round up those decoys and ducks and catch those monster bass, type of deal.

A Duck Hunter

Sure enough, the oars worked and worked well, though I dismally failed to catch anything. Still, it was neat to navigate the pond and check out potential places to shoot from the water.

Blind as a Bat 

Blue Champion had a good time too, rolling about in the field, challenging aggressive cows and generally carrying on like a dog. It was good for him to get out and though he's pretty blind these days it doesn't seem to faze him. He's well capable of running on nose and ears.

A Typical Blind

Recce patrol over, it was time to return to the Compound, "See you tomorrow at 0600," said GWB, who's an avid duck hunter. Well, I woke up at 0500 to the sound of pounding rain and promptly fell back to sleep.

Next time.

LSP

Vicarious Duck Hunting

"I'm off to the lease early," said my philisophical pal, GWB, "So I can shoot some ducks and get back to the metrosprawl for Mass." And that's what he did, see above.

I wanted to join in, too, but couldn't because of a funeral and a wedding, to say nothing of a burned hand. Speaking of which, my old friend, VCC (Veteran Crew Chief), who once turned out a roving band of motorcycle hippies from his stock tank, asked me how the hand was doing.

EMU

"How's that hand, LSP?"

"Better, but here's my advice."

"What's that?"

"Don't pour boiling oil on your fingers. If you do, they're good for nothing."

"Hey, you can always eat them."

A Typical Motorcycle Hippy

VCC tells me he enjoyed Laos, Cambodia and helicopters but didn't much like the military, or motorcycle hippies chancing it out of Austin. Regardless, for me, the hunting's vicarious. That will change.

Get out in the field.

LSP

Vicarious Hunting

GWB's new dog, Jeb & ducks

One of the reasons there hasn't been any hunting posts on this blog for far too long is that I haven't been out hunting. Riding? Yes. Shooting? Yes, but not as much as I'd like, mostly .22 plinking, to be honest.

But I can live vicariously through my linguistic philosopher friend GWB, who made good use of duck season to get out in the field with his new dog Jeb and a cheap but cheerful Mossberg 12 pump action ($150 from Academy).

Good duck result, GWB! Inspired now to get out and hunt once the weather clears.

Speaking of hunting, check out Whitetail Woods - Rick's excellent blog.

Written from the Ice Cave,

LSP