One Year Later: Remembering Buddy

He died on a Wednesday at 8:47 a.m. 

I hustled Buddy’s 68 pounds from my truck’s passenger seat into the vet’s office and laid him on the stainless steel table, his aged and atrophied body on full display. 

I can still feel him cradled in my arms, how his dead weight felt heavier than I expected. 

He could no longer walk or control any of his bodily functions. His breathing was sporadic and labored. For each breath, his diaphragm would hit bottom with a muffled thud and contract ever so slightly. He moaned with each exhale, like he had repeatedly the night before. 

“He won’t feel a thing,” said the veterinarian. “He’ll drift off like he’s going to sleep. He won’t feel a thing.” 

As Buddy lay on the table, I looked into his eyes, his cold nose pressed against my own. Buddy had that unmistakable 10,000-mile stare, the kind soldiers get when they’ve seen too much combat. Buddy’s eyes were glossy and lifeless and resigned. The cancer, diagnosed only two short weeks before, was, little by little, stealing him from me.   

Birthday Bluebills for Delta’s Jim Fisher

An Epic Hunt at Mysterious ‘Lake X’

When Jim Fisher’s alarm went off Sunday morning, he hit the snooze button. Actually, he turned it off completely. It was his 44th birthday, after all, and he figured a little extra sleep would do his body good.

“My intentions were good, but I was too bloody tired to get up and hunt,” said Fisher, Delta’s director of conservation policy. “I spent most of Saturday on year-end yard duty, so I wasn’t moving as fast as normal and figured I’d sleep in a little before I went out. When I woke up, I was chomping at the bit.”

The day was shaping up nicely: a blustery weather system that would eventually bring the year’s first blanket of snow had Fisher with visions of bluebills dancing in his head. By 2:30 p.m., he and Mike Claussen, a friend and Delta member from Winnipeg, headed out for an undisclosed body of water.

“Where did you hunt,” I asked.

“Lake X,” he said.

“Lake X? Where’s Lake X?”

“Lake X is where I hunted.”

Hunting Etiquette 101

There are many joys to waterfowl hunting, not least of which is spending a quiet morning in the duck blind, working the occasional flock of birds into shotgun range as the morning sunrise bleeds across the horizon in multi-chromatic splendor.

What’s not so pleasant is sitting quietly in a duck blind and having steel shot from an unscrupulous group of waterfowlers rain down on you like a hail storm.

Such was the case a few years back while hunting a state wildlife area near Sacramento, California.

My group managed to navigate the early-morning fog deep into this increasingly popular piece of public land, after which we set up decoys and waited for shooting time to commence.

We made our presence acutely known, talking loudly and waving our flashlights in every direction. Soon, another group of hunters, apparently oblivious to our presence (that’s my diplomatic interruption, anyway), set up 50 to 75 yards from us in the same hole.

At shooting time, a flock of widgeon, if memory serves, wheeled in the morning sky right between us, and a rapid volley of shotgun blasts echoed across the marsh. We didn’t fire a shot, but our friends certainly did, sending nontoxic pellets into our blind.

“Incoming,” someone yelled. We all scrambled as the pellets started to land.

The short story: Hunting public land is a self-regulating enterprise, and we regulated the situation. Still, we got lucky; the above mini drama was an accident, perhaps even a serious one, waiting to happen.

Tips for Gaining Hunting Access on Private Land

My dream the other night—a true story, incidentally—is Freudian confirmation that the hunting season is close. Very close.

Standing in the cab of his combine, I was asking a farmer permission to hunt his land. 

It was a perfect evening in late October. Minutes before, just outside his long, meandering driveway, I sat in my truck and watched mallards by the dozens pitch into a low spot in his corn field. I couldn’t see the water, but I knew it was partially flooded.

I wanted that spot locked up for the morning, and I was ready, if duty called, to beg and/or grovel to seal the deal. I was salivating.

The good news: I didn’t have to beg. The bad news: I didn’t have to beg. He turned me down coldly and dispassionately before I could open my mouth.

“It’ll never happen again,” he said, referring to a group of hunters who tore up parts of his fields and minimum maintenance roads. “I’m not giving permission to hunt my land anymore.”

Ouch. Getting rebuffed stung, but he had a point: We hunters can be our own worst enemies.

A Lovin’ Spoonful - ‘Hollywood Mallard’ Magazine Cover Causes Stir

It feels like a popular uprising, spoonie lovers from across the continent coming out of the closet and professing their love for the “Hollywood Mallard.”

In case you’ve yet to see it, we put a northern shoveler, aka spoonbill, on the cover of our summer magazine. The musings on our Facebook page have been uniformly positive, even amorous. In fact, we haven’t had one unfavorable response.

Wrote Mike Wise: “I like seeing the ‘hollywood mallard’ on the cover. Nice change and nice lookin’ bird in my opinion.”

Wrote Cole Wesley: “Got my first one last fall. Nice big drake, one of the better looking birds around.”

Wrote James Upton: “Botox mallard, lov Em.”

Wrote: Jon Steward: “LOVE ‘the always willing to decoy’ Shoveler! They smile all the way to the blind! Contrary to common belief, they are VERY good eating.”

While the masses are heaping lovin’ spoonfuls on the oft-disrespected spoonie, they’re also shredding conventional wisdom that every magazine cover must feature a drake mallard, pintail, canvasback or some other “sexy” bird.

Five Good Reasons to Buy Two Federal Duck Stamps

What’s the most inexpensive way to improve waterfowl habitat and secure the future of waterfowl hunting?

I’d start by purchasing a Federal Migratory Bird Hunting and Conservation Stamp, commonly called the duck stamp, which all migratory bird hunters are required to purchase. In fact, I’d buy two. Let me explain.

I was rereading some old stories recently, including a piece I wrote on the duck stamp, and how its price—currently $15—hadn’t been increased since 1991, the longest stretch in its history.

Despite overwhelming support from a diverse range of hunting and conservation groups, a federal proposal to raise the price (to roughly $25) has withered on the vine in Washington D.C. since 2008. 

The likelihood the U.S. Congress increases the price in the near future is slim and none. But waterfowl hunters don’t need a government edict to make a difference, and that’s why many in recent years have begun to purchase two duck stamps. In fact, Delta Waterfowl President Rob Olson endorsed the idea in 2005. 

“If every duck hunter in America purchases two federal duck stamps this fall, it would double the amount of money available to the prairie breeding grounds to protect critical waterfowl habitat,” said Olson, in a press release. “The duck stamp has done more to secure waterfowl habitat than any other waterfowl conservation program on the continent.”

Got Duck Breasts? A Recipe with a Savory, Saucy Kick

Cooking Wild Magazine

My last post about Alice Knows Best and her delicious roasted duck (which I turned into shoe leather, in case you missed it) inspired a healthy response.

In fact, they’re still trickling in.

Several of you sent in terrific, drool-inspiring waterfowl recipes, most of which I’ll profile in this space over the next several months. However, most responses were requests for new, creative ways to prepare duck breasts, a common theme for many waterfowl hunters.

Although I’m a staunch advocate of preparing whole birds (or at least preparing their individual parts: breasts, legs, thighs, not to mention livers and hearts), recipes featuring duck breasts are enormously popular. What waterfowler, after all, doesn’t have the stray vacuum-sealed package of duck breasts in his or her freezer?

As I searched for some new recipes, I happened upon the Web site for Cooking Wild magazine (www.cookingwildmagazine.com), the publisher of which is April Donald of Livermore, California.

I hit the “recipe” tab and found this Deep South-inspired beauty: chicken fried duck breast with Mmm spicy ketchup, courtesy of John Gurnee, a sous chef at Tyler Florence’s Wayfare Tavern in San Francisco.

Founded in January 2010, Cooking Wild magazine is gaining traction with hardcore foodies, especially hunters and anglers who believe eating what they kill isn’t something you merely do, but a calling.

April isn’t a hunter herself, although, she says, she’s been around blood sport her entire life. Her husband hunts, as do other members of her family. Starting a magazine devoted to preparation of wild foods seemed as natural as nature itself.

I prepared the recipe last weekend, with duck breasts supplied by a good friend. I followed its instructions to the letter, with two exceptions: I kicked up the spicy ketchup with some red pepper flakes and turned the duck breasts into duck fingers.

The verdict: drooling-inspiring terrific. Give it a whirl.

Roasted Duck: Alice Knows Best

Start Your Culinary Journey Today

It's all a matter of degree.

I remember learning that lesson the hard way. I was "preparing" my first mallard, a jumbo-sized, grain-fattened drake that I shot from a coffin blind in a South Dakota cornfield.

A good friend and I went on an epic cross-country scouting mission the night before, and needless to say we found a very respectable late-season feed of impervious-to-winter mallards.

About three inches of snow had already blanketed the ground. The temperature had dipped into the teens for about a week. And most water sources, except for the largest of the large, were frozen. Still, with any luck, we figured one good hunt—the year's swan song, we thought—was at hand.

We weren't disappointed (that, incidentally, would come several hours later).

The short story: We each killed four burly greenheads and called it a year. That afternoon I dressed the birds and plucked one specifically for the roasting pan.

I had my grandmother on my mind; Alice (yes, I called my grandmother by her first name!) had perfected roasted duck. The skin was always crispy and the meat was fall-off-the-bone tender and succulent. The mere thought of Alice's oven-roasted duck sent my salivary glands into involuntarily release, like water spilling from a dam.

I was pumped to get in the kitchen and begin my gastronomic journey.

I filled the birds' cavity with quartered apples and onions, massaged the skin with a prepared dry rub, placed the mallard in the roasting pan, and added some braising liquid for good measure.

The oven was already preheated. The temperature: 475 degrees. I followed Alice's directions to the letter. Or so I thought.

One major problem: I over-shot the oven temperature by 200 degrees. Instead of cooking the bird low and slow I roasted it hot and fast. Who knew oven temperature mattered so much?

The ‘Strait’ Skinny: Jeff Foiles on the Hot Seat

Celebrity Waterfowler Facing Serious Charges in U.S., Canada

I remember, and vividly so, the first time I met Jeff Foiles.

It was at Game Fair, the popular late-summer outdoor show near Anoka, Minnesota. A semi-circle had formed around Foiles, who was wearing a lanyard thick with his designer Strait Meat calls and glittery waterfowl bands, the spoils of his many years of gunning. The shoulder-to-shoulder scrum, mostly young duck hunters acting like star-struck groupies, were hanging on his every word, like he had just discovered the cure for cancer.

The adulation of these twenty-something waterfowlers shocked me and clearly tickled Foiles. I had never seen such blind hero worship for anyone, let alone someone who for a living guided hunters, manufactured calls and produced hunting videos.

He's not JC, I remember thinking.

For the first time as a reporter, I watched the celebrity waterfowling culture reveal itself, and Jeff Foiles was its Pied Piper. He held court that day like he had just been given the keys to the kingdom; like he was entitled to something long overdue. The entire mini drama curdled my stomach (it still does), but Foiles was merely basking in his celebrity and leveraging his momentum. His calls were hot. His videos too. And his stature in the waterfowling industry was growing as fast as his ego. With a blend of arrogance and narcissism put at odds only by an occasional nod to modesty, Foiles seemed to be living—and enjoying—the good life.

USDA Announces New CRP Signup; Will Prairie-nesting Ducks Benefit? Not likely

Let’s start with the illusion of good news: The U.S. Department of Agriculture, for the second time in as many years, has announced a new general Conservation Reserve Program (CRP) signup for interested landowners.

The USDA would like to enroll 4 million acres into the program, so says Agriculture Secretary Tom Vilsack. The new acres will be put on the rolls in October.

Now the bad news: Roughly 4.4 million CRP acres are set to expire in 2011, which means a net loss of roughly 400,000 acres. What’s more, over the next few years, a slew of expiring CRP contracts will occur in the Prairie Pothole Region (PPR), AKA the duck factory of the Dakotas and parts of Montana and Minnesota.

Translation: Prairie-nesting birds (game and nongame) in general and ducks in particular will lose thousands upon thousands of acres of indispensable grassland habitat, the consequences of which will affect hunters, especially duck hunters throughout the U.S., in the years ahead.

My Ongoing Brush with Blindness - An Eye-opening Experience? I’d Say

My fly-fishing buddy Wade sent me an email several months back. He was wondering why I haven’t made a blog post since September. Yes, September.

“I haven’t seen an update on your blog in quite some time,” he wrote. “You must have had a few things to write about after a fall of chasing ducks around?”

Two weeks ago Wade sent me another email, asking me if I wanted to take a trip to the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness in Ely, Minnesota, where in year’s past we’ve canoed and camped and, most importantly, fly-fished for smallmouth bass, those freshwater street fighters of the piscatorial world.

I’ve been remiss in not returning Wade’s emails, and I’ve been remiss in not responding to some of the many dispatches—emails, letters, phone calls—that I’ve received over the last several months from readers wondering why I fell off the grid.

In the last eight months, I’ve had four surgeries to repair a detached retina in my left eye. Forgive me for playing the sympathy card, but this entire ordeal has been as pleasant as gargling a cocktail of battery acid and antifreeze.

Hunting Doves with King Lear

I snuck out at sunup the other morning to hunt doves for an hour. My ageless wonder, Buddy the Black Lab, made the trip too.

Actually Buddy the Black Lab isn’t really black anymore—far from it. Entering the backstretch of his 11th year, Buddy has aged into the canine version of King Lear. So says a friend who has a particular high Shakespearian IQ. “He (Buddy) looks like King Lear,” she said in an email not long ago. “Unbelievable. I can’t believe how he’s changed. He’s an old man.”

I look at Buddy’s photos from years past and I don’t even recognize His Majesty. He went from charcoal black to geriatric white in seemingly record time. The good news: Buddy, despite his age, is the happiest dog you’ll ever meet; always has been, likely always will be. Instead of growing more jaded and curmudgeonly over time like I have, Buddy has mellowed and gotten only happier. Dogs, especially labs, are remarkable that way.

What’s more, Buddy’s desire to hunt is still insatiable. Unlike King Lear (so the play goes), Buddy has no designs on retiring and ceding his power; he’d rather hunt until his last breath (or until his arthritis cripples him permanently, whichever comes first).

Blogging for Delta? Fred made me do it

I blame Fred Greenslade.

I blame Fred Greenslade for all the time I don’t have to fly-fish and hunt; for all the time I don’t have to read my growing stack of books, and for the all the time I don’t have to pursue an adequate social life.

Fred is Delta Waterfowl’s award-winning photographer, genius webmaster and my good, good buddy.

He works long, long hours for Delta, doing many, many things, including bugging the *&#$ out of me on occasion.

“You should start a blog,” he emailed several months back, his first salvo in a carpet-bombing campaign to steal away what remains of my already-limited free time. “You’d like it. God knows you have a lot to say. Besides, it would be fun. You need to do this.”

I didn’t respond. I thought he was nuts, insane, mad. Another crazy Canadian, I mused. Way too much on my plate already. Too many “opportunities.” Start writing a blog? Fo’get about it.

A few days later another email popped happily into my inbox, the subject line of which read: Blog. I spiked it. Then the voicemails started: “Hey man, about that blog…”