FIGHTING THE FLOOD
The first flood of winter is always the most productive time for ducks, however the conditions made Richard Brigham’s evening on an inland marsh almost too exciting
The first flood of winter can be productive, but the rising water almost made it too exciting for Richard Brigham.
It was just the weather for ducks! With constant steady rain and the odd downpour thrown in for good measure, Friday had been dismal. Taking time to filter down to the low ground, the valley was just beginning to flood the next day. With the water came the ducks, although with the levels peaking in the early hours of Sunday morning, they wouldn’t be there for long. And just a few hours later, the flow was almost imperceptibly moving back towards the river.
On this tiny inland marsh, the first flood of winter is often the most productive in terms of attracting ducks. Masses of earthworms, insects, grubs and bugs are washed out and float together with weed and reed seeds in a rich duck soup. The timing could definitely have been better. The water started to recede and the best I could hope for was a brief evening flight the next day, providing sufficient open water held up. The muddy aftermath still made access difficult – treacherous in places – particularly on the cattle-trodden areas and pathways across the dykes. It’s one thing wading thigh-deep on firm ground, but quite another on a soft and slippery mud bottom – and even more so in the dark!
the place to be
Scouting out the marsh mid-afternoon there were several shallow splashes that still remained, with a few ducks busy on an open area dotted with clumps of spiky rush. A handful of mallard were upending along the margins, their chattering accompanied by the occasional whistle of a cock wigeon. It was certainly the only place to be, but reaching it meant somehow crossing the main marsh dyke. Getting over at this point in winter always adds a bit of excitement when the water’s up, but looked just about possible in thigh boots. Getting back in the dark could be a different story, even without the help of a sharp overnight storm a few miles upriver potentially boosting the levels. Hopefully it wouldn’t rise while I was out!
With water lapping the top of the waders, I only just made it across, but once clear of the dyke it was only knee
deep until reaching the largest splash. There were plenty of preened feathers at the water’s edge – a few greylag among them – adding the possibility of some turning up later when heading back up the valley to roost. With few places to hide, a small tripod stool helped me to crouch rather less prominently among a convenient patch of rush, where the camouflaged jacket would hopefully blend in reasonably well as the light began to fail.
Little movement yet
Tethering a few decoys in front I settled in. Though soft underfoot, keeping still prevented the stool from sinking in too much; though it’s not easy when you’re constantly turning to check the sky. But apart from the occasional passing woodpigeon, little was moving yet.
Barely skimming the surface, a bittern came winging across the marsh in its familiar bouncing flight. This particular character often feeds at the top end of a nearby spring – now lost in the floods – spending the daylight hours among the surrounding sedges picking off fish fry, water bugs and an unwary froglet or two before floating off across the marsh like a ghostly grey shadow to the nearby lake. Thirty yards away, it dropped its feet, flapped briefly while testing the water’s depth, and finally touched down delicately on a protruding tangle of bent sedge. Spotting the nearest decoys, it froze, spending quite some time studying their lack of movement. Finally deciding there was no threat, the bird relaxed visibly, stood and preened for a while, then suddenly made up its mind and waded off resolutely to search the nearby drain – lost almost immediately among a backcloth of browning sedge. They’re funny old things, regularly overwintering on these marshes since I was a kid, where they live secret lives among the cold, watery world of reed-lined dykes.
First ducks
Four ducks circled widely against a bright patch of sky. They flew like gadwall; dropping fast towards a narrow splash 100 yards away, but at the very last moment seemed to spot the decoys, continued on and came flickering towards them low. Almost in, the bunch flared suddenly off to the left, but the gun went up smoothly to take the nearest sideways on. It hit the marsh right at the edge of the main drain, disappearing into a pool of liquid mud. With only a wing-tip visible, I teased out what looked like a solid blob of mud. A quick rinse in the main drain revealed an elegant drake, an ideal candidate for taxidermy. My hands needed a good wash too, as there’s nothing worse when handling your gun and cartridges.
The next small lot to appear were wigeon. Some years they turn up quite regularly here inland, in others they do not, but often keep mainly to the open lakes, grazing the banks and offering few chances of a shot. This lot came in silently and fast, but again I could only manage a single as they flared from my makeshift hide.
goose retrieve
Immediately, there was the sound of geese – about a dozen greylags cackling homewards up the valley! Soon they were over the marsh, quite low with the probable intention of coming in, but hesitant after the recent shots. Deciding
against it, I flattened myself against the rushes as the small skein lifted to turn back over the river. Only just passing in range, a single caught the tail-ender right under the chin, sending it crashing into the shallows just on the safe side of the boundary ditch. Though stone dead, the bird had to be picked immediately, before it could float away out of reach.
It was almost dusk when the first of the mallard came back; a couple of tight groups totaling a dozen or so. Scouting around high, they were reluctant to come lower, continuing to circle warily as I hugged the rushes, keeping low and following their progress by the sound
“It was a genuine relief to have firm ground under my feet at last on the uphill climb home”
of whistling wings. After circling really wide, everything went quiet until there was a sudden swish overhead as a bunch whiffled in close from behind. Throwing the gun up caused immediate panic, but an easy drake crumpled at the first shot. The second – taken rather too quickly – went well adrift, leaving just time to get another cartridge in and complete the brace with an instinctive snapshot directly overhead.
Rising water?
The two dark shapes lay safely in open water. Watching closely, for some reason they seemed to be drifting slowly upstream. Was the water level rising? I hoped not! Testing the direction of the flow, with a bunch of floating grass, confirmed it was, and the light was going fast. The sky also looked full of something unpleasant that was definitely heading my way. It was time to go, but impossible to hurry on the boggy ground where every step needed testing, and soon there was barely enough light to collect the decoys. Only minutes later the rain came on. With everything safely picked up, packed, and slung over my shoulders, it was heavy going with the added weight of the bag. I was almost beginning to wish I hadn’t shot the goose.
It took ages to reach the main dyke, where my worst fears were realized. Despite several attempts, I just couldn’t find enough firm ground to get across without filling the waders, and though my gun slip is the floating type, I was less than keen to try it out! Avoiding panic in what was now almost pitch darkness, commonsense solved the problem easily by dropping both the duck carrier and the goose into the water, thus cutting down the weight. Floating them across behind me was just enough to avoid filling the waders – simple as that!
Too exciting
Once over I calmed down, and by taking it one step at a time slowly the submerged bridge across the boundary drain thankfully came in sight, where it was plain to see the floodwater was now rising visibly again, noticeably higher than on the way out.
Sometimes, these sort of conditions can be almost too “exciting”, particularly in rising water on a dark winter’s night, and it was a genuine relief to have firm ground under my feet at last on the uphill climb towards home.