DUCK FEVER The thrill of shooting waterfowl
…is a real affliction!
EVERY time I cross the bridge over the Sundays River my eyes automatically gaze northward towards the area anglers call the koppie, and old memories come flooding back. You see it was on those distant river banks that I shot my very first duck. On that rainy day in 1960, three of us had permission to hunt on a farm that ran from the river up over the escarpment and beyond. We were still rank amateur hunters, though we had shot some guineafowl, francolin and quail. So there we were, three soaking wet young fellows, keen as mustard, plodding through the dripping bush hoping to get a shot at... heck, anything.
In the late afternoon, while my friends chatted with the farmer, I took my old Greener 12-bore double down to the river to check out some old lands for guineafowl. Finding no birds, I strolled along the river where I’d spent so many happy hours fishing. As I recalled the wonderful night a friend and I caught eighteen spotted grunter during a run, I heard a lone quack and saw a solitary duck coming directly towards me. I mounted the shotgun and pulled off – boom – and the duck cartwheeled down. I hurried over and picked up my trophy, a yellow-billed duck, and for a while I silently admired its beautiful plumage. And that’s when I succumbed to the condition known as duck fever – the permanent desire to hunt wildfowl rather than any other species. As I write this, I can still smell the river, the muddy bank, the wet bush and the burnt powder.
My first regular duck outings began in the Alexandria district near Port Elizabeth. The big dairy farm there which mainly comprised open grazing veld and oats grown as cattle feed, attracted guineafowl and, in the spring, quail in their thousands. Also, there were five or six
dams scattered around the property. Only thing, the dams were far apart and I spent a great deal of time walking from one to another. Sometimes there would be a few duck on the water and, depending on your sneaking-up skills, you could get a shot in. I soon learned that if they took flight, they’d circle back and come swooping over at full speed, offering you a second chance.
Then I figured it would be easier if I chose the dam most favoured by the yellow-bills and simply waited for them to come to me. I even made a few simple wooden silhouette cut-out decoys painted black with bright yellow beaks which worked well. I also discovered that a lone Egyptian goose decoy set out on the bank convinced circling ducks that this was a nice safe place to rest. This ploy worked even better and sometimes also brought in a few Gyppos to the waiting muzzles of my shotgun.
One evening a neighbouring farmer said, “Heck, if you want to see ducks come to my place.” The Kareiga River ran through his farm and was home to countless ducks. Those words got the duck fever in my blood soaring sky-high. The very next weekend I was at his farm and what a ducky looking place the river was. Bush covered both banks but the river, not very wide, was full of open water and there wasn’t a squawkie in sight. Fortunately, I had brought my rooftop canoe and the young farmer paddled up the river, flushing ducks as he went along, while I hid on the bank. I guess I waited only about fifteen minutes before the first birds arrived, flying in single file, low over the water, giving me fantastic crossing shots. The blazing action was fast and furious. Four times I loaded and fired both barrels and when it was over, nine dead ducks floated on the river, meaning I had brought down two with one shot. It was the shortest duck hunt I have ever experienced.
L ater, I found another great duck-shooting spot on a citrus farm in the Gamtoos River valley. Over the years I spent many happy days camping at the idyllic spot, sometimes with a friend or two, other times with my wife and kids. In the early morning and evening the ducks provided good, though slow shooting – but who was in a hurry anyway? During the day we’d fish for carp, swim or mess around in the canoe. I spent a week camping there with a friend from England, and he taught me how to cook duck in orange sauce, curried carp cakes and rabbit stew (actually a scrub-hare).
Over the years my wanderings took me far afield and the varying terrains determined my methods. When shooting on large dams, I would select a hideout and get someone to approach the water
from the opposite direction to disturb the birds. If things went accordingly to plan, the sky would fill with ducks, geese, cormorants and coots. My targets were always yellow-billed ducks but sometimes I’d take Gyppos if they presented the only shots within range. This plan would work once in the morning and sometimes again in the evening if the various birds returned to spend the night. But on smaller dams or river banks, I would just sit and hope my decoys would lure in a few birds.
I also sneaked along bushy river banks and jump-shot ducks when they exploded from cover. You had to be quick on the trigger because in seconds a bird would be obscured by overhanging bush and surrounding trees. Jumpshooting ducks is exciting, with the added thrill of flushing cackling francolin which tests your nerves!
One day my local gun shop owner warned me about using nitro cartridges in my Damascus-barrelled Greener. So I bought a modern 12-bore double made by BSA. It was in fact a pre-war model that took the short 2½-inch cartridge – but at least it was nitro-proofed. I kept the old Greener and later hand-loaded black powder loads for it so I could take the old hammer gun on an occasional bird hunt.
I later retired both cartridge guns when I took up the challenge of using a muzzle-loader shotgun. Sure, with the muzzle-loader the loading process is slow and I shot fewer birds, but what’s the hurry?
I found that three drams of black powder behind 1⅛ ounces of number five or sixes brought a bird down just as fast (and dead) as a nitro load; and that goes for game birds of any size not counting spurwing geese.
When it comes to eating waterfowl I have tried everything I shot and consider the yellow-billed duck the only one worth eating. The little teal is a great sporting bird but I don’t like the taste, which I think they acquire from spending a lifetime in salt or brak water.
I never could figure out the best way to carry shot birds on a long walk-about. If I had shot just one or two birds I’d simply tuck the heads under my belt. But a bunch of birds had to be carried in one hand and the shotgun in the other. Finally I bought a stringer that hung over my shoulder and the heads of the birds were slipped into the little nooses on the end of the stringer. But walking with that weight swinging back and forth against your legs was both difficult and annoying. Next I tried a fancy shooting vest with a large pocket in the back intended to carry dead birds. But this too wasn’t very comfortable and I used the pocket mainly to carry personal items needed on a day out. At one stage I also tried carrying a canvas shoulder bag but gave it up because the weight of the birds pulling down on my one side threw me off balance. I never did find a solution to the carrying problem – except to shoot only one or two birds making them easy to carry. Why shoot more anyway? It’s being out there doing it that really counts.
Now, sixty years after downing that first duck, the fever still lingers and I yearn to sit once again on a quiet river bank watching the sky change colours as I wait to hear the squawk of an incoming duck.