From the Editor

There's a stream about 20 minutes from the house where we've spent many a duck opener for the past dozen years. It's small water, with an occasional riffle but mostly slow current slipping through deep, dark pools. The grassy banks support alders, spruce and oaks, which hover over the flow plunking acorns into the depths. This manna from heaven attracts the wood ducks that trade up and down the course, and the wood ducks, in turn, attract us.

Last opening day found us scuffing through a frosted blueberry field en route to a favorite stretch of the stream. Perhaps it was the nip in the air or the sense of the season's first "real" hunt, but Auger seemed more enthusiastic than ever. He raced around out front, flitting in and out of the flashlight beam and generally making a nuisance of himself. I didn't mind, though, as shooting light was a half-hour off, and, hey, who could blame a dog for getting excited about the opener?

In 15 minutes we were set up on a grassy bar where a break in the foliage afforded a clear view skyward. The window of opportunity was small, so it would be classic pass-shooting-at ducks screaming by at treetop height.

Auger was sitting beside me, and by legal shooting time he was a quivering bundle of nerves. I was looking at him and laughing when his eyes shifted skyward, and I turned to see a squadron of five ducks already halfway through my shooting lane. I cursed under my breath as they disappeared without so much as a salute.

A minute later a second group came by, skimming the crowns on the opposite shore. This time I was ready, but the ducks were too far to shoot. They whistled by, and I could hear them squealing downstream as they searched out a safe retreat.

It wasn't until the third flock showed that I was offered a shot, and I was able to concentrate on the near bird, swing ahead and splash it into the flat water. Auger was away before the shot's echo had died, and in a moment was back with the bird. One beautiful hen woodie in the bag.

The action slowed quickly after that, and eventually my watch showed enough time for a sneak or two before I'd have to head home and to work.

The plan was to steal downstream, occasionally slipping to the water's edge to glass for birds, and we'd covered about a half-mile when I spied a flock dabbling in the distance. An end-around brought us within a hundred yards of the ducks, at which point I "Whoa'd" Auger for the final stalk.

In five minutes I'd cut the distance in half, but as I was plotting my final move, I heard the pitter patter of little feet. There was Auger, crouched and slinking toward me, obviously wanting a piece of the action. He made it to 25 yards before our eyes met-at which point he froze, looking like he'd been caught with his paws in the biscuit jar.

"Whoa," I hissed, holding up my hand like a traffic cop.

When I was confident he would stay, I turned back to the stream and slipped ahead, now spotting ripples and the forms of several ducks amongst half-submerged branches. The cover petered out 10 yards from the bank, so I simply checked my gun, gathered my composure, and stood and strode forward.

The birds launched in one squealing protest, but I remained focused on the drake I'd been eyeing. I shouldered my gun and, after missing with my first shot, was able to recover and keep swinging, catching up with the duck on the far side of a snag. My second shot sent him sailing into the grass on the opposite shore.

Auger was in the water instantly, searching between the banks. Five minutes later he was still searching. I had begun worrying that I'd have to wade across myself when I was able to influence him toward the far shore with a stick-whereupon he suddenly thrust his nose in the air, scaled the bank and began snuffling in the weeds. A moment later the search intensified, followed by a brief, frantic chase, spasmodic flapping, and Auger swimming back with one of the most handsome drakes I've ever seen.

Watching him cross the stream with that duck was a defining moment for me-a culmination of teamwork, training and an intense desire to succeed. It also reflected a bond forged out of mutual respect and a passion for the hunt. It was a sight I'll treasure always.


And with that, I give you our annual hunting dogs issue-SSM's fourth celebration of the canines who run our lives. Each year this special section has grown in popularity, and we hope it continues to resonate with dogmen everywhere. We've sure enjoyed putting it together.

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