From the Editor

Thinking back on it, my first duck hunt really wasn't much of a hunt. It was late October in the Catskills, and my uncle and I had succumbed to rumors that mallards were using the swamp on the west side of our club's property. In those days we didn't see a lot of ducks, so the lure of something "different" simply had been too much for my uncle. For me, a 12-year-old budding hunter, any excuse to get afield was a good one.

My uncle was a deer and turkey hunter, not a waterfowler, and I don't believe he owned a duck call, let alone a working decoy. What he did have, however, was a thorough

knowledge of the club grounds and a pretty good idea of where ducks would want to be. So in the early afternoon of a crisp fall day we donned our Army-surplus camo (Jim Crumley had yet to release his inspirational Trebark), pulled on our hipboots and set out.

The swamp was a large grassy affair that had encircled a pond before the dam had given way. A stream meandered through the middle, and we picked our way along its banks until reaching a wide spot that my uncle thought would look good to ducks from the air. With overhanging grass to help conceal us, we hunkered down beside a slight sandbar with our backs against the steep bank.

And there we sat. And waited. And sat and waited some more. For about three hours we did nothing but talk (in hushed voices of course) and laugh and tell stories-always with our eyes to the sky, although there wasn't much to watch, save the scuttling clouds and the occasional hawk or crow. As I remember it, the time seemed to fly by, for I was with one of my favorite people, and it was like there was no one else on Earth.

Near the end of the afternoon we did spy a pair of ducks as they came winging over the treeline and skirted the swamp's edge. They circled once, coming close enough that we could tell they were a hen and a drake, and though we did our best to push ourselves into the bank and become one with the swamp, they saw something they didn't like and beelined back over the trees to parts unknown.

After that confidence waned quickly, and talk turned to supper and what we would do the next day. The light began fading, and my uncle must have noticed me getting antsy, for he turned and said, "So do you want to shoot it?" He was referring to the 10-gauge

Winchester Model 1901 lever gun he'd toted into the swamp-and he knew the answer before asking.

Those were the days before I legally could carry a gun, and my shooting had been limited to plinking with air rifles and .22s. Here was a chance to shoot a "man's gun"-even if at a mere cattail on the opposite bank.

My uncle handed me the behemoth, and I did my best to shoulder it while propping the barrel on my knee. He then pulled back the hammer and told me the gun was ready to fire. I took careful aim, squeezing the trigger just as I'd been taught . . . .

The next thing I knew there was a blinding flash and a deafening roar, and the recoil drove me back into the dirt. I don't recall whether I even hit the cattail, but I did hold onto the gun, and after my head had cleared, I turned to my uncle and grinned. I felt that I had performed some rite of passage-and for the next two weeks I wore the bruises on my cheek and shoulder with pride.

This fall, some 30-plus seasons later, I'll be thinking of that hunt as I wait patiently in a different swamp many miles away. I've taken my share of ducks in the interim, but no hunt has been more memorable than that quiet afternoon in New York. For me, hunting never has been about stacking up game, but rather about spending time with friends and getting the most out of every experience. Perhaps that first duck hunt taught me that at the end of the day, it's not what's in the bag that's important, but what's in the heart.

Our November/December issue, like last year's, is dedicated to waterfowling and

contains our Special Waterfowl Guide. In addition to features on duck and goose hunting, we've included articles on the continent's top 'fowling hotspots and some great new gear to take afield this season. We hope you find the information useful.

Whether this is your fifth season or your fiftieth-or whether you're introducing a new hunter to the sport this fall-we want to wish you a safe and successful year. And may all of the memories you make be good ones.

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