The Guided Duck Hunter

Waterfowl guides. Who needs 'em, anyway?

"Holy John Browning!" I yelped. I had been standing on the edge of the river, trying to pull our old johnboat off the trailer. The old tub had a way of sticking to the runners on cold mornings. That day she was stuck tighter than a seed tick. When she broke loose, she came at me like a runaway freight car. I stumbled backward, flailing my arms. Thankfully, by working an acre or so of river water into a froth, I was able to stay on my feet. But the damage was done. Water had skimmed in over the top of my waders and soaked my long johns to the knees.

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