Hail, Columbia

The mercury stood glued to the freezing point as we slid the skiff off of the trailer and into the river. Accustomed to sub-zero waterfowling on spring-fed creeks in Montana, I shouldn't have been intimidated by the temperature. But the dense layer of ice fog shrouding the Columbia hid the sun and made the air feel as if the thermometer was stretching the truth by 20 degrees. As the outboard roared to life and we accelerated away from the bank, the chill cut straight through my woolens. When I pointed out that hunting divers on open water is traditionally a cold, miserable affair, my wife, Lori, fixed me... Read More »



with a pointed look from the bow. And who could blame her?
She'd been along when we'd tried this the previous December, as had been friend and hunting partner Michael Crowder, a well-educated wildlife biologist who oversees the nearby Barker Ranch, a model Ducks Unlimited habitat project in which my parents have held an interest for years. One would think that Michael's training and local knowledge coupled with my own decades of experience in the field would have produced a crack duck hunting team immune to stupid mistakes. But on our maiden voyage the year before, the combination of a capricious wind and a dead outboard had left us tangled up with three long strings of diver decoys in a glorious mess impossible to describe. We might have felt like the A-Team when we'd left shore that day, but we were Dumb and Dumber by the time we'd returned in the dark. This was our opportunity for redemption.
We found vast rafts of divers waiting for us when we crossed the bar and entered the mighty Columbia. Now all we had to do was kill some of them.

The Long Road Home
Thomas Wolfe said you can't go home again, but he was wrong. I go home again every year.
Although my earliest hunting experiences took place in upstate New York, I came of age as a wingshooter in the Pacific Northwest, where my family moved when I was in high school. From brant on the beaches of the Olympic Peninsula to band-tailed pigeons on the slopes of the Cascades and chukar in the breaks of the Columbia, I enjoyed unique opportunities in the field thanks to parents who loved to hunt but were never too busy to take kids with them.
None left fonder memories-or more empty boxes of shells-than duck hunting in the Columbia Basin. The dams constructed along the Columbia to satisfy the growing region's power needs may have irrevocably altered the landscape, but they also created some of the Pacific Flyway's finest waterfowl habitat. With nearby agriculture providing abundant food sources and a series of wildlife refuges guaranteeing migrating birds room at the inn, the area supports some of the best duck numbers and variety anywhere.
Nowadays the family interest in a prime waterfowl property provides us with exceptional hunting opportunities, but it wasn't always that way. If large concentrations of ducks and geese are the good news, the better news may be the amount of quality public hunting in the area. Most of the basin's state and federal refuges offer hunting somewhere within their boundaries and, with few exceptions, the Columbia itself is open to anyone with a skiff. All those ducks provide compelling motivation for regular family get-togethers in December and January, when most seasons in Montana have started to wind down. And seeing as my parents never forget to visit us (and our pheasants) in October, I don't have to feel guilty about imposing upon their hospitality.
One of the most personally appealing aspects of this annual reunion is the opportunity to shoot a variety of ducks. From late October on, our waterfowl bag in eastern Montana consists almost exclusively of mallards. Although friends elsewhere assure me they'd love to have that problem, I always have been a fan of mixed bags. With the possible exception of coastal Alaska, the Columbia Basin is as good a place as any to enjoy them.
Last year's trip included some unexpected surprises. Although still remarkably vigorous, my folks are in their late 80s, and the high mileage on the odometer finally is beginning to show. When Lori and I arrived in Seattle in December to help celebrate their 65th wedding anniversary, my father was having health problems and had been advised to limit his activities. As a son and lifelong partner in the field, I wanted to pack him into our truck and take him hunting; as a physician myself-at least in my former life-I knew better.
Thus, our stop at the ranch last year was the first we'd ever made without my parents. Camp felt cold and lonely without them. I needed to win one for the Gipper.

Big Water, Big Challenge
To compound our problems, a weeklong cold snap had left most of the ranch's water frozen. With few birds in the air, we decided to head for the river to see if we could improve our track record with the divers.
Michael's skiff is small but superbly appointed for its mission, with tarps to hide its occupants and space-barely-for more than a hundred blocks. When I used to live in Alaska, I long-lined commercially for halibut. Nothing could have provided better training for setting out Michael's decoys, as the technique and tackle were virtually identical right down to the ground lines and gangens. After some initial fumbling the three of us found our places on the assembly line, and by early afternoon we were anchored on the downwind edge of the vast spread waiting for birds.
We didn't have to wait long. I'd barely chambered a pair of shells before a small flock of bluebills appeared low over the water ahead of us. When they cupped their wings, I timed my rise and stood to shoot. Somewhat to my surprise, the drake I'd isolated from the flock tumbled and fell. Michael doubled neatly from the stern as I forgot about my second barrel completely.
In fact, this was very different shooting from anything I do regularly. Decoying spring-creek mallards offer plenty of snappy shot angles, but the shooting is basically close-range stuff for which my familiar upland double choked Improved Cylinder & Modified serves quite well. Anticipating a diver expedition, I'd left the upland gun at home in favor of my 30-inch Full & Full, a gun that rarely leaves the house these days unless I'm targeting geese. Although I couldn't argue with the results on that first pass, I knew I was going to have to make myself drive those long barrels way out in front of birds whistling by far beyond my usual range.
I can't pretend that I mastered the game's unfamiliar demands immediately-at least not with two witnesses aboard. When the next single scaup drew near, I rose again only to relearn an important lesson: Divers approaching decoys with wings set often turn out to be farther away than they first appear. After shooting behind the bird, I reminded myself that these ducks were beyond the range at which steel shot begins slowing faster than lead, seldom a consideration when decoying mallards are the quarry. When a pair of redheads buzzed us several minutes later, I consciously made myself extend my lead, and the drake I'd targeted collapsed when I slapped the trigger.
My eyes required some adjustment right along with my shooting. I know my gamebirds and waterfowl, but I hadn't had to identify divers quickly on the wing in some time. This consideration became practical as well as academic when I dropped my third bluebill, filling my daily sub-quota for scaup. I actually pulled up short on another drake redhead when I couldn't make the call in time. Better safe than sorry.
By the time we unloaded and began to pick up, we had a fine mixed bag, including scaup (greaters and lessers), goldeneyes, redheads and even a couple of cans. To make matters sweeter, I'd shot a bluebill wearing jewelry, which made me try unsuccessfully to remember the last time I'd killed a banded diver. My only regret was the absence of a dog. Although we recovered all of the birds we shot by running them down with the skiff, no duck hunting experience feels complete to me without a wet Lab in the party. I promised myself that when I get around to outfitting my own diver-hunting skiff, it will include a ramp for the Labs so they can come along and shower us with water at the end of every retrieve.
Lori assures me she can hardly wait.

Walking Up Woodies
We awoke the next morning to more cold and ice fog, and I knew the ponds at the ranch still would be frozen. However, the idea of visiting the area without hunting the ranch at all seemed a violation of family tradition, and I had a plan...
Even after the mixed bag of divers we'd killed the day before, I was still in the mood for variety. A long diversion ditch that seldom freezes runs through the property. The little waterway is tightly shrouded in brush, and if there are any wood ducks in the area, they usually wind up there. Although woodie numbers are increasing in some parts of Montana, I hadn't killed one at home in years. Besides, I'd hauled Rocky, my seven-year-old yellow Lab, all the way from Montana, and if I'd abandoned him again for another day in the skiff he probably wouldn't have looked at me for the rest of the season.
But I'd forgotten how fast and thick Russian olive can grow. When Lori and I hiked across the pasture to the ditch, we found it shrouded in brush so dense we couldn't even see the water. As anyone who has hunted quail or pheasants in that devilish stuff knows, Russian olive can be impossible to crawl through, let alone shoulder and swing a shotgun in when you're standing in the middle of it. From the broad expanse of the Columbia to this... What kind of duck hunt had I signed up for, anyway?
After we'd walked a hundred yards down the ditch, I peered through the brush and noticed ripples on the water, which was only five or six feet wide. Nothing happened when I backed up and shouted. Perplexed, I sent Rocky into the jungle just as if we were hunting stubborn roosters in a patch of cattails. That's when all hell broke loose.
The air suddenly came alive in an explosion of wings. Screened by dense layers of brush, I could manage only fleeting glimpses of the rising birds, which included ducks of various sizes and profiles. Odd cries reminiscent of alarmed shorebirds identified some as woodies, but I spotted a few teal and wigeon as well. Unwilling to shoot at questionable targets, I stood at port arms until an iridescent green head hurtled through a gap in the trees. The mallard drake fell to a shot that could have come from a New England grouse hunter's playbook.
Although I hadn't exactly killed the bird I'd come for, it was a prime Northern mallard. Besides, I'd figured out how to hunt the apparently impossible cover. As we worked our way down the long line of brush, I sent Rocky in whenever he started to act birdy while I remained on the outside where I could shoot. And the shooting proved quite tricky, as ducks hurtled over, under, around and through the brush in all directions. Longing for my customary, fast-pointing bird gun did no good; I had to make do with the cumbersome piece I'd used on the divers the day before. But I successfully concentrated on the wood ducks; Rocky finally got to be a retriever after his long, boring car ride; and we all ended the morning happily.
I don't often jump-shoot ducks these days. There's no snobbery involved in that choice; I just enjoy the sight of birds working decoys too much to settle for less. But the more seasons I spend in the field, the more I realize that none of us has done it all. And I'll never forget the morning the wood ducks turned a simple ditch into a sporting clays course, challenging my shooting and my expectations alike.
This past year I left the Columbia Basin feeling bittersweet. Forces of nature had kept us from experiencing the classic puddle-duck hunting I'd customarily enjoyed there. On the other hand, I'd found unique, challenging shooting in two different forms; learned a lot about diver hunting; and killed my first wood ducks, redheads and canvasbacks in years.
But the real missing ingredient was my parents' company. At 88, my father remains an inspiration to all of us fortunate enough to still spend time with him in the field, and his absence loomed large at the Barker Ranch. I had to wonder how many seasons he has left... or how many any of us have left, for that matter.
Life is short; hunt hard. I know no better way to summarize my conclusions.

Don Thomas finally stopped practicing medicine this year so he'd have a little time to hunt, fish and write. His latest outdoor book, Redfish, Bluefish, will be out soon from Skyhorse Press. He and his wife, Lori, spend most of their time at their home in central Montana.