Witches in the Dulaney Hole

    "No, no, no, no, hold on, one more time,” I whisper to my partners as the ducks whoosh overhead at 60 yards, captured wind whishing in protest as the 30 acrobatic gadwalls eye our spot for the fourth time.
    Please, oh please, let me be right! These maddening tweedy gray ducks are not nearly as civilized as the faithful mallards that usually commit within a few circles. Gadwalls, indeed, are another story.
    To call or not to call? I elect silence this time. I have called enough. Now for their decision . . . . Around they go, circling, but climbing higher; did they flare? No, just being gadwalls.
    I have a very-high-strung bunch of ladies and Labs at bay . . . for the moment. Their guns are ready, but thankfully they trust my judgment—and they want to be invited back. I just hope I’m reading these ducks right.
    A funnel of ducks dive for the hole—the Dulaney hole, in Ward Lake swamp. Enormous cypress trees cloaked in inky-black waters cradle us. We’ve selected trees for cover and are now watching the ducks decide their fate by following their reflections on the glassy surface. Only the Labs are gazing openly at them—brown eyes sparkling, black tails wagging . . . .
    Although I was born with a love for animals and being outside, I thank my father for taking me dove and deer hunting, my mother for not ridiculing my unusual passions, my father-in-law for taking me turkey hunting, and my husband for not only taking me duck hunting but also teaching me the art. The fine art, I should say, of decoy placement, calling, not calling, concealment, and of course location.
    Again they come in—diving, diving, down to 40 yards. “Wait, wait,” I whisper through gritted teeth. They bounce back out, my pounding heart and dry throat not helping at all. Please let them come back. I give them one more mallard hen decrescendo, announcing that all is safe, the food is great and love is in the air. Please, oh please, come back . . . .
    It did not occur to me until I was a teenager that what I took for granted about enjoying these activities was unusual. And it became amazing to others when a group of ladies starting doing this regularly—together—without “help.” In the South we are raised close to the outdoors, and many women hunt—but regularly as a group or, even more amazing, alone (without a gentleman’s assistance) with their own retriever? That raises eyebrows.
    I can feel the tension. Lila’s Lab, Tuff, is on my left quivering—and not from the cold. He’s locked on these birds. His owner is holding her 20-gauge Ithaca over/under firmly, but I’m not sure she won’t point those barrels at me if I make the wrong call. Lila is from a long line of Louisiana sporting women, and they don’t take kindly to ducks getting out of gun range. Her aim is deadly at 60 yards, but I like my timber ducks within 10; makes the averages better. I count on her to ensure there are ducks on the straps for the group photo.
    Out the ducks climb again, and my legs are cramping. A few eyes are no longer on the water and are boring into me. I’d better be right. Someone could have taken a duck at 40 yards, but I wanted everyone to get a shot.
Thirty or more ducks out and around again. I know I can hold the Labs, but the ladies? This may be my last chance to get them in and all the way down.
    As the ducks gad around again, I think how fortunate we are to have such a beautiful swamp. These ancient trees are some of the most beautiful on Earth. Ducks do not always like this brake, but when they do, they come in groups—big groups—and what a treat. Please let this happen for my friends. I do hope I made the right call . . . .
    Leigh is sitting to my right, waiting for the signal. She did not grow up hunting, and we actually met foxhunting, the way all of us initially became friends. The first foxhunt inspired her to purchase not only a saddle but also a horse, truck, trailer and all of the other gear associated with that sport. Same with duck hunting: Her Beretta 12-gauge O/U, Purdey jacket and, like the rest of us, Avery bag and strap for her effects proves that she likes quality in the swamp. And, oh, the hat style she has. The Swamp Witches are all about looking good, playing hard, eating well and enjoying good company.
    Gadwall wind shear slaps me out of my reverie as the mob commits. My Lab, Duke, is staring at the lead pair, which has landed on the water right by Tuff’s platform. The rest are right behind, falling fast.
    “OK!” I shout.
    A cacophony of shots is followed by five ducks hitting the water—halted by 20- and 12-gauge steel. Two very happy Labs bring them back for the straps.
    My instincts were right, and was I glad. You never know with gadwalls, but this time they presented us with a moment that will be burned in my memory forever. I have been hunting for half my life, and as a lady, that is all I will say about my age. Many, many groups of ducks have circled me, but that was the finest moment I have ever witnessed: finicky gadwalls, black water, looming cypress trees, two great dogs holding perfectly still, and friends by my side that had cleared their busy holiday schedules for our annual duck trip.
    Lind Bussey, Lila Sessums, Susan Williams, Leigh Bailey and I do all we can each year to hunt ducks together in this swamp. Like the rest of the women in this world, we have families, businesses, community service projects and everything else vying for our time, but over the years we have developed this ducking tradition—and nothing gets in the way.
    Our passion is our friendship, and sharing this time with each other and other women who have no idea what they are missing. Many people have canoed, but in a swamp breaking ice with their paddles? Lots of ladies have dogs, but do theirs stay put when mallards land at their feet and fire like rockets when asked to retrieve in subzero wind chills?
    The first time my cousin, Kate Morrison, and I headed into the swamp with our children—Phillips, Jake, Will and Turner —and babysitter Amanda Walters in tow, my husband and father-in-law laughed at the sight. “Look at those ‘swamp witches’ go!” And the name stuck.
    Chris Robinson, our honorary warlock chef, faithfully prepares a feast for us at the duck camp the night before our adventures. This ensures a fabulous event regardless of how the ducks perform. As mentioned, Ward Lake Brake is never a sure thing. Ducks are either there or they aren’t. They may be there early, or maybe not until 9 am. And though canoes are silent and stealthy, it’s difficult to change locations with them in that brake once we have committed to a spot.
    Leftovers from Chris’s feast beat back the chill, and it is for those I am wading now. The girls remain at their trees as I fire up the stove. “Ducks!” Susan says, and Lila and I begin pleading for them to look our way. It never fails: As soon as I light the grill, here come the gadwalls. I put leftovers on the stove, and the sizzling meat sends swamp-sludge steam from the lid into the decoys. Lid off to check the meat, now back on, and the ducks make their final circle.
    “Now!”
    Ten gadwalls in, nine out. Oh, well. Better luck next time. Duke stares wantonly at the escapees while Tuff retrieves Lila’s single. Just keep on cooking . . . .
    Chris’s lamb chops encased in flaky biscuits (a swamp staple) for breakfast, and the missed ducks are forgotten. Duke and Tuff even get a chop—good boys that they are. My golden retriever used to deliver the biscuits to each shooter’s tree, but he is gone and that is a story for another day. Not enough time any more to train to that level, and what a gifted dog he was. Raising teenagers and the rest of life’s obligations now take up all but the basic training time required to have good hunting dogs.
    Lila and I always have trained our own retrievers, and they are family pets as well as duck machines. The Labs with us this morning are out of different litters, from a line inspired by the first English Lab I ever met, Lila’s dog Jasper. Although he is long gone, these boys preserve his memory.
    Lamb biscuits distributed, we await the next flight. A pair of wood ducks sneaks in while our hands are full of food. Two in, two out, and a pair of disgusted Labs wonders why it takes women so long to eat.
    On Susan’s initial trip to the swamp, the Labs’ mother, Fen, made the retrieve on her first mallard. Before we met, Susan could not have imagined shooting something as pretty as a duck. The first morning out she asked what all those bats were doing flying around in the dark around our tree. Amazingly, they were ducks. At shooting time I gave her the signal on a mallard at 10 yards. Mallard down! Fen brought it to hand, and Susan paraded that duck around all weekend. The duck now poses proudly on the wall at her office. Another hunter born . . . .
    Back to business, and we’re blessed with another group of gadwalls, some mallards and even get buzzed by teal. Eventually, it’s time to leave, so straps loaded, we gather the canoes and paddle back to the four-wheelers.
    Lind, being adept at negotiating swamp logs, takes the helm of one canoe. She had hunted ducks some before we met but mostly focused on quail. An amazingly adept multitasking mother of three, she never misses a chance to shoot ducks. Her laughter is infectious as she recounts the day’s events, having attempted to drop a mallard with one hand while clutching her lamb biscuit in the other. Maybe she’s met her match in that task.
    We gather at the landing and load guns, gear and girls onto four-wheelers for the victorious sloppy ride to camp.   Regretfully, we head back to our busy lives, but with even more to tell, retell and embellish in the years to come. When is the next shoot? What will Chris cook for us next time? Will that huge group of gadwalls return?
    “I was going to shoot you, Allison, if you made me wait on those ducks one more time!”
    That’s what I thought. Now you really know why my heart was pounding . . . .

    Allison Crews is a business owner who lives in Canton, Mississippi, with her husband, two boys and a yardful of retrievers. She won the Eudora Welty creative writing award from Mississippi College and has written many articles for business and sporting publications. Her first novel, Antithesis, will be available this fall. For more information about the Swamp Witches, visit www.swampwitches.com.