Most duck hunters would agree that earning their first duck is a milestone, and it takes a few hunting attempts before they could get the hang of leading the bird to compensate for it’s speed.
I was still empty handed by the end of the season and wanted to finish with a drake wood duck to have mounted.
My dad, Cooper Jordan, offered to paddle me down the river for a jump shoot one afternoon so I suggested that we paddle from McKay’s bridge to Harllee’s Bridge. “How long of a float is it?,” Dad asked.
To which I measured as the crow flies on Google Earth and replied, “Just about four miles.”
Dad agreed to paddle for me and promised that he would get me close enough to have the opportunity to shoot, but he can’t make me hit.
Dad guided the boat down river while I sat in the bow with the shotgun loaded, and my eyes peeled.
We came around a bend facing directly into the sun when a flock of mallards took flight. I quickly blasted two shots and nothing fell.
The ducks were racing down river and I paused to take a breath and aim. The duck’s wet feathers were glistening as they flew towards the sun and with my last shot, a mallard rolled over and crashed into the river.
I was ecstatic and grabbed a paddle so we could reach the duck. Unfortunately, the duck was not finished because there were only feathers. We searched for a few minutes and decided to continue down river.
Some time passed before we came across a house. We had already been on the river for a while, and dad asked a man about our progress relative to Harllee’s Bridge.
The gentleman chuckled and told us that we had only just started our trip.
This float turned out to be eight miles, and on top of the distance was the fact that every bend we passed, greeted us with another obstacle course of fallen trees.
Some trees allowed room for us to slide underneath or around, but most required us to pull the boat over the tree and get back in on the other side.
I was in hunting mode and still looking for ducks, but dad was constantly working to get the boat through trees while staying quiet.
I can imagine that the fallen trees on this section of the river are rarely cleared as on larger sections because few boats use it.
We both kept quiet, even as we crossed the trees to be sure not to spook any ducks that might be down river.
Dad guided the boat around a bend and a wood duck took flight at the next bend. Without even thinking, I fired my shotgun and the duck disappeared. Could it be that I had actually shot my first wood duck?
We pulled the boat  against the bank and I carefully walked over some roots to find the duck.
There he was, a colorful drake wood duck, lying at the base of a tree. I was careful not to ruffle the feathers because this duck was meant to be mounted.
Dad took a picture for me, and we were on our way.
Dad noticed a mallard lying in the swamp and his head bobbed with the water meaning that it must have been recently shot. Since we were the only people hunting this stretch of river, I assumed it was my duck from earlier in the day. Dad explained that the cool water can startle a duck and get them flying again, even after being shot.
The distance of the river drug on, and there were enough fallen trees to build a log cabin mansion. I noticed that dad had gone silent, and his face with an exhausted complacent look. He said, “Lawrence, I’ve lost my personality.”
The sun was setting, and there were no landmarks to show us how much distance we had to cover. Dad finally told me to put down the gun and start paddling. At that time, I realized that it would be getting dark soon, and I did not want to end up sleeping under the boat.
We arrived at the bridge before dark and made our way home.
The day was worth it to both of us because I had shot my first duck. Dad showed me some tips along the way like the “J-stroke” which allows you to paddle on one side of the boat while making less motion.
I was thankful for the time I spent with dad on the river, his patience, and for him paddling me all that way to get my first duck.
That little wood duck mounted in my living room is now my most prized trophy, and it always reminds me of the journey that my dad and I took down the river.