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Squinting at the slate gray pre-dawn sky, I watched as a massive flock of ducks, over 100 yards from first duck to last, passed over where we were standing, the telltale quacks of hens telling us that they were mallards.

     Through the years I've seen and described far more than my share of special sights in the outdoors.  Drawing on all that experience, I responded the best I could with.  "Holy #@%*! - I can't wait to see what this place is like when I can see!"

     I had honestly planned the South Dakota trip mainly for pheasants.  The duck hunting came as a suggestion from Mark Kayser, a good friend and outdoor expert with the South Dakota Department of Tourism.  Like thousands of other Midwesterners, I'd all but given up on the web-footed birds as Central Flyway population plummeted to microscopic numbers in the late 1980's and early 1990's.  "Trust me, ducks are back, and hunting ought to be phenomenal." Kayser said early that summer.  "You can't hunt pheasants in the morning anyway, and you might regret it if you don't come prepared for some ducks.  It ought to be pretty good."

Moody, an experienced guide and ace of all wingshooting trades, picked an area void of vegetation, tossed out a dozen or so decoys, and we backed into the grass to hide.  As light breathed life into the overcast sky, I could tell the wetland covered maybe 60 to 80 acres and was surrounded by alternating patches of CRP grass and grain fields.

     You didn't need to be a waterfowl biologist to realize the potential of such a place.  Of course, it didn't hurt that there were so darn many ducks in the sky.  On hunts, the previous years, when numbers were down, the simple sight of a distant flock was enough to get your heart going.  But such a response here would have worn your ticker out in a hurry.  I'd hate to guess how many flocks we saw during those first two hours - but it was a heck of a lot.

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For the first 20 minutes or so, I felt like a child looking through the chain link at a playground full of kids.  There were ducks everywhere, and we seemed to be in the only spot where we couldn't get a shot.  "Be patient, they'll be around, " Moody said.  He and Krahn had limited with ease the day before so were much more relaxed than I was, coming off several mediocre years.

     During those few minutes of inaction, I calmed myself enough to appreciate the scene before me.  At one point, I could count five different species of ducks in sight at a time.  The first bunch to stray over out decoys was a flock of tiny greenwings that was in and out before we could have done anything, even if we would have tried.  Moody and Krahn had already suggested we hold out for nothing but mallards and the lone pintail state law would allow.  It was Krahn who eventually broke the ice when a lone duck came in and committed.  From then on the action was steady as water pouring from a hose.

     The three of us alternated setups, from five to 50 yards apart, watching as many directions as possible for ducks that were flying low, battling a wind that was unusually heavy, even for the prairie.  The shooting was also even more challenging than usual.  Ducks working the decoys needed only to flare their wings and the freight-train wind would instantly push them 20 yards further away.  Krahn and Moody worked through their birds early while I struggled to get my duck shooting eye focused after a few years' layoff.  The poor light also made picking partially colored young-of-the-year drakes that dominated most flocks particularly tough.

     Eventually, I quit fighting the wind and stopped twisting my body to try behind-me shots.  There were enough ducks flying around that I could hold out for incomers or slow right-to-left crossers.

 

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I almost hated to see that last duck of the morning fall. We battled our way against wind that whipped whitecaps on the shallow prairie marsh, soaking everything above our hip-waders with spray. But as miserable as the conditions, and as pitiful was my shooting, I'll never forget my reintroduction to modern prairie duck hunting.

 Though certainly no more fun, the next day held more classic conditions, again with an incredible number of ducks.  We were sitting in a different marsh at sunrise, looking at largely empty skies, when a pair of teal dropped down on the decoys.  Saying that a few greenwings would be a perfect lunch, Moody rose and fired as the birds jumped.

     The sound of the single shot made the marsh come suddenly alive with what appeared to be a winged, quacking tornado as countless flocks milled about before landing again.  I can honestly say I now know what it's like to have 200 birds working a tiny pocket of water and landing among my decoys.  Literally falling from the sky in shifts as they hovered over the water, trying to find a parking spot.  In terms of duck numbers, those two days with Moody will no doubt be my most memorable ever.

Those who want to spend all of their vacation time hunting, rather than looking for places to hunt, contact Mike Moody, South Dakota Hunting Service, EMAIL. When it comes to wingshooting outfitters, he's as good as it gets. Moody has the private land, knows the birds, has the equipment, and knows what a dog lover wants and needs. As if great duck hunting weren't enough, he can offer fantastic pleasant hunting in the afternoons, and he can also arrange trips for geese and sometimes prairie grouse.

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