Echoes on the Wind

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WITH A PAIR OF SEVENS draped over my sagging shoulders, I am well and truly embedded in the grossly overrated Golden Years. In truth, I don’t go fishing and hunting as much as I did even a few years ago. 

The slowdown started at about age 70. A combination of declining energy and ongoing issues with a bad lower back aided and abetted the sedentary slump. The Stoke Meter regarding local trips wasn’t where it needed to be, and talking myself out of gearing up and going became easier and easier.  

The 4 a.m. alarm clock also must be considered. All my life I have loathed waking before sunrise. And, as any seasoned hunter or angler will agree, the first few hours of daylight often provide the best odds of success …. ducks, deer, bass, trout, they all seem to move well as the sun rises.  

Living in Houston and planning a serious surgical strike afield or afloat demands that predawn alarm. A drive of at least one hour beyond the 610 Loop is required.  Often, against increasing urban sprawl, it’s closer to two.  

Years ago, I was better with the predawn reveille. I didn’t like it, but I did it.  

I would make an early hunting or fishing trip then roll straight downtown to the old Houston Chronicle building, there to peck out a column due on the Sports Desk by 5 p.m. That was a long day; no wonder the copy had a few dangling participles.  

Now, I would have difficulty waking at 4 a.m. to watch David fight Goliath. What can I say … I’m an old man and getting older. I only go when it’s necessary … when a splash of rich green tide or a whistle of incoming wings is overdue to put a lifetime over rods and guns back into focus. 

Even though the trips are less frequent, one element of the outdoors remains constant. Every morning, without fail, I am keenly aware of wind velocity and direction. (As I write this in Houston, the wind is gusting 15 to 18 miles-per-hour from the southeast). 

This habit has been ingrained since my teenage years during the 1960s. Confirming the variables provides critical “intel” for determining the day’s direction, first as a young enthusiast, ultimately as a professional outdoor writer.  

Decades ago, with nothing but a few strategic tree branches and the odd rooftop flag, fine-tuning velocity was sketchy (basic rating: limp, fluttering, gusting, honking), but a practiced eye could pinpoint the all-important direction. 

Now, thanks to a smartphone, within minutes accurate data is available, not only straight out my door but at various significant upper coastal locations. It’s an easy and addictive ritual.   

Granted, the current information, as I putter around the house, usually is useless. No, that’s not quite true. A favorable report may not result in the frantic outbound drives of yesteryear, but it can fan fond recollections of trips under similar conditions.   

You might have the image of a crusty old geezer sitting in a rocker on the porch and nodding and smiling, perhaps lapsing into a maudlin daydream. It hasn’t come to that, but I do tend to do less and reflect more. And this is not all bad. If nothing else, recalling the various facets of an old campaign can be a pleasing and worthwhile mental exercise. 

For example, today’s dawn of gusting southeast wind combined with muggy low pressure and heavy cloud cover was ideal some 50 years ago for decoying ducks on a back pothole in the old Barrow Marsh near Anahuac.  

I’m sitting here at my desk, remembering the sights and sounds and smells as the coastal prairie came to life. The billows of scudding clouds were tinged with yellow and orange from the rising sun, and whipping wind knocked down the mosquitoes while stirring restless flocks of waterfowl and shorebirds.  

Bob Brister, my outdoor mentor, and Forrest West, my favorite waterfowl guide, and I were huddled in a makeshift blind of cane and oleander stalks. I readied Old Hungry, my salty Model 12 pump gun with its improved cylinder 26-inch barrel.  

Several dozen decoys were scattered in a rough crescent 25 to 30 yards from our soggy hide, and a gap of open water in the center of the spread invited lowered webs. Long individual cords allowed the decoys to move and weave amid the leeward riffles.  

Wads of teal moved first, as they usually do under gusting Gulf wind, dipping and twisting in the gray light from pothole to pothole. Big ducks came later. Shooting was steady as West repeatedly rattled his raspy Yentzen double-reed caller.   

My Lefty Molnar hand-tooled leather strap held a typical mixed bag of marsh ducks … green-winged teal, blue-winged teal, gadwalls, widgeons, a pair of mottled ducks, and (“Take him, Doggett! He’s all yours!”) the inevitable spoonbill.  

We needed three ducks to fill the daily limit. Then West nodded as a thrilling flock of pintails returning from distant rice fields banked and sailed with cupped wings. A shaft of struggling sun illuminated the white breast and chocolate head and long pin of the drake that caught my eye. It was a gorgeous duck, rivaled in the coastal marsh only by a semi-rare northern mallard. 

“Take ‘em!” West barked, and we rose together … left, middle, right … as the three guns boomed. Three “bull sprigs” folded and fell. West’s huge black Lab, the intimidating Boncho, splashed and swashbuckled across the knee-deep pothole and made three stylish retrieves. Perhaps best of all, the big brute didn’t bite anybody.   

That long-ago marsh hunt inspired by today’s forecast is among thousands of outdoor reruns I can muster. They are swirling in the mists of my mind, waiting to be recovered before being lost to senility, or worse, apathy. That day is long gone, as are so many others, but the echoes on the wind help me remember.

 

Email Joe Doggett at ContactUs@fishgame.com

 

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