by Guy Carl
Friday, January 11, 2008
A strange breed, indeed, is the duck hunter. We wake up outrageously early in the morning, climb into either rubber or neoprene boots that go up to our chests, and haul sacks of decoys weighing a hundred pounds or more long distances in the dark — all to stand in a muddy marsh or flooded farm field all day in the dead of winter to wait for our quarry to fly by.
And we pray for the windiest, rainiest, stormiest, most miserable weather we can get for our outing. All this is just part of our quest for the elusive duck.
Doesn’t that sound fun?
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