But little did we know what lay ahead: an annoying run-in with the Feds.
The afternoon before, we had scouted the lake and found that most of the southern side was frozen. That meant that not only were we going to have to break ice on the way to the blind but also break a hole in the ice in front of the blind big enough to put out a spread of decoys.
We’ve been hunting Lake Mattamuskeet forever, but this was the first opportunity to hunt public blinds on the national preserve. The “we” are my old hunting partners Bob Rudolph and Brian Pennington. Bob was fortunate enough to have been chosen from the lottery to hunt a blind the weekend before the last of the season, and he invited us to join him. We knew it was going to be cold, but we had no idea how cold. Weather plays into the hunt; usually the worse the weather, the better the hunt.
There are 16 blinds stretched across the southern part of the lake from the old pumping station managed by the federal government.
Blind No. 1 is closest to the Lodge, as they now call the station, and No. 16 is all the way to the eastern end of the lake. Here is how it works. As soon as duck season is established by the federal government, a hunter can choose three dates that he would like to hunt, mail in the information and be placed in a lottery to be chosen or not by the whims of the local powers-to-be at the preserve. If you’re one of the lucky winners, the opportunity to participate in a major hunt presents itself. It can be the hunt of a lifetime or two days of sitting in a box blind enjoying the scenery.
The march to the blind was an event to be compared to some of my worst P.T. courses in the Marines. There was a half-inch of skim ice on top of three feet of water on top of a foot of peat that would grab a boot and suck it right off the end of your waders if you weren’t careful. And the reason was simple; after a season of hunters parading to the blind across the same path, a road was made not unlike the old buffalo roads created by untold millions of those bearded animals. Duck hunters are not buffaloes but will walk across miles of the same path if a duck is promised at the end.
After making it to the blind, we took a breather and then began the task of breaking ice to make a hole to put out a spread of decoys hopefully big enough to entice a duck to investigate. After that we climbed back in the box, or blind, and waited. Some blinds on the lake are better than others. Some, a lot better. So it becomes a matter of the luck of the draw, not your expertise as a waterfowler. Thus the name of this hunt went down in my journal as the “Las Vegas Escapade.”
And this time, luck was on the side of other hunters fortunate enough to have made the right draw.
Not a duck checked out our blind with the exception of one beautiful drake widgeon. Bob put him on the water with his Model 12 duck gun that was manufactured when duck hunting was a sport that didn’t require all this help from the federal government.
After another couple of hours, we decided to call it a day. The rules of the preserve say that you have to quit hunting by noon and be outside the gate by 1 p.m. Not knowing how long it would take to pick up and get back to the truck, we decided to get a head start and leave around 11 a.m. The enforced march going out was only a little better than the one going in. But we were back to the road before noon.
We piled the gear on the side of the path leading to the blind, and Brian walked up to the parking area to get the truck and come back and load up. Before he could do this, a legion of park rangers, or federal wildlife officers as they like to be called, descended on us like a plague of locusts.
Now I’ve been hunting for more than 50 years and have been checked by officials of every enforcement area, but none quite like this crowd. There were five of them. They checked guns and game; and when they found that we were officially clean, they wanted to check the back of our truck. Of course, we consented.
In the back was a cooler. In the cooler were orange juice, cokes, cheese and beer. The beer was the problem. We weren’t supposed to have alcoholic beverages while hunting. I told the officer nearest me that the guns were in the case, and we had stopped hunting an hour earlier. We had not taken beer out of the cooler; and besides that, what fool would want an ice-cold beer when it was 20 degrees with a wind chill factor of 15 below?
We were miles from home and our cooler in the back of the truck acted as our refrigerator. We kept drinks and foods for breakfasts and lunches there. We would no more think about drinking while hunting than we would drink while driving. It was so ridiculous to be accused of this that we were speechless. The beer was for after the hunt sitting around the hotel remembering the day’s adventures.
There was no reasoning with this crowd, however, and we decided to just ride it out. Tickets were written, the beer was confiscated, and we were allowed to load up and leave.
“Well, what the hell!” I said, as we drove off the preserve and headed back to our hotel at Engelhard. “We’ve still got tomorrow to hunt, and there’s a beer store on the way back.”
But seriously, I’ve been hunting with Bob and Brian for a lot of years.
We are the epitome of the consummate sportsmen knowing that resources are limited and that we must guard our game because no one else will. My granddaddy taught me long ago that what we hunt deserves our consideration and should be hunted with respect.
The next day was uneventful. We drew a blind on the lake that should have been a good one; but again, we were sitting in an unbrushed box that stood out like a beacon. Ducks avoided it like the plague. After an hour or two, we loaded up, went back to our hotel, packed and headed home.
Mattamuskeet is one of my favorite places. I’ve hunted it forever; but unfortunately, this hunt left a bad taste in my mouth.
I consider myself a professional sportsman; and if this is how the sport has evolved under the auspices of our federal government, I want no part of it. As a matter of fact, I believe I had more fun the last time I got my driver’s license renewed.
I believe the park rangers were out of line when they issued us the citation for the beer, and I plan to contest it.
I have a good lawyer friend who has a bird-hunting lawyer friend in Elizabeth City, the location of court. If nothing else, maybe I can wrangle a bird hunt while I’m there protecting my rights.
I’ll keep you posted.
Tom Bryant can be reached at tom@thepilot.com.
