Speaking of what and how we hunt, here's a short story I once wrote, in English, describing a sort of a typical duck hunt here. Posted it on another board, lookes like nobody liked that... let's see if you folks will 
it's even got a couple of double guns in He was right at the edge of the village, an old man in everyday country clothes, desperatly pumping air into a hopelessly flat bicycle tyre. There was no question where he was headed - slung over his shoulders was an old hummer double, the kind that sold for half the everage monthly wage, brand new, thirty years before. We pulled over and offered him a lift to the lake.
There were no questions asked or answered, safe for a thankyou and some brief introductions. The sun, normally for our place in late August, shone mercilessly as our car (which had no air conditioning) raised clouds of dust off the unpaved filed road. The sight of the lake caused a collective sigh of relief.
The lake was nothing but a big shallow depression in the otherwise level steppe, some clear water in the middle, bordered by a belt of tall cattails. A few shallows, made by spring water flowing into the lake, run down the banks. There was little vegetation, save for a line of bushes clutching for life on the bottom of the shallows. The side where we broke camp was a pasture, grazed flat off the grass by some cattle, which was happily not present at the moment.
We eased out of the car, "have a bite?" - "no thanks" - "a beer?" - "mmm... Okey". Breaking camp properly, with tent and all, seemed like it could wait. The stuff came flowing out of the trunk: shotguns, ammo, waders. The opening of the waterfowl season was less than an hour away.
It was then that I noticed that the old man seemed to have little gear. He had the gun, and his pockets producer the unmistakable dingle of shells. But he had just regular working shoes. How he was going to get into water? I wondered.
"We're staying overnight" - said one of us - "you're welcome to our camp, if you don't care to walk back into the village"
"Thank you" - said the old man - "I might"
He checked his gun and went off. He was walking up the bank, heading directly at a spot where one of the bushy shallows met the edge between the benk and the level steppe.
I wondered again.
We pulled on our waders and walked down the cattle track through the cattail jungle. After some mud-trapped walking, we came closer to the middle of the lake, where the vegetation gave way to increasingly bigger clearances. The first were dry; then we reached the water and split.
Ducks were flashing by flocks, heading for the other bank. I fremembered not to shoot them on the rise, you never know where another hunter may be. The lake, indeed, was surrounged by hunters - as the ducks reached the other side of the big pool in the middle, someone opened up. More shots followed, other birds were escaping from the opposite bank and comimg to us. I rushed to where I planned to stand.
Just then a single mallard came in. I fired and watched it fall behind the cattails. I rushed after the bird - but when I came to a muddy clearing where it fell, but found only the spot where it fell, crowned by a few feathers, and a chain of webbed legprints leading to a perticularly impenetrable wall of cattails.
I cursed and rushed back to the old place. I was sweating and out of breath after wading knee-deep in mud, my hands were shaking. I missed a duck - than another and another. Then one of my shots connected - and the bird fell within a step of where my Dad stood. I walked to get in and found myself on the edge of the big main pool.
The ducks were circling the lake, gaining more and more height with every shot. Flock after flock gave the lake up and made for a safer place. I noticed, in surprise, that escaped not at random directions, but followed a number of certain roots. One of those seemed to be leading right to the shallow where the old man had gone. A half-muted report came from that direction, then another.
I wondered...
