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Stan- that is amazing- I just re-read Nash Buckingham's "The Dove" and he thought a 60% average on doves was world class shooting. Is the BSS a 20 bore? What chokes and loads were you using on your great "Red Letter Day" on doves? RWTF

Thanks, Francis. That BSS was a lowly 12 gauge. It was choked IC and M, but much less choke would have been fine on that particular day. As I recall, I was using reloads ....... 3 1/4 - 1 - #8.

I agree with Nash. A consistent 60% dove shooter is spoken of in hushed, and "reverent" tones. That day was just one of those "perfect storms" for me. Probably won't ever happen again, either. I have/had two different friends who claimed to have killed 25 with one box of shells, in their younger days. They both are/were excellent wing shots, but we all know how our memory works ........... good things get better, and bad things get worse. I am, however, certain about the 12/13 day. Several shooters noticed and commented on it.

SRH

I have killed a 15 bird limit of doves with one box of shells a few times but I can't do it consistently. Most of the time I'm about half way in to that second box before I'm done. For me, shot selection is the key.

Now, when I went to S. America, my bird boy claimed my average was about 71%, but they are very generous. You cut one feather and they count it as a shot bird. They want to keep the clients happy.

Stan, your word alone is good enough for me.

Thanks, I appreciate that. I agree that most bird boys, in Cordoba, want a good tip more than an accurate count. I got a really good one on my first trip, in '03. First 100 birds I grounded one day I turned and asked him "How many?" He replied "97". I was satisfied with his count after that.
SRH

For me, it isn't about the killing anymore.

My best hunt netted a pair of common Merganzers, fat, and fully feathered.
You see, a friend had pulmonary failure and was on oxygen. He didn't know if he would live to see another season or not. I asked him to float a river in early December. I'd paddle, he'd sit up front, and shoot some ducks. Then switch. Sort of a "One last time, just in case..." kind of a hunt.

He was on oxygen, and had a bottle that would last 4 hrs or so, if he took it easy. I had misgivings, seeing his huge abdomen, and spindly arms and legs. But hey, if death is coming, get on with living till you can't anymore.

So, off we go.


Well, there was a deep cold snap, and the edges of the Muskegon were heavy ice shelves. The water flowing well enough to provide open water for our drift all the way to the pickup spot.
Or so I thought.

I eased the loaded boat off the ice shelf, and into the river. The current would make the float much easier.
We floated about a mile before we hit our first ice jam. We breached it, floated some more, and a pair of Mergy's jumped up off the ice shelf and Russ downed the pair. The were choking on minnows picked from a power dam intake screen.
Fabulous specimens, hen and drake. Fully feathered and brilliant.

We floated deeper into the forest.
We hit another ice dam. It was river wide, and the river was frozen solid across as far as the eye could see beyond it. There was way more ice than I had expected for sure.

What to do? Well, Russ couldn't walk out, that was for sure. The edges of the river were all swamp and knee deep snow. He only had half a cyl of O2 left as it was. We were going slow, and he was breathing heavy.

So, I tied the anchor rope around my waist, and began to tow the boat, and Russ down the ice. It glided easily. I stayed to the sides thinking the slack water ice might be thicker. I made great time. I dragged them down river for at least a mile (later map verified). I didn't want my friend to turn blue and die on a lousy duck hunt.

Needless to say, shooting ducks on a frozen river wasn't happening, and had lost all allure by 3PM.

I'm tunking the ice, skating everyone merrily along, and "CRACK"! The ice disappeared beneath my feet. All I saw was brown water swallowing me up.
As I went down, I thought I'd hit bottom, as I thought it only a couple feet deep where I was pulling the boat. I was wrong.

I never touched anything, and the current swept my feet out from under me. The river sucked me under the ice. I can still see the sky through the brown water as I was sucked under.

I thrashed as I was going under, and Russ saw the whole thing.

He grabbed the anchor rope I was towing with, and pulled me up and out of the hole I had created. Hand over hand, hanging out over the bow of my skiff, grabbing a chunk, and reefing me back upstream. Cannula (sp?) draped around his head, eyes bulging.

My head broke water, but I was being pulled against the ice backwards, with nothing beneath me.

I rolled over, and with Russ'frantic pulling scrambled back up onto the ice. Like a soggy walrus.

He said something like, "Dude, when you disappeared, I thought you were a goner." Thankfully, the rope, and an inflatable turkey cushion that were around my waist, saved my life that day. That and the monumental task of a good friend pulling on a rope with God's will behind him.

He recovered pretty well with medication, and lost over 100lbs of water. We still go hunting together when we can. I am forever in his debt. And I'll always have room for him in my boat.

Duck hunting ain't for sissy boys.

Good story, CZ.

SRH

Best day (so far, I have a younger daughter too) was my son's first buck. A trophy only to us.
I love this picture, I think it might say more than a thousand words.



CHAZ