My first attempt at adult (that is, serious, not just walking in the woods with a gun) hunting occurred well into my thirties; just four short years ago. I decided to try waterfowl hunting. Tard and I live not too far from the Mississippi river here in Illinois and there are plenty of places to try your hand at public hunting there. So, once I had settled on duck hunting on the Mississippi, I only had to procure a partner. Tard to the rescue.

Tard and I shared a mutual friend and had met a few times. But my sister-in-law had no idea she was creating the best real-life buddy film since Tango & Cash when she suggested I try asking her Sponge-Bob-Square-Pants-Outdoorsy friend to go with. Anyway, we had fun, wrecked Tard's canoe into several sunken stumps, burned up my outboard motor, and never shot at a duck. So it was no surprise, that when I wanted to try the next year that Tard wussed out. My Dad, on the other hand, is as hardheaded as I am and so was still up for another one of my hair-brained ideas even after several spectacular misadventures.

So off to federal pool 13 we went. This time towing a 14' leaky aluminum v-hull and my newly repaired 4hp outboard. Barges and bridges would be no match for us! And old man river? Strand us on the Iowa shore if you dare! I was schooled in defeat and knew that we would have to be up at 3:30 AM and dressed like explorers with names like Hillary or Sir Watshisface or that Swedish dude. I also knew the locals hated me as a usurper and would continue to give me bad advice and be miffed that I would be using the blinds that they built and maintained because they hadn't arrived by the designated 30 minutes before legal. This year, if a local recommended I drive another 30 minutes south and go out on the big water because that's where all the mallards were, I would know better!

Besides, dear old Dad had grown up hunting and fishing all over central Indiana when it had been pristine like Brittany Spears before she started dating the Hanson brothers. Sure, Dad had failed to pass on any of his vast hunting knowledge to me, but that didn't mean a thing. We launched from the public landing at 4:20 AM onto the vast ice-rimmed river in our 14 foot boat with my rechargeable flood light made by the caring people of China. The November air was crisp at twenty five degrees. But we were bundled and swaddled and sporting pak-boots. When we figured out that our light would never make the 45 minute ride to our pre-scouted blind, we decided to save it to flash in the eyes of approaching barge captains.

As it turns out, the Mississippi reveals a mystical face when you are so close and the waves and motor and isolated night beat a rhythm into your suburban brain that you know is truer than all the quotas, meetings and face-time you've left behind. By the time you set up, it's almost first light. We had a great spot just off a 25,000 acre preserve; a little marshy bay with a low built and crumbling blind where we could shoot out over deeks someone else had been kind enough to leave out for the season.

As it turns out the ducks of the Mississippi flyway are too smart to fly right up to your hoped for hot-spot. Instead they fly about 200 yards up and then circle down over the refuge like some feathered Cessna formation. So I spent the first day chatting up my Dad, practicing blowing out the birds with poor and loud calling, and sky-busting when the frustration built up. Having done my home work I did notice our host had his decoys set wrong, at least according to the experts I had consulted. When the heat of the afternoon came along, I waded out and collected the decoys that had sunk due to errant fire. I then created the classic "J" shaped spread and oriented it for the predicted wind direction.

We headed home before dark and vowed to get to bed quick so 3:30 wouldn't hurt so much. Next day the morning boat ride brought the same peace of mind. We quickly found our spot thanks to a handheld GPS. This new day brought new results. I shut the hell up with the calling and we let the deeks do the work. The "J" shape of the decoy spread must have looked inviting because we began to get groups of birds flying into our set.

As dawn pinked the sky, the first group of birds flew in and I knew why it was a poor idea to duck hunt with a hard-of-hearing vegetarian. "Here they come Son!!!" my Dad exclaimed as he jumped up and pointed while the birds were still 50 yards out. As the mallards flared off my mouth moved with no sound. My eyeballs gaped open but I couldn't bring myself to ask my Dad if he knew the point of hunting was to KILL THINGS!!! IF YOU LET THEM KNOW YOU ARE THERE WITH A GUN IN YOUR HAND THE CHANCES ARE NOT GOOD THEY WILL GET NEAR YOU!

All day it was the same experience as time after time the birds came in and my Dad used various techniques to guaranty they would have a safe journey to Arkansas. Loud exclamations, standing up, waving his gun were all employed. So I resorted to trying long range shots as soon as I heard the familiar cry of, "Here they come Son!" Finally, when the hints had all been ignored, I asked Dad if he would just stay seated and quiet when more ducks flew our way, since I had used up 20% of my vacation time for the year, dropped several hundred dollars to get there, was freezing the guarantors of his family name off, had been up since 3:30, and would really appreciate the chance to get just one duck.

Dad relented. And, when the next group came in, I understood how waterfowlers get addicted. The sight of those six ducks with their wings set, coming straight in like little jet fighters gave me a thrill right up there with seeing a deer in the woods. I blasted away three times and got one bird. A pretty drake with iridescent green feathers. We didn't see any more birds that day but it was OK. I got one drake and my Dad shot his 12ga once, 30 degrees behind the birds as they flew past after I badgered him into the shot. So, in the end, I can't really recommend duck hunting with a vegetarian - unless he's your Dad.