We all wait for it—the breeze with a little bite to it, that bone-chilling breath from our northern neighbors. Once we feel it, we know: the birds are coming.
By Tucker Thompson -
Being from Oklahoma, watching the weather channel is a critical part of life at times. When tornado season comes, you just leave the television running and keep a handheld radio and flashlight handy at all times. You never know when you may have to hit the cellar. For waterfowlers like me, that weather radar has another purpose—spotting the storms that bring the birds. When the weatherman warns everyone else that some nasty weather is coming, and tells them to cozy up next to the fire, we run in the opposite direction. Every instinct of a normal human being to avoid the phenomenon is ignored by us. We crave it. Somehow, the freeze seems to make our blood boil.
I have been the beneficiary of a few great freezes. One that will always come to mind is from January of 2022. Central Oklahoma had been hit with frigid temperatures that lasted for several days, which doesn’t always happen here. When it does, it means ice. All my ranching buddies roll their eyes during these times because it means chopping ice for their cattle to drink. Me? I know there’s a place—a large enough body of water that will stay open, especially with a little help from some honkers roosting on it.
This story begins with my dad and I hitting the highway in search of open water. The first place we came to was solid ice, with about 50 Canadas and one lone Ross Goose laying out on the ice. This should give an idea of how long these temperatures had lasted—the birds were running out of places to sit. In our part of the world, a white goose is a pretty cool prize. It’s not something we get flying into the spread on any given hunt. We took note of its presence and planned to come back if we couldn’t find something better.
Our next stop was a big 17-acre irrigation pond, our favorite spot. What we saw there was nothing short of amazing. Enough geese had stayed on the pond to keep one corner open, and every inch of it was covered with duck butts. The bank was lined with geese. Any question we had about where we were going to hunt was immediately answered. A quick call to my buddy Kyle, and the hunt was booked. Bright and early couldn’t come soon enough.
Sleepless nights are a common occurrence during duck season, and that night was no exception. The anticipation killed me and kept me alive at the same time. Finally, the moment arrived. We pulled up to the gate, got out, and gave a listen. The music of honks, whistles, and quacks was on full display. They were there, and now so were we. We knew we would bump them on the way in to set up, but they had no other options for open water. A return was inevitable.
I’ll forever have visions of Kyle throwing out decoys and dodging incoming Wigeon. Decoys were set quickly, and we hunkered down for the show. All morning, dark blobs of ducks were dumping into our water hole. Every duck hunter knows the awe they’ve felt when sitting back and watching birds do bird things. Wings cutting the air like a box knife through cardboard, the “meeerrpps” of old greenheads, and splashes in every direction keep a duck hunter’s heart racing. It was truly the calm before the storm because daylight was coming, and their safety net was disappearing with it.
“BOOM!” The first shots of daylight finally rang out. A couple of stud wigeon drakes started our day. The sigh of relief from finally scratching that trigger finger itch was real. We sat throughout the morning and picked off the birds we wanted, mostly searching for greenheads and Pintails. Then, the moment Dad and I had both been waiting for happened. The King, a Canvasback, flew right over the blinds. He made a swoop to get right with the wind and dumped right in. “Boom, Boom!” I instantly knew my “Boom” was the second of the two. Dad had killed the Canvasback. I was proud of him, but a bit disheartened at the same time.
The day continued, and we finished up our Pintail limits. Almost like déjà vu, another Can zoomed right over, set his landing gear, and headed for the spread. “Boom, Boom!” This time, both booms were mine. The first was a “gotta get him first” boom, and the second was an “oh crap, I missed” boom. Nevertheless, after seasons of waiting, I finally got him—a stud Canvasback.
As the morning went on, the geese flew, and we picked some off. It was tough because of the big flocks and the wind. There wasn’t much room for them to get down. A good-size group came over, and we heard the giggle. Four Specklebellies were mixed in a jumbled mess of Canadas. Specks are nearly unheard of in our area, but the crazy weather had brought them to us. Two of them broke off and circled us. We all zoned in on them, ignoring the Canadas landing in the spread. There were just too many bodies and not enough space. We have that buddy who thinks three passes is plenty, right? Well, I think we were on pass four when Kyle had seen enough. He said, “On the next go, let’s give 'em a try.” Those two Specks came right over our shoulder, and we went after them. It took me a second to get my gun up, and I let them get too far out. One fell, and the other kept going. Unfortunately, the one that kept going was the one I had my bead on, so I didn’t get a Speck, but what a cool bird to see, and what a show the geese put on for us.
It was an amazing day, one that I will remember forever (especially since that Canvasback is on my wall). My dad wrapped up an all-drake, three-man limit with a big old greenhead. The limit included Mallards, Wigeon, Pintail, Canvasbacks, and a stud Scaup. We killed a handful of Canadas, and Kyle won the drawing to claim the Specklebelly. We each checked something off our lifetime list, and we have memories that will stay with us all. It was a day our families may grow tired of hearing about, but knowing what nature could bring keeps me watching the weather channel and hoping for the next freeze.