A Veteran Presence

“The Israelis say that luck is a gentle kiss from God, meant for those who deserve it most. I’m not sure I agree. I can’t honestly provide a single reason why I deserve any luck at all. In fact, for the bastard I’ve been in my younger life, if I deserve intervention from God at all, it’s a type of misfortune I deserve more than anything else. Contrary to my standing with the divine however, only a short time later, a flight came in that provided me with all the luck I needed to place the proverbial cherry on a perfect first outing.”

It didn’t seem right. It felt almost sacrilegious; breaking the peaceful and perfect, pellucid, glass surface of the lake in the early morning, dim glow. In my mind, I pictured the huge and varying array of colorful Nachtmann crystal tumblers and carafes my mother cherished and kept in a glass display in the dining room when I was growing up. For another moment I imagined the almost unfathomable horrors that would have fallen upon us, if my siblings or I had ever smashed one and disturbed its picturesque surface character, in the same manner I was currently inflicting on the lake’s pristine topwater. Tentatively, I assumed the thought was giving me chills but I soon realized it was the icy, barely thawed, bone and muscle chilling contents of the water body that I was being physically made aware of, as I waded in to catch the boat, in the superficial effulgence of a headlight I nabbed from my work truck before heading out that morning. The hull was loaded with buckets of decoys, blind bags, boxes of shot shells, and some type of floating watercraft I had never seen before. Within minutes of launching, the duck boat’s load was about maxed out, as a pile of good ole’ boys from the Wyoming high desert huddled inside and set the jet towards the sunrise. Only a short time later, we would be triggering the discordant roar of 12 gauge shotguns and a consequential rhapsody of splashing sounds as unlucky, ill-fated, migrating waterfowl fell from the sky. It was going to be a great day. I felt good. Ready. I was happy to be off work, hanging out with good people and I was full of confidence that the day would bring success. That confidence however, was something I had to appreciate through the contrast of reminiscence. It was brand-new to me. In fact, I had only recently developed it over the last year and I did so with the kind help and support of veterans of this sport.

My friend is a very unique guy, by today’s standards. I met him a few years ago through EMS while he was completing his required clinical and field hours by volunteering to run as a third, within our ambulance service. At the time, he was only a few short months from completing the Paramedic Program at the local community college. Our first words were polite but short. I had met him the evening before though, the crew he was working with had only just returned from a late run and, immediately after our introduction the whole lot of them racked out. The following morning, in the orange light of a new Spring day, I spent the early hours in the communal office space tapping away at the keys on my laptop. There I worked on a project until the facility’s intercom system rang out a page throughout the halls of the ambulance barn for my crew to be activated. I closed the lid on my laptop, used the base station radio to notify dispatch that my unit was responding and hopped into the back of the ambulance as it pulled out of the station with the lights flashing. I honestly can’t recall what the incident we responded to involved but, I do remember that we transported a very hurt patient to the ER and that upon our return to the barn, there was a very large mess in the back of the bus which needed to be cleaned up before it could be dispatched out again. As I started executing the daunting task of replacing supplies and sanitizing the working surfaces of the ambulance, the dude that I would one day call a friend, climbed into the bus with me and started hacking away at some of the many tasks required to get the rig ready for the next run. It was great to see a new guy with an aggressive approach to teamwork. 

“I saw your laptop has a Scaly Designs sticker stuck to the cover,” he responded, after I thanked him for his help.

“Yea man, John makes cool shit.” I was tired and only mildly conversational.

“Yea! I’ve got one of his Yeti mugs in Cutthroat pattern. You fly fish?”

“A bit.” I always respond to that question with a protocol of wariness, when asked by strangers.

As we cleaned and prepped the ambulance, the conversation carried on in typical, escalating fashion. For those who don’t know, there is an instinctual and widely recognized ritual that is intrinsically paired with the fated instance of two male, outdoor sport enthusiasts learning of each other’s existence on earth. It always starts in a polite but exploratory manner. It requires engagement but, under your cool and collected exterior, you’ve also got to be observing the other’s demeanor. You don’t want to give away too many details about your fishing spots or hunting practices, just in case the guy turns out to be a Capital-D-ouche-bag but, at the same time, if the guy turns out to be alright, you don’t want to have been so standoff-ish that you might miss the opportunity to make a new pal. Though, I too am a guilty party in this behavior, I can’t help but notice how ridiculous and childish it is. It seems particularly preposterous when observed from the outside of the new exchange. It’s a lot like knowing two dogs in two separate arenas of your life and, when they finally meet for the first time, you nervously standby while they sniff each other’s butts and hope that each party approves of the other. We really haven’t fallen so far from the primitive tree, even in the 21st century, have we? 

By the time the ambulance was back in service, my new pal and I had both internally decided that the other had passed our initial measuring with enough merit to justify scheduling a time to fish together. Not long later, we did exactly that. We put my boat in early in the morning and fished throughout the day. I learned a lot about my new pal, as my seventeen foot aluminum boat lackadaisically drifted down the river channel. He’s young but I remember being surprised by this realization because he carries himself in a manner that would suggest he’s much older. He knows exactly what he wants from life. Shortly after highschool he started pursuing the Paramedicine degree and, he did so, knowing that if he were to be hired on with a local full-time fire service he would achieve the life/work balance he was aiming for. He completed the program, taking a long shot and it worked. He hired on with a local service and now works 2 days a week. He’s paid well, has a great retirement income building, medical benefits and most importantly, he’s doing what he loves. For 48 hours a week, he runs to the aid of people in need, when they call. For the rest of the week, he does whatever he wants which really only seems to be hunting and fishing and, who can blame him? I remember thinking to myself how I wished I would have had my head on as straight as this guy does, when I was his age. Something else I learned about my new friend that day; something that would spread a grin across my face, came when we started discussing hobbies outside of fishing. When the conversation came around to hunting, and we started weighing the season and methods of it all, I admitted something to him.

“I’ve got a few buddies who used to duck hunt and they talk about it like it’s better than prom night. I’ve always wanted to get into it but, just haven’t had an opportunity to commit to it yet.”

He turned inside the thigh hooks of my boat, mid backcast and presented an audacious grin. In that short moment I came to realize two things. Firstly, it was now apparent that he had been holding something back, protecting it from the guy he was still learning a bit about, before revealing it. Secondly, this thing he was holding back was cherished and, after deciding that his new buddy was worthy, he was excited to share it with him. 

“I can teach you to duck hunt,” he posited casually, suppressing his excitement. 

“Yea?” I awaited confirmation. 

My doubling down on suggesting my interest in the sport assured his doubt and he allowed himself to reveal his enthusiasm. 

“Hell yes, dude!” A new person was suddenly standing at the front of my boat, as he mended the unloaded line he had neglected in the previous moment, and continued fishing. 

“I love bird hunting. It’s my favorite sport. Do you have a shotgun?”

“Yea!” I responded with an excitement to match his energy, before recalling my reality and allowing a bit of discouraging undertone to trail my voice, “but, it’s only a 20 gauge. I traded a guy for it, and a Savage bolt gun, for one of my old bows about a year or so ago. At the time, I thought I was getting started but then, the few guys I’ve spoken with about it said that a 20 gauge doesn’t have enough knockdown power to kill birds.”

He refused to hear it. “What?! Nah man, your 20 gauge will work to kill ducks. I run my Winchester SX4 in 20 gauge all the time.”

Some of my excitement was renewed. “Really?” I confirmed. 

“Yea man! I mean, a 12 gauge is definitely more powerful and, when you start hunting Geese you’ll want to upgrade but, to knock ducks down a 20 is fine. What shotgun is it?”

“Just a Remington 870 Express. Magnum though, so I run 3” shells in it.”

“Oh yea, buddy. You’ll have no problem killing ducks with that.” 

I was stoked. I had been harboring a desire to give duck hunting a try for a very long time but, like with any other hobby, I knew it would take some time to adapt and learn the methodology for success. Up to that point, with a new baby in my house and a developing career, I just hadn’t had the opportunity to take on the long, arduous task of learning a new sport. Especially one as complex as bird hunting can be which, I had been a little over intimidated by as a result of conversations I’d had with waterfowlers in the past. There is something uniquely separating, in outdoor sports, that divides the end user’s early or late initial success. For instance, I have been fly fishing my entire life. I grew up fly fishing in the glacier fed rivers of south central Alaska and was initially taught how to play the game by my dad, when I was very young. I often forget how formidable of a task learning to fly fish can be, simply because my learning curve has spanned over the course of 30 years and, because I had excellent teachers in my Dad and his friends. It’s while carrying that small bit of ignorance that I sometimes lack sensitivity when speaking with anglers who are brand-new to the sport. Often, I’ll meet someone who has been trying to learn the sport on their own, and after a few months they are still totally oblivious to success. They can’t read water, they can’t tie for specific water, they can’t mend and there’s truthfully no shame in it. All of this stuff is difficult to retain and execute in practice. What seems to always help anglers like these is a single outing with someone who has some experience. It’s the difference between struggling for a year to catch the same age-class of small fish or, with a bag full of new knowledge, taking your next outing to meet some of the wiser and harder to catch bruisers our rivers provide habitat for. Until I met Tristan, I knew learning to duck hunt was going to be a long process, full of days without any success and plenty of discouragement. I’m not afraid to learn in this manner, as I have with many of my hobbies but, when you’re as busy as I am, you find yourself having to plan your new endeavors with a strategic mode of timing. All of those worries fade however, when a good dude who brings a veteran presence to the table is willing to take you out and show you how to dive in. 

“Buddy, I am fuckin’ IN!” I proclaimed it like I was finding Jesus for the first time.

The summer months sludged by, at an oozing pace, bringing with them long, arduous days and brutal temperatures which misrepresented the region where I live. This place would harbor a 120 degree contrast to the current heat in only a few short months. When Fall came, and the time finally arose, I was ready. On a cool October morning, after hunting season had produced an elk and a deer for my freezer, I met up with Tristan and one of his pals. In the early hours, before the sun could make its presence known, we set up a decoy rig in a slow moving back eddy along the river bank. Decoys spanned in every direction outward from a natural blind the guys had constructed by manipulating the tall river grasses and Cattails. I was handed the end of a paracord line and told, “here, yank on this once a minute or so.” The “jerk rig” the guys had set up was placed in the water out before me and, through a small window in the blind, I watched as the associated decoys danced in the water every time I supplied a hardy tug. Entertained by the action, I pulled the cord a few times with a childish grin on my face. My excitement was showing through. I looked right to Tristan and found he had his eyes glued to the skyline, directed at the ambient glow above the mountains to the east. Looking left, I noticed his friend Jake had also fixed his gaze to the sky. Assimilating, I too set my eyes to task, looking for movement in the early morning haze. Tristan looked at his watch, then confirmed the reality of the legal doctrine. “Okay… it’s shooting light. Get ready.”

Moments later, in the distance and down river, a flight of birds betrayed themselves to our noticing. They flew fast and together in a tight group. How anyone could tell a damn thing about them from this distance seemed ridiculous to me but, “Widgeon, and a few others, coming from down river. Small group” was muttered in a deliberate whisper from one of the two men. In response, Jake called out to the world through a double reed, wooden barreled “quacker” and the unsuspecting birds changed their course.  

“Inbound!” Tristan declared through a hurried whisper and ducked lower into the blind. I mimicked his actions and flipped the safety off on my shotgun. “They’re coming in,” he said to me. “Be ready to shoot and wait for me to tell you when to spring on them.” I nodded my understanding and watched anxiously through the budded Cattails as the group circled around our decoys. Jake enunciated a rapid “tigga, tigga, tigga” sound, which I would soon learn was meant to simulate a Mallard feeding call, from one of the numerous tools hanging from a lanyard around his neck. The feathered critters circled over our spread and, every instinct in me had to be repressed as I forced myself not to leap up and begin spraying in some amateur re-creation of an old Chuck Norris film. I was so damned anxious. I began to wonder what the Hell these guys were waiting on. The birds were right there for crying out loud! Why weren’t we shooting them? Tristan must have picked up on my vibe because he astutely affirmed, “they’re not close enough yet. Hang tight.” I nodded my understanding and remained obediently crouched, in position, ready to hand out the hurting for the first time. Meanwhile, Jake’s calling grew more intense and more rapid as he convinced the birds to land. They circled again but, this time, they made a large loop – extending the arc of their path further to the east, and into the rising sun. The excitement exhausted from Tristan’s lips. “This is it. Wait for me to call it.” Again, I sat patiently, awaiting permission to deliver my best efforts to take down my first ducks. I lost sight of the flight for a moment, as they spanned the skyline and turned to the west, coming in directly before us. The golden and crimson morning light canvassed the backdrop and the flock of feathered critters contrasted against it in a picturesque image that burned into the back of my mind. Reflecting on it now, it was so beautiful and harmonious, I hope I never lose that memory, and I recall thinking to myself that; if I weren’t trying to tag these birds I would have caught the scene on my 85mm and a mild filter. As they neared, the legs of every duck hung like the landing gear of a C-130 on approach. Their heads were cocked downward and their wings folded in a heliacal arch, capturing every bit of air friction they could, to slow the fowl’s descent. “Look at that cup!” Jake whispered in hungry anticipation. My legs were shaking. My tongue was out and curled against my upper lip. My right index finger, well disciplined in trigger management, fidgeted with one of the assembly pins that protruded from the right side of the gun’s frame, drawing circles around it. The birds drifted into our realm, slowing as they approached, closer and closer and…

“Kill um’!” Tristan called out as he stood to spring on his prey and Jake and I followed in unison. On each side of me their shotguns swung into the morning light hunting for a target and when it was found, they exploded in deliberate rage. I welded my cheek to the stock of my own shotgun, aimed down the barrel and fixated on the small steel bead mounted at the mouth. I swung the dangerous end into the lead of an incoming bird and watched for a moment, noticing how; as the critter had come realize it had made a terrible mistake, it began to power its wings hard in a lifting effort, as if trying to fly backwards which, provided it the unfortunate position in the ambient sky where it was floating still – neither ascending or descending but instead, hovering without direction. A perfect target. I narrowed my vision, confirmed my shot, and squeezed the trigger. The drake folded and tumbled from the sky, landing in the water near a decoy, departed. Elation washed over me. I was officially a duck hunter. 

In the blind, whispered celebrations were shared, accompanied by high fives and hilariously foul-mouthed banter. Then, Jake waded out into the back eddy to collect our harvest. In a few short moments, he would return and the process would start all over. Eventually, a time had come when we had all killed a number of ducks. I was asked by Tristan, “how are you liking it?”

“Dude, this is a blast,” was all I could muster. My head was in the clouds. I was like a kid learning to ride a bike. A whole new world was opening to me. 

“So, it’s what you thought it would be then?” My friend was looking for affirmation. I certainly wasn’t above giving it to him. He had done me a true solid by taking me out and showing me how it’s done. I can’t imagine how many times I would have messed it up, trying to figure this craft out on my own. “Bro, this is incredible. I did wonder something though. We’ve nailed a couple Mallards so far but none of them are like what I had sorta been hoping for over the last year.”

“What do you mean?” he quizzed.

“I mean, I’ve always seen in duck hunting Facebook groups and forums that the coveted Green Head is the one with a white band that encircles his neck and a plume of fully curled tail feathers. I wasn’t expecting anything but, I sure was hoping we’d knock down one like that at some point.”

Tristan smiled, and I got the sense that I was really showing off my “newbie” vibes. “It happens, man. Not something you should expect around here and definitely not something that happens on every trip but, from time to time you’ll find a perfect drake like that.” Understanding exactly why the Green Head was so coveted, I went back to task, watching the sky.

The Israelis say that luck is a gentle kiss from God, meant for those who deserve it most. I’m not sure I agree. I can’t honestly provide a single reason why I deserve any luck at all. In fact, for the bastard I’ve been in my younger life, if I deserve intervention from God at all, it’s a type of misfortune I deserve more than anything else. Contrary to my standing with the divine however, only a short time later, a flight came in that provided me with all the luck I needed to place the proverbial cherry on a perfect first outing. In the same fashion I described above, the flock whirled around over our heads before committing to the landing. When they did, I bagged my trophy. To me, it meant the world. Like my first mega-trout on a fly, like my first Mule Deer with a bow, like my first monster Elk shed – All of which were successes I attribute to the wonderful people in my life who took the time to show a newbie how to play the game – that drake will live in my memory for my life time. I am so grateful to be surrounded by such an amazing community.  

Since that first outing, I’ve upgraded my bang-game a little bit. Like Tristan, I too run a Winchester SX4 in 12 gauge though, I haven’t yet accompanied mine with one chambered in 20 gauge like he has. When the job calls for a 20, I’m still rockin’ that old, traded down Remington 870. Maybe in the next season I’ll upgrade in that aspect as well. I hunt with the guy a lot through the bird season which, here in western Wyoming, never seems long enough. In doing so I’ve made a few more pals, as his circle of friends have been introduced to me. I’ve also learned that bird hunting, much like fly fishing, is done in numerously different ways to target a myriad of different critters. That day on the river was monumental but, in my humble opinion, hunting a river bottom feigns in comparison to an a-frame blind in a field, watching the sky for Snow Geese and Greater Canadians. Oh, and don’t get me started rambling about hunting on a lake from a floating lay-blind. Tristan uses a couple of his 5 days off every week to guide now. Through him, I met the owner of Wyoming Fishing Company, Ryan. A great dude with a winning strategy. The three of us scooped up some beautiful Cans and Buffie Drakes off a local lake this last November. To touch on that, I’ve never seen such a display of shooting in my life. Unbelievably impossible shots occurred not more than 3 feet away from me, while the dude made whimsical jokes about politicians and bait fisherman then, limited out in a half hour. It was as if the bird hunting wasn’t something he needed to focus on. Like, he was holding a conversation with me, while “multitasking” and filling a quota at the same time. I also met another pal of Tristan’s, Dustin. Apparently, he’s the fella who introduced Tristan to the sport. He also was able to identify a couple of “Kings” as they flew in with a similar speed to a subsonic bullet, while we lay waiting in our floating crafts on the lake. Before I could even reach for my gun, he casually muttered “Cans. They’re Drakes” and dumped both the birds from the sky. 

As I’ve developed in this game, I’ve said my “thank yous” and done everything I could to express my appreciation. Learning to hunt waterfowl was a “bucket-list” item that I had spent many lunch breaks contemplating. I had always intended on getting started but, I had suspected I would do so with one Hell of a learning curve. Truthfully, I didn’t have much confidence that I would see any real success in the early days and, I was alright with that. Thankfully however, those early concerns were squashed by good natured people who were willing to share in this sport which, I hope all who read this article will consider the next time they get a lead on a guy who’s interested in learning. Our community, in the outdoor sports, should always be looking for good people to help us grow and, as stewards of our resources, it only benefits us to show new incomers how the game is played successfully and ethically. I am forever grateful for you people as, everywhere I go and in every game I play, there always seems to be a few of you who are willing to offer a kind, teaching hand. I am eager to reciprocate that same welcoming space to incomers later, when I’ve become the seasoned version of the sport’s partakers.   

Yes, I hope we’ll all advocate for our culture in such a positive manner, and be the veteran presence some other “newbie” would be thankful to have on board.     

Author’s Note:

Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this story and all the content associated with it. As an avid sportsman, I hope that this tale inspires you to get outside to enjoy the wild with the ones you love most. I write these stories as a supplement to my lifestyle as a sportsman and guide, and with them comes a certain accountability. The details of my stories are purely based on my recollection alone and in no particular way do they reflect a chronologically factual, indisputable timeline of events. They are in no way intended for official use or as a reference for official purposes. These are simply tall tales meant to entertain the tired mind; best served with a clear evening, a warm fire and, a strong whiskey.

All the photos and content featured in my tall tales are my own, unless expressly cited otherwise, and the unauthorized use or reproduction of them is strictly prohibited. That’s all for now, my friends. If you enjoyed this content and would like to see more like it, I can be found on Instagram by searching “Authentically Wild Out West” and on YouTube by searching the same phrase. Until the next campfire, stay safe out there and look after each other.

On another quick note: I’ve launched a new publication on Substack, specifically to showcase my serialized fiction and poetry! 

I hope you’ll join me there! Follow THIS LINK to have a look. 

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Come Fish & Hunt in Wyoming With Me!

If you’ve been reading my tall tales and outdoor articles for a while, you have probably recognized that much of my writings revolve around anecdotes. I live these stories, here in one of the last truly wild places on Earth and now as a full-time guide, I’d like to extend an invitation to you: 

Come experience this prestigious place with me. 

You can do this by reaching out to Wyoming Fishing Company and exploring the many options we have available to accommodate your next fishing, waterfowl, upland bird, small game, or predator hunting adventure. We can facilitate small & large groups alike or offer a one-on-one guided experience. Come make some memories this season! I’m already looking forward to adventuring with you.

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