We had been duped.  After the first season, during which we had seen only a few ducks and, on rare occasion, shot at only one or two, we had written it off as having been a bad year.

“It never got cold enough up north to push them down,” and “It will be better next season,” became our mantras as we huddled around the fire back in camp each evening, defrosting with a tumbler of bourbon in hand.

Early on in our second season, it became readily apparent that we had been scammed.  The advertisement in the Clarion Ledger had been simple and straightforward, something to the effect of “Mississippi Delta duck lease, family-friendly farm flush with mallards.”  That’s not exactly what it said, but it’s close.

The grand tour we had been given on our initial visit and the stories we had been told by the landowner about how “a man could kill a limit of ducks every day just hunkering down by one of these bushes and doin’ a little calling,” had been bunk.

Pop had seen the ad and made the initial call and, as such, he got most of the blame for “getting us into this mess.”  That’s not exactly what was said, however, since this column is family friendly, I’ll save the salty language for a chapter in the book one day.  Suffice it to say that a lot of good-natured ribbing and finger pointing transpired, but Pop took it all in stride.

 

We were left with no option other than trying to make lemonade out of our lemon of a lease, to make “mallards out of midden” or “greenheads out of guano,” if you will, and we decided to do just that.

At some point during the season, I serendipitously got rerouted due to a winter storm while returning from a business trip and found myself sitting next to a fellow Mississippian on the flight.

As it turns out, he was also a duck hunter and had grown up near our lease in Midon.  When I told where we were, he inquired as to which farmer and what land we were leasing.

When I told him that we were leasing the duck-less or, at least, duck-lacking place from a fellow named Moe, he fixed me with a bemused look and asked, “How’s that working out for you?”  His laughter that followed echoed through the small jet’s cabin.

I feel it necessary at this point to confess that names, both place and people, have been changed to protect the (innocent certainly doesn’t apply here) “other” party involved in our duck-deficient transaction.  To my knowledge there is no Midon in the Delta or even in Mississippi.  I’m not sure about any Moes.

During that short flight, I learned a lot, although I must say that by that point, we had figured out most of it.  It seems that Moe couldn’t make it as a farmer, which explained why he was now working in another field (no pun intended).

His family, it turns out, were as good as gold.  They farmed the land surrounding the tract that we were leasing.  Eventually, they even gave us permission to hunt their land as well, which enabled us to kill a few ducks on occasion.  This made the long drives back home to Meridian for us and to Baton Rouge for our friends a little less painful.

For years, I’ve thought of that Delta duck lease as a bust, but something that I heard in a sermon Sunday morning, followed by something that I saw when I got home afterwards, has led me to rethink that.

During his sermon, Father Walton talked about the “moments that matter” in our lives.  I thought a lot about those moments on my drive home.  I thought especially about what it meant to have Tate and Jake home from Japan for Christmas this year.

Walking through the house when I got home, I passed the mallard that hangs on the wall near our bookshelves, Pop’s mallard.  I thought about the shot he made on that greenhead, one of the longest shots that I’ve ever seen on one of the biggest ducks I’ve ever seen.

Pop shot the greenhead while hunting alongside me at the Delta lease.  I recalled how, as his “retriever” that day, I had had to wade across a deep ditch — as in one inch from the top of my waders deep — to claim his green-headed trophy.

The memories came flooding back.  I thought about the late evenings spent shooting wood ducks over the tree line — after we got permission to be there — about hanging out and hunting with our friends “Big David” and “Little David” Mullens, and about the great meals that David cooked — my first taste of grits and grillades came to mind.

Throughout the day, I found myself reliving moments from the Delta camp, moments like almost freezing to death on multiple occasions, like exposing Dan to hunting camp life for the first time — “Remember, Dan, what happens at the camp stays at the camp”— and like eating some of the best cheeseburgers in the world at the little country store just up in the hills from the flatland parcel.

As I looked back on those moments, my perspective changed.  I was smiling the entire time.  That camp wasn’t a bust, in fact it was home to some of the best times of my life.  It’s funny how looking through a different lens can totally change the view.

Until next time, here’s to the moments that matter, to making the most of every one of those precious moments, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.