Page 75 - South Mississippi Living - November, 2023

story and photos by John N. Felsher
Almost as if by feel, he maneuvered the ancient, battered aluminum boat through dark winding channels off the main river. His mind’s eye remembered these familiar twists, snags and channels after more than 70 years of running this backwater. These eyes dodged trees that weren’t even growing when he hunted this swamp as a child.
With a twinge of scarlet showing in the east, the Old Duck Hunter nimbly pulled his battered flatboat into the blind. A stout breeze nipped our faces, causing a slight shiver.
“This is the Pothole Blind,” he said. “It don’t look much like a pothole now, but it’s huge compared to years ago. Years ago, it weren’t nothin’ but a wide spot between trees in the swamp. I kilt my first duck here with a borried old side-by-side shotgun nearly 80 years ago. See ’em stumps? They was green and alive back then. Now, the trees are all dead from all the saltwater comin’ in.”
The Old Duck Hunter built this blind about 60 years earlier and hunted it every winter since then. Chicken
wire walls raised to the height of a man’s eyes held browning branches and other plant material. A plywood
roof lumped with palmettos and Spanish moss partially covered the top, providing some shelter from the elements.
Three hunters could stand with ample room to shoot. A bench offered comfort. A small heater held the cold at
bay.
To the east, the rising sun backlighted woody skeletons
of gnarled old cypress trees. Silhouetted wood ducks whistled down the treeline well out of range. They
weren’t interested in our decoys. A small flight of green- winged teal rocketed down the far shoreline out of range.
Beneath a rumpled, faded camouflaged hat, two slate gray eyes, now hidden behind thick bifocals, scanned the fog
of today and penetrated the fog of time. What were they seeing? Were they reaching across the decades to long ago hunts and other misty mornings? Mediocre hunts tend to grow into great adventures after more than seven decades.
“Back when my daddy hunted this swamp, we used lead shot,” he remembered. “Today, the federal gubment makes us use steel shot. I never much cared for steel shot, but it’s the law. Here come two. Keep down. Don’t move.”
Where? I didn’t know. I couldn’t see them. A good pair of eyes!
Two ducks shot past the blind well out of range until the Old Duck Hunter pulled out a battered wooden mallard call and began playing a tune only a duck can comprehend. Two dots over the distant trees made a wide sweeping arc and headed directly for us.
“Keep still. They’s comin’ this way,” he said.
As the ducks flared over the decoys, we shot. I missed three times. Next to me, the Old Duck Hunter’s ancient double barrel belched once, bringing down a greenhead mallard, the first of several ducks it claimed this morning. We will have duck to eat tonight at the camp.
A good pair of eyes indeed! I didn’t even see them until they flashed in front of the blind. Sometimes, the old magic still beats a good pair of eyes.
Rather than hunt alone, the Old Duck Hunter said he needed “a good pair of eyes” to share his blind on this frosty morning.
SOUTH MISSISSIPPI Living | www.smliving.net November 2023 | 75