Featured Article Sept/Oct 09

At this little tucked-away lake in northern Arizona, the author discovers a unique way to gun waterfowl. A classic story by a legendary writer.
by  Jack O’Connor




It was three o’clock on an afternoon in late October, 1934, when John McGregor came by my office. “What do you say we go duck hunting?” said he.

I looked out the window. The sun was shining and the sky was a perfect blue. “It doesn’t look like much of a day for ducks,” I said.

“But they’ll be coming in,” he said. “It’s storming up in Utah. I heard it over the radio last night. What do you say?”

So, within a half-hour four of us were bound swiftly south – John and his wife Alma, my own storm and strife Eleanor, and I. After nine miles through a forest of cut-over pines we were running along the shore of Lake Mary, nine miles from Flagstaff, Arizona. Far out in the middle of the lake were rafted ducks. As we watched, a flock splashed into the middle of them.

“This is very interesting, John,” I said, “but how are we going to get to these ducks?”

“We’re not going to hunt here, ” he assured me. “Just be patient.”

A couple of miles farther on he slowed the car. “Let’s see now,” he muttered to himself. “Here’s the bend of the old railroad bed and there’s the lone pine that’s been struck by lightning .  . .”

“Is this a treasure hunt, an archaeological expedition or a duck hunt?” I demanded.

John by profession is an archaeologist and I thought he might be reverting to type. I was afraid he’d grab a shovel instead of a shotgun and begin to excavate.

“And here’s the dim road!” he shouted, turning the cars swiftly to the left. We bounced along an almost imperceptible trail among mal pais boulders and came to a halt at the abrupt edge of Anderson Mesa, famous everywhere for its great antelope but not for its ducks.

“Here’s where we get out.”

Dubiously, Eleanor and I climbed from the car. We set up- our guns and filled our pockets with shells.

“Now where?” Eleanor asked.

“Up the mesa.”

The easiest grade up the slope rose at an angle of about 45 degrees, but we saw a trail winding in and out of boulders set among cedars, pines and oaks.

“It looks like a swell place for deer, but a hell of a location for ducks unless we shoot them out of trees,” I observed. Inwardly, I thanked the trail-builder.

“Just hold your horses and trust me,” John laughed.

Halfway up the slope a big gray doe and two half-grown fawns ran out of a thicket of scrub-oak. They stopped on the skyline and stared curiously at us, their big ears pointed in our direction.

“I said it was a good place for deer. Now show me a duck, mister.”

“All right, there they go,” John shouted

Over our heads just above the pines, a flock of teal whistled east-bound from Lake Mary to some place on the mesa.

For practice, my wife snapped an empty gun at them. With something like hope we climbed on.

The moment we got over the edge of the mesa we saw where the ducks were headed. Two beautiful little lakes separated by a narrow arm of land lay before us. The larger of the two was a half-mile long and perhaps 300 yards wide. The other was circular and about 200 yards in diameter. Weeds and tulles grew along the banks, and little islands of tulles spotted the surface clear to the middle. But the larger lake was spotted with something besides tulles – DUCKS! – hundreds of them.

“Look down at the north end,” John said quickly. “See anything?”

“Antelope.”

A herd of 25 or 30 of the lovely, graceful creatures were watering. After watching us they turned and trotted away.

“This is Horse Lake,” John informed us, “and it’s the best place in northern Arizona to hunt without a boat. Not one duck hunter in ten knows about it, so you see I’m letting you in on a secret.”

In a few minutes we were distributed. John and his wife chose a stone and cedar blind on the neck of land. Eleanor took another, and I elected to stay beneath a pine on the near shore to pick off birds in flocks that flew over from Lake Mary.

We had hardly got settled when I heard the whistle of wings. A few seconds later a flock of mallards whizzed up over the mesa from the direction of Lake Mary. They came directly over me and about 30 yards high. I missed with my first barrel, but when I let off my second, a big green-headed drake folded up with started quack, turned over a couple of times in the air and smacked the grounds just as the edge of the water. Broken wing. Dazed, he shook his head and started for his favorite element, but I ran down and gathered him in.

Just as I was admiring him, I heard a great honking and looked up to see a flock of Canada geese going over high and out of range. Cursing my luck, I ran for my pine.

Next a flock of canvasbacks swept in from Utah. They came low over the north end of the lake, directly down the middle. As they reached the south end they banked beautifully and turned toward my wife’s blind.  I saw their light-colored bellies glistening in the sun. Just as they complete their bank, I saw Eleanor get up. Twice I saw smoke puff from the barrels and at each puff a big “can” dropped. The ducks flared but continued on to the other blind. John and Alma got into action and two more ducks lost interest in the world. Things were looking up.

“Good shooting!” I shouted across the lake to my wife.

Just then a flock of pintails sizzled over me, almost knocking my hat off. Too astonished to shoot, I watched them drop into the lake with their fellows.

Over the next half-hour I used seven shells and added three birds to the bag – two canvasbacks and a redhead. In the same time two fell to Eleanor’s gun and five to the combined fire of John and his wife. One of my three fell on the land, but two, though very dead, had struck the water 20 yards out. Gloomily I contemplated wading in that icy water, and as the flight seemed to be over temporarily, I saw down to smoke a cigarette.

Presently another hunter arrived and took up a stand a hundred yards away from me. He chose a pine like mine.

“How’s the hunting?” he asked.

“Swell,” I answered.

Then I saw him stiffen. He took up his gun and faced west. Suddenly things began to happen. A flock of six mallards had flown in from Lake Mary directly toward him. His automatic twelve began to talk, and right then and there I saw the most astonishing exhibition of shotgun shooting it has ever been my fortune to encounter.

Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang!

At each report a duck crumpled. Not a single bird reached the water alive and every one except the last he killed fell on the land. It is my distinct impression that all of the dead birds were in the air at once. I’d take no oath of that point, however My mouth was hanging open and my eyes bulging ffrom surprise.

Calmly my mysterious hunter picked up his ducks. He stuffed them into a gunny sack, then waved to me.

“Think I’ll go,” he said. “I’ve got a mess.”

“Pretty good idea,” I returned.

When he had disappeared the way he had come, my wife’s voice floated over the water. “Did you see that?”

“I did.”

“Was he shooting a machine-gun?”

“You’ve got me.”

The sun was low in the west. Shadows lengthened and the air grew suddenly chill. A bright sunset began to flame, and the waters of the lake glowed like molten metal. A herd of antelope undisturbed by the shooting came down to drink where we had seen the first bunch. It was that time of day that every hunter loves, when mystery of night and wild things seem strongest.

I stretched my arms. I danced up and down to keep warm, breathing the cold air scented with the odors of pines and water and tulles. Out in the center of the lake the feeding ducks quacked noisily, unwittingly acting as our decoys.

Another flock of pintails whizzed over my head and I managed to bring one down wounded in the water. The second barrel finished him off. Smacking him down had been a hard shot. He was going like an express train, high and almost out of range. Getting him had filled me with satisfaction that only a duck hunter knows.

Some teal came over and left me a trophy.

Now my hunting was over. I had six ducks – with my wife’s bag, we had enough for ourselves and some for our friends. We had seen lots of game and had good shooting.

I remembered the time several years before when we came back from a morning’s hunt in Texas with 50 big ducks. The kill was legal but hardly ethical. Since then, neither of us has ever shot a limit of wildfowl.

So I unlaced my shoes, took off my socks and braved the icy waters. Bur-r-r! I can still remember it. Out here in Arizona, where boats and retrievers are almost unknown, it’s the part of duck hunting I enjoy the least.

The sun was not yet down when I began putting on my shoes once more, but it was behind clouds and dusk was falling fast.

Suddenly ducks began to sweep in from every direction. Across the lake guns were popping merrily. I saw spurts of flame and water splashing when the birds hit the smooth silver of the lake.

Then the shooting ceased, the air was full of whistling wings.

“Let’s knock off,” John yelled.

“I’ve already knocked off!”

A few minutes later I saw him playing bird-dog, splashing about to gather up the birds and tossing them to the bank.

We came down the edge of the mesa in the darkness, stumbling over rocks and bumping tender shins against trees. The sun was down when we reached the car. Night had fallen and to the west the sky was colored like dark blood.

“Well, Arizona’s some place,” I told John.  “I knew you climbed for water and dug for wood, and that it had more cows and less milk than any state in the union, but it’s the first time I’ve ever climbed for ducks.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” John laughed smugly.


NEW O’CONNOR BOOK
Sporting Classics will publish its second book of “lost classic” stories by Jack O’Connor early next year. As yet untitled, the new book will be available in both a trade and a limited, leather-bound deluxe edition. To reserve your copy now, call 800-849-1004 or visit www.sportingclassics.net.