Nash Buckingham Once Shot a 25-Black-Duck Limit (and 8 Geese) During the Glory Days of Waterfowl Hunting

This story was initially printed within the September 1955 problem of Out of doors Life. It has been edited evenly to suit fashionable requirements. 

Almost 35 years in the past the late P.C. (Perry) Hooker walked into our sporting-goods emporium in Memphis, Tennessee, and handed me eight unmarked packing containers of 12 gauge shotgun shells with one hand and a surprisingly heavy leather-based gun case with the opposite. 

Perry, who represented an ammuni­tion firm, mentioned, “Buck, listed below are some hulls and a gun the large boss desires you to check on geese and geese. There’s No. 4 shot in all of the shells, however half of them are common 2 3/4-inchers and the remaining are 3-inch-long Magnums. They’re all loaded with a brand new fangled, slow-burning powder that’s supposed to provide extra velocity and denser, shorter shot strings. The gun’s an ‘over-bored’ Magnum. Neither the gun nor the shells will probably be available on the market any time quickly. The boss desires you to check them and provides him a full report as quickly as you may. Mark it ‘private and confidential.’” 

“I’ll strive them at Wapanoca, for a starter,” I replied. “Irma is driving by for me in about an hour and we’re go­ing on out to attract for blinds. Inform the boss I’ll give his wares an intensive check, beginning to­morrow.” 

In these days, Wapanoca had per­haps the heaviest waterfowl concentra­tions, on its 3,000 acres of open water and riparian marsh, of any space within the nation. Mendacity in a sweeping bend of the Mississippi River, its inviting expanses of lush aquatic meals, saw-grass pockets, cypress and pin-oak flats, willowed bays, and sequestered lagoons had attracted migra­tions since time immemorial. The lake is in Arkansas, close to Turrell, however that’s solely 25 miles northwest of Memphis. 

Late that long-gone November afternoon, Irma and I made a reckless 40-mile-an-hour drive over a fabulous new gravel street and turned in on the palatial clubhouse at nightfall, in time for Wapanoca’s best ceremony — the draw for paddlers and stands. That exact night ( so says my worn, leather-bound diary), 13 members had been in on the draw. It was one thing of a ritual at Wapanoca —— this drawing to allot taking pictures blinds. First got here the task of guides, who had been as expectant and eager as anybody, huddled on the far finish of the lounge, close to the cavernous fire to be taught “who drawed ‘em.”

To make sure, the paddlers had their likes and dislikes as doable assignments. That night Wapanoca’s president presided as grasp of the shake-rattle-­and-roll. Every information ‘s identify was num­bered for the season. The ten ball could be Moses, say, or Osborne; the seven, Columbus. I used to be fortunate and drew Aaron. A greater taking pictures or fishing companion by no means lived. We had been of al­most similar ages and had roamed the outside collectively since boyhood. Aaron’s father had paddled for mine. He was tall, robust, a keen-eyed woods­man and gun-pointer. You may set your watch and shove in your stack on Aaron. 

Then we drew for blinds. The fortunate man who acquired the number-one ball huddled exasperatingly along with his pusher till they agreed on essentially the most promising location. The remainder of us waited, glower­ing. There have been 13 blinds listed that night. I drew quantity 13. One after the other the president marked off the primary 12 choices. 

However one remained — an space named Treadwell’s, after a pio­neering member. It was a three-acre lake opening off the southeastern finish of Huge Lake and three miles from the boat touchdown. The come-lately outboard motors weren’t permitted to frighten Wapanoca’s concentrations. You rowed or poled and adopted shorelines. Within the middle of Huge Lake was almost a sq. mile of meals and refuge.

Wapanoca’s president mentioned, in his chilly, discouraging banker’s voice, “Sorry, Buck, you may’t get a ship into Treadwell’s. The water’s too low. No­physique’s been in a position to shoot there this season.”

“Effectively,” mentioned I, longing to cleave him amidst, “because you’re not inviting us to share the wealth of your number-two draw, isn’t Treadwell’s ours if we would like it?” 

“Yep,” he grunted, shuffling the papers and shutting the information. “You’re welcome to strive your fortunate 13.” 

Later that night time, in a recreation of crimson canine, the banker had a lesson in poetic justice. Then, earlier than delivering, I gave the brand new 9 3/4 pound Fox “over-bored” Magnum a cautious verify for inventory size and drop at comb and heel. It measured nearly like my 34-inch ­tubed Parker. Just like the Parker, its trig­ger pull was gentle and clean as a mouse’s ear. However, I made a decision to take each weapons with me the subsequent day.

Subsequent morning Aaron loaded my gentle boat with three dozen hollow-cedar mallard decoys; a field holding ammuni­tion, grub, and digital camera; each my weapons ; and Irma’s 12 gauge Mannequin 97 Win­chester. Enormous Pat, the Chesapeake, hopped onto my prow and I manned the oars. Aaron poled Irma in a bigger craft. In that means we traveled sooner and will use my smaller boat for shallower waters if want be. 

With different craft spreading to stations via Little and Huge Lakes, the din of rising geese and geese was virtually deafening. 

It was a chilly, north-wind day. With the wind on our tails, we made the doorway to Treadwell’s in an hour. By then weapons had been thumping and thudding at blinds nearer to the clubhouse. Geese rose in clouds from the refuge, certain for close by Mississippi River sandbars. Above the open expanse of Huge Lake wove sky-obscuring plenty of resettling geese. 

Shallow run-out water drained via willows shielding the doorway to Treadwell’s. There we cached the bigger boat and transferred Irma to my craft. With a tow rope round a paddle’s stem, Aaron and I sledded the sunshine boat for 200 yards via shal­lows and change willows. There was six inches of water, which was lots. Once we breasted into the open, Tread­effectively’s actually arose en masse and flew away. 

After pushing the boat right into a button­willow clump, Aaron scattered two dozen of the mallard decoys. In the meantime I lopped off limbs and normal a cover in order that Irma, with the north breeze at her again, may shoot sitting or stand­ing. Subsequent I raised and tightened my hip boots, put a field every of the brand new shells — regulars and Magnums — into the again of my taking pictures coat, and picked up the Fox gun. Pat, alerted by such preparations, watched my each transfer. 

Then Aaron seated himself on the prow, unlimbered his duck name, and grinned. “You fixing to wade as much as Goose Gap, ain’t you?” he requested. 

“Yep, I haven’t been in there for greater than 20 years. However seems as if each duck we’ve moved out of right here is drifting in that course. In that case, I’ll drift ’em again; if I’m incorrect, I’ll be again shortly. You and Miss Irma keep right here, and let no responsible duck escape.” 

With a sack of mallard decoys over my shoulder, I clucked to Pat and we started the wade. I had shot in Goose Gap many a time earlier than changing into of age. However within the years since I’d joined the membership, nobody appeared to go to Goose Gap. In all probability few members knew find out how to get there, for it required some pretty powerful wading. 

Reaching a low intervening ridge, I hit off via pin-oak flats and excessive willows. Overhead, scads of fowl poured towards Goose Gap. The going was pretty simple and I quickly noticed the sunshine of a gap and heard the muffled rumblings of crowded, feeding waterfowl. Pat heard it too, and grinned the way in which canine do. As we advert­vanced via head-high willows, the rumble deepened and Pat slunk extra intently at heel. 

On the fringe of the willows, I peered out throughout Goose Gap — 4 acres of open water that was now a strong mass of chattering waterfowl. Pat and I stood inside 15 ft of 1,000. Over the mass, different flocks hovered on the lookout for lighting area. A sight to gladden the guts of a nature lover, it known as for a way of sportsmanship. Two pictures in­to that mass and the slaughter would have been terrible. 

I had lengthy identified that bombarding geese off a feeding or resting mattress pays no dividends, even in the event you ignore the query of honest play, for few if any of the geese so frightened will ever return. So now, nonetheless hid, I cupped my fingers and gave a number of loud grunts. That began it. A cluck to the shivering Pat did the remaining. Tearing via the willows, he all however captured one terror-stricken mallard drake. Then waves of geese rose with recurring crashes, wings shattering the air with the sound of freight trains colliding. 

At my whistled directions, Pat scuttled again into hiding, and we watched the formations above us. Twisting flights of teal darted via clouds of mallards. Pintails, gadwalls, widgeon, scaup, spoonbills, and canvas­backs gyrated in confusion. The factor that amazed me most was the unbelievable variety of black geese. They weren’t so frequent on this space as different species and had been extremely prized. Now nice clusters of those darkish beauties winged above me. 

Whereas peace was settling over Goose Gap, Pat and I acquired prepared. First I made a cushty seat from a number of willow­root chunks. Then I waded out to scat­ter my dozen mallard decoys. I caught two regular-length shells loaded with the brand new powder into the equally new Fox Magnum, blew on my duck name, and marketed for purchasers. Pat regarded up at me with an expression that mentioned, “Possibly we shoulda shot ’em after we had the possibility.” 

With the wind at my again, I settled down to attend and watch. Irma’s gun was thumping away commonly. 

Abruptly, across the level of Miller’s Island, luffed a dozen or extra black geese. Straightening, they held for Goose Gap, circled its far rim simply as soon as, noticed the decoy stool, and heard my muted invitation. In one other 10 seconds they had been over my decoys, wings backed and delicate paddles dropped. Two pictures with the heavy double folded two of these beautiful specimens, they usually splashed chunk-like amongst their betrayers. Pat had them again to me in a trice. “That’s extra prefer it,” he appeared to smile. “Sustain the nice work.” 

In fast order, 5 completely different flights of black geese resought sanctuary inside Goose Gap. And every, because of the brand new masses and the large Fox, left a brace to Pat’s tender ministrations. Then started a wildfowl parade akin to few gunners see in a lifetime. Amid all that lots, I immediately resolved to at­tempt a 25-duck bag restrict in black geese solely. Many mallards had been quietly shooed from the decoys. Pat watched in frowning bewilderment and whined despairingly. Scores of teal and scaup whisked by. 

The following black geese had been excessive, at an extended vary than I normally accepted. I missed with the primary shot, however killed with the second barrel. I now had 13 black geese. An hour later, Pat fetched in my twenty fifth. I had shot a field (25) of regular-length masses and 10 of the 3-inch Magazine­nums. 

And the brand new masses had, in reality, introduced down a number of geese so excessive I wouldn’t have shot at them with the old-line ammunition. Although Pat had needed to chase just a few, I didn’t lose a cripple. 

Geese had been nonetheless pouring into Goose Gap, however Irma had lengthy since ceased taking pictures. She and Aaron had been prob­ably ready on the entrance to Tread­effectively’s. I duck-strapped my restrict of black geese into 4 bunches, sacked the decoys, tied the ensemble to a size of seine twine, and waded throughout to Miler’s Island, floating the entire load behind me. I used to be a robust beast of burden in these days, so the half-mile pack forward didn’t concern me. I used to be happy, nonetheless, to see Aaron stroll­ing up the island to satisfy me. 

“Mist’ Nash,” he greeted, “I may virtually inform by counting dem pictures what number of geese you completed kilt. Miss Irma was completed via, so I picked up, pulled her right down to d’ opening at Huge Lake, and are available on up heah to he’p you.” 

Characteristically, Aaron was on the proper and welcome spot. After splitting the load and reloading the Magnum, Aaron and I back-tracked alongside his path. 

As we hiked alongside the blade of Mill­er’s Island. which was about 75 yards vast, I immediately heard a low grunt from touring geese. Almost overhead, a bunch of honkers had been floating simply above the lacy cypress tops. They had been return­ing from sandbar pickings on the Mis­sissippi. I shrugged off my load and swung the large gun forward of a pacesetter. He wilted on the shot and began earth­ward. Leaning again pre­cariously, I pressured the gun’s tubes forward of a flare-off goose and minimize unfastened once more. I shot off an intervening lifeless limb however noticed the large fowl crumple. 

The recoil shoved me flat on my again, the place I sprawled laughing among the many sunlit leaves. Getting up, I used to be startled to see Aaron, minus his load of black geese and decoys, staggering about drunkenly and holding his head. “What’s the matter, Aaron?” I requested. 

“I used to be watching you’ first goose fall,” he mentioned, “when that snag you chop off with yo’ second barrel hit me.” He rubbed his head and grinned. Then he crouched and pointed. “Load up ­fast. Mo’ geese comin’.” 

This flight, monitoring the others, was barely skimming the treetops, and once more the brand new masses belted a pair to the island. Aaron and Pat had been string­ing geese like fish. Then two unreason­ably excessive bunches handed overhead, speaking to flocks on the refuge. Subsequent got here a household of seven on the authentic low degree. I made a multitude of the primary shot, however downed with the second strive. Inside 10 minutes and with the goose parade persevering with, I acquired the three extra essential for a federal bag restrict of eight geese. Two excessive flyers landed alive. With out Pat, I’d by no means have put them on the string. One, an incredible fowl, backed in opposition to a cypress bole and whacked the large Chesapeake a few pinion raps throughout the nostril that set him again on his heels. Once we resumed our retreat from Miller’s Island, skeins of honkers had been nonetheless coming over. 

Seeing us emerge from the timber and begin to wade the slough with geese, geese, and decoys floating be­hind us, Irma had damaged out the alcohol range and was prepared with steaming tea and a bait of sandwiches and cookies. Weapons had been nonetheless booming from a number of blinds on Huge Lake. It was 10 :45 a.m. by the watch. 

Our load of recreation, plus Pat and the decoys, sank my boat a number of inches decrease on the return journey. But it surely was a pleasure to cross the president’ s blind and discover him a number of geese in need of his restrict. By 1 o’clock we had been en path to the workplace through that luxurious gravel street. 

These days younger gunners looking for luggage of two, 4, and eight birds a day hurtle previous Wapanoca on a 4 ­lane freeway. In 1890, after I shot my first mallard there, the countryside was a wilderness of virgin timber, with just a few “groundhog sawmills” whin­ing away on the vitals of tomorrow. Along with waterfowl there have been bears, deer, panthers, turkeys, and wolves. For years afterward the grounds cleared by timber fallers afforded the primest of quail taking pictures. 

Now, most of this space is ditched, tile-drained, and irrigated-manicured for fields of cotton, soybeans, corn, and rice. Quail are scarce. Huge Creek, off whose excessive, forested banks our boyish shouts rang whereas combating massive bass, is now a sordid draining ditch-dried up or freshet-flooded. What had been as soon as tens of millions of acres of waterfowl wetlands are actually shrunken virtually to some extent of no return. 

However regardless of this beating up of lands for short-term income, there’s nonetheless a little bit of recreation and fish left for posterity due to these sometimes-discouraged folks referred to as conservationists. Although oftentimes overwhelmed to their knees by egocentric pursuits, they received’t and may’t be licked, for they think about the long run. 

The pictures I fired whereas Pat and I crouched within the head-high willows rim­ming Goose Gap had been heard around the sporting world. And the offspring of these check shells have since bellowed from many a Magnum just like the one I used. 

After writing my report on the check gun and ammunition, I misplaced no time in buying a 10-pound Fox Magnum of my very own. The brand new shells had been available on the market a 12 months later, and nonetheless are, ­with the label Tremendous-X. 

The final day of the 1954-55 duck season, I sat in a blind amid the rice ­lands of Arkansas with my outdated buddy and searching companion C. L. Penning­ton. We had been shivering, and the chilly revived recollections of the heat of Penny’s hospitable dwelling in close by Clarendon, Arkansas. I daydreamed again to the times after we sat at his desk consuming younger hen turkey in milk, a delicacy that made you curl your toes and raise your eyes to the ceiling. Far to the northeast, Wapanoca’s expanses lay seared by drought and duckless. By luck and diligence, we had amassed seven mallards. Yet another would fill our limits and provides us leeway to the fireplace and scorching espresso. 

Then, down from the northwest with the wind on its tail, got here a lone black duck, like a gale-pushed ace of spades on its option to someplace. He handed too excessive even for those self same three­inch shells in my Magnum. 

“Chances are high,” I buoyed Penny, “that chicken’ll run out of seeing-water, wing round below the wind, and battle it again this manner. He noticed our decoys. I watched him crane his neck at ’em.” 

Penny warmed his fingers and fanny over the dying warmth of the charcoal bucket and hoped the black duck wouldn’t be lengthy about it. That very immediate I sighted it once more, and it was certainly coming again. 

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“Too excessive nonetheless,” Penny murmured; but it surely wasn’t too excessive for my deadly Magnum load of powder and copper-coated 4’s. It wilted at my shot and seconds later showered the decoys with an icy splash. 

“Penny,” I remarked, blowing a faint spiral of residue from the Magnum’s left tube and reaching for the weapon’s alligator-hide case, ”that magnificent black inkspot I simply dropped out yonder is identical sort of duck that fell to my first Magnum shot 34 years in the past. This one would be the final duck I’ll ever shoot.” 

Penny, along with his face all screwed up, swung round and checked out me. “It’s a darn good factor,” he chattered, “that Irma ain’t out right here with us this morn­ing. She’d fan you up one aspect and down the opposite for a crack like that. Swing that duck boat round. I higher get you to the fireplace fast.”