I often wonder just what it is about duck hunting that keeps bringing me back.  It's certainly not the weather. After all, the more miserable the weather, the better the duck hunting.  It was on a warm, sunny day in mid October that I was contemplating this whole subject.  With such beautiful weather I had plenty of time to do so, too, because I wasn't shooting any ducks. 

Nothing at all was flying that day and so my hunting buddy and I had forsaken our decoys and had taken to stalking ducks sitting near the shoreline.  Actually, I prefer this kind of duck hunting to using decoys anyway, particularly when I am confronted with the cost of decoys while visiting a sporting goods store.  Of course, like any good hunter, I don't let the cost of things stop me from hunting.  I mean, just imagine if I were to actually figure out the cost of the meat I brought home from hunting.  I would soon find myself jetting to the south of France for a table on the veranda overlooking the ocean and a meal of escargot and noodles --- in an effort to save money.

Still, on this warm, beautiful, terrible duck hunting, mid October day, I was wondering just why I was there.  Which brings me to this point, coots are really stupid.  They are also annoying.  I don't know how many times I have made a successful stalk on a group of ducks only to find they are actually coots that I could have walked right up to, because they wouldn't have flown off anyway, because they can't really fly, because they know I won't shoot them, because they know I don't want them, because....

Well, anyway, coots are really stupid.  Which leads me to the stupidest coot.  It was getting late in the afternoon on this warm, beautiful, deer prancing in the meadow, terrible duck hunting, mid October day, when my hunting buddy (H.B.) and I were finally making a successful advance on a group of ducks.  They were located in a shallow bay with a high sagebrush covered shoreline.  Unfortunately, there was also a large group of coots near the ducks.  I say unfortunately because that was what H.B. thought we were sneaking on, and upon recognizing them as coots and not ducks, proceeded to stand up.

"Those aren't ducks," H.B. announced loudly.

"Aaaahhh!" I said in return, pointing. "But those are!"

The group of ducks I referred to naturally chose this time to burst into the air leaving only a stream of 'better than I can do' duck calls behind them.  Fortunately, I was still close enough for a shot.  I lined the bead of my shotgun on the nearest duck, gave it what I thought was the right amount of lead, fired, and consequently dropped the duck behind it.

"Cool," I thought as I walked the remaining distance to the water with that 'I got one' smile on my face.  Since we didn't have a dog with us that day, the plan was to wait until the duck floated in to shore, or if need be, use our boat to retrieve the duck.  Naturally, however, the second my duck dropped onto the water, the wind started blowing --- away from shore.  Of course, this only happened because we had now hiked over a mile from our inflatable boat.  You know, one of those "five man" inflatable boats that is barely big enough for two people.

What does this have to do with a stupid coot?  Have faith.  That big buck will come along if you sit in your stand long enough, right?  Well, the coot thing will be explained soon as well.

As we stood there watching my duck float away, H.B. managed to shoot a passing merganser, dropping it out on the lake as well.  Realizing we were going to need the boat, I then undertook the mile long walk back to it, leaving H.B. to keep an eye on our birds.  One long, arduous hour of carrying the inflatable boat through the sagebrush later, I returned with it to hear H. B. say:

"Well, since it got dark I'm not sure where the birds are, but last time I saw them they were about right there," he said, pointing vaguely out onto the dark lake.  He then added, "What took you so long, anyway?"

"It's not easy carrying this boat through all this sagebrush," I replied sharply.

"Why didn't you just row it down here?" he asked.

"Um... where did you say the ducks are?" I asked again, quickly changing the subject.

Moments later, we climbed into the boat and started the search.  Luck was with us, and we immediately found the fallen merganser.  Luck then went away.  We rowed in circles, meandering aimlessly, hoping to find my fallen bird.  It began to seem like an impossible task, searching for one downed duck out on the vast dark lake.  Finally, however, we spotted something sitting on the water.

"There she is," H.B. said with relief.  As we rowed closer, however, we were shocked.  A downed power line fell into the lake sending wave after wave of horrific electricity zapping through our neurons.  Oh, wait. I mean we were shocked, as in surprised.  Sorry about that.  Anyway, my downed duck was sitting up!  She had recovered from death!

"Wait a minute," H.B. said, "That's not her."

"It's a coot!" I said with disgust.  

I was infuriated.  Now, not only were coots impersonating live ducks, they were impersonating dead ones as well!  I'm shocked and appalled, I thought, quoting a favorite phrase of my sister's.  I began to row furiously, tired of duck impersonating coots and determined not to let this one get away with its perpetration.

"Get him!" I cried to H.B. as we got closer.  The coot moved slowly away as I approached.

"Get closer," H.B. said, "I'll hit him with my shotgun."

I rowed harder, trying to close on the foul beast.  Soon, I was close to being within striking distance, yet I could not seem close the remaining four feet.  As hard as I tried, the coot seemed to be able to circle just ahead of me.  Still, H.B. lashed out with the butt of his shotgun, striking just behind the swimming coot, splashing all around it.   The coot skipped high on the water away from the attack, but did not attempt to fly or get any farther away.   Instead, it kept circling, just ahead of us, as if it enjoyed taunting us with it's presence.  

I dug in harder with the oars as the coot continued to circle and we gained slightly on it.  H.B. swung again, hitting the coot on the tail end this time.  Again, the coot skipped high on the water, but made no attempt to put further distance between us.  It didn't even spread it's wings or really react at all.  It just kept circling, looking straight ahead as if we didn't even matter.

"I hit him!" H.B. cried, "But he's not going anywhere! He didn‘t even try to fly!"

"That's the stupidest coot!" I declared, looking over my shoulder, suddenly realizing that it was my shotgun H.B. was dunking into the water while swinging at the coot.  It didn't matter, though. Justice must be served.  This dead duck impersonating coot had to pay for his crimes.  Wet shotgun or not, we were going to get him.

My shoulders ached.  My neck was tired from craning around trying to zero in on the stupidest coot.  Yet, I did not waver.  Instead, I put on a burst of speed, yes, a true display of inflatable boat rowing prowess was attained.  The stupidest coot just kept on circling, seemingly unconcerned by the entire affair.  Then, finally, feeling we were close enough for another attempt, H.B. swung my shotgun again.  This time he connected solidly and shattered the head of the stupidest coot I had ever....

Wait... shattered... what the...?

"It's a decoy," H.B. said after pulling the supposed coot in. 

We sat there laughing at what had just happened.  As the burning in my shoulders started to subside, H.B. and I looked at each other.  While we both laughed, inside we were wondering who was stupider, the one who had just smashed the head off of a decoy, or the one who had just spent five minutes rowing hard after an anchored object.

My vote?  Well, coots are still stupider.  Or is it more stupid?

Anyway, did I figure out why it is I continue to go duck hunting, you ask?  Well, we found my hen mallard about ten minutes after running down and smashing the decoy.  The whole night turned out to be quite an experience, and you know, you just can't duplicate those kinds of things sitting at home.  Yes, my hen took nearly two hours of effort to retrieve.  Yes, I had sore shoulders.  Yes, I was very late, wet, and tired driving home that night.  

But you know what?

It was worth it.