The Dropping Duck
A conservation officer tells the tale of the ones who didn't get away.
By Tom Chapin
Illustration by John Kleber
The modern era of duck hunting in America began in 1918, when centuries of uncontrolled commercial waterfowl harvest led to the enactment of the federal Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which banned the sale of wild waterfowl and imposed limits and other restrictions. Duck hunting was a top item on my agenda as a Minnesota game warden.
Since ducks migrate across borders, hunting is controlled by both state and federal regulations. The methods of taking waterfowl and daily limits differ to some extent between states; nonetheless, most migratory waterfowl hunting in this country is under similar restrictions. For example, it is illegal to chase and take ducks with a motorized vehicle, hunt in open water without vegetation cover, and use a shotgun that holds more than three shells. Most hunters comply with the rules, particularly when accompanied by children who need to learn the "right way" to conduct themselves in the blind.
Two weeks before season a few years ago, I was searching out a good spot to work on the morning of the upcoming opening day. I came upon a fresh campsite near a small lake just north of Lake Winnibigoshish. The remote, hour-glass-shaped lake was situated a mile off the beaten path with only a walking trail leading to the access-a perfect spot for surveillance.
Prior to sunrise on opening morning, an officer from the Leech Lake Indian Reservation and I approached the camp and hunkered down in a brushy area near the lake to await the noon start. Outfitted with binoculars and patience, we observed movement between tents and the water-seven men loading boats, organizing guns and decoys, and repairing blinds along the shore.
Because they were hunting in such an isolated area, it was unusual that we did not witness violations such as early decoy placing or shooting before noon. This crew appeared to be following the regulations as the first ducks were shot about 12:10 p.m.
We decided to hike a mile cross-country to an adjacent lake where we had heard shooting an hour before the season opened. We would return here later in the afternoon to check bags, guns, and licenses.
As we packed up, I took one last glance across the lake through my binoculars and caught a glimpse of a motorized boat with what appeared to be two occupants moving in the direction of most of the shooting. A short time later, I caught the glint of a gun barrel pointed out the side of the craft. Then, "boom--boom" two reports from the shotgun out of the bow of the boat. They were motor--boating ducks!
For the next hour, the boat skipped back and forth across the end of the lake, racing into the flocks of ringnecks while the hunter slayed ducks from the boat. We were hard-pressed to take action; we could only watch intently, scribble notes, and wait to confront them back at camp later in the day.
About 2 p.m. a second boat approached the narrows about 100 feet away. I saw a man in a short-sleeved shirt with a shotgun lying across his lap operating his six-horse outboard at full throttle. I crawled to the edge of the water and crouched behind a clump of cattails. The boat ran directly down the middle of the lake and met up with the other two hunters on the water. At the same time, three other members of the hunting party had arrived back at camp and were moving behind me between blinds. I was only five feet from the trail they were using, so I was unable to move for fear of being spotted.
Ten minutes later, the single-occupant boat turned in my direction. At the same time, I heard the crunching steps of two other hunters passing within four feet of my ground-hugging body. Why they didn't see me, I'll never know. They must have been focused on the guy in the boat, who now started shooting.
Sneaking a quick look from my stomach position, I saw the operator hold his shotgun directly over his head and, at full speed, blast a duck out of the air. As the ball of -feathers plummeted, I covered my head for fear it might hit me. The fat mallard landed with a big thwop 20 feet down the beach.
The two guys who had just passed me yelled, "Way to go, Weezer!" At least now I had a name. Kerpow! Weezer shot at another fowl but missed. "Go, Weezer, go!"-more encouragement from his buddies standing 30 feet to my left.
Weezer pursued his illegal antics for another 15 minutes, busting another duck as he strafed the bulrushes along the opposite shore. Now everyone in the group was roaring encouragement to Weezer, lauding his exceptional ability to run down and dispatch ducks from a motorboat. By the time the whole team suspended their escapades and gathered back at the access, we had fingered five of the seven on various infractions.
Our intention was to make our presence known only when all the hunters were grouped in a cluster. We figured this would reduce the odds of escape if any had an inclination to leave the scene. We crawled toward the access, then stood up 20 feet away and just walked toward the whole bunch. Two of them noticed us immediately and turned to walk away.
"Hold on there a second. Game wardens! We'd like to talk to everybody at the same time. C'mon back here. C'mon back here!"
They turned in our direction and ambled back to the group.
I began, "How about everybody sit down and relax while I explain our intentions? We've been watching your hunting behavior since early this morning, and we'll be discussing our observations. First, why doesn't everybody pull out their IDs, hunting licenses, and duck stamps for inspection." It soon became apparent that this was a good bunch of guys, cooperative and well-educated on the finer points of legal duck hunting. We discovered this was the second generation of hunters who used this campsite on opening day every year, and they had never been checked by a warden in 30 years!
"We just got sloppy with the rules after all these years. It's probably a good thing you caught us. Otherwise, we would have gotten much worse," one of them said.
As I looked over the group, I gestured toward one of the more stout members and said, "Would you happen to be 'Weezer?'
Sporting a shy, proud smile, he growled, "Yup. That's me!"
The other chimed in, "That's our Weez. That's the Weez-man!"
"That's what I thought. Maybe I'll talk to you first."
We all had a good laugh with the affable Weezer, now the center of attention.
Only a few had proper licenses. Four were charged with transporting loaded firearms in a motor vehicle. Three were issued tickets for taking migratory waterfowl from a motorboat and two for possession of lead shot. One shotgun was confiscated.
They eventually thanked us for a couple of warnings afforded them and declared, "I think we've learned our lesson. You won't have to worry about this place anymore."
I believed them. This case also reaffirmed an axiom for me that conservation officer visibility is one of the most important factors in deterring wildlife violations.
Tom Chapin, retired DNR conservation officer, lives in northern Minnesota and teaches wildlife enforcement college classes. This story is excerpted from his book, Poachers Caught! Published by Beaver's Pond Press, it is used with permission of the author. Available through bookstores. Or send $20 to Tom Chapin, 1400 County Road A, Grand Rapids, MN 55744; 218-327-1557.
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