Friends Old, New, and Soon to Be,
What makes a man a lawbreaker, nature or nurture?
In my case, it was environmental. At 36 degrees, in the closing hours of a night that saw snow swirling on the beach, the promise of blue skies held back by a lengthy red light will make a duck hunter consider the outlaw’s life.
Per my previous night’s calculations, I had left on time for a duck hole an hour away. Now the GPS put me at an hour and fifteen in the driving, with a trudge through woods and beaver swamp yet to accomplish before sunrise if we were to surprise a few woodies.
It’s a hell of a thing to be already late at 4:35 AM. Sitting alone in the red glare of yet another traffic light, I thumbed my way to a forgotten federal duck stamp to avoid the ire of a wildlife agent, much less the risk of validating my credit card data at 75 miles per hour, even on a graveyard quiet highway. But with that accomplished, I could no longer pretend that any drivers who might join me were not still snoring. They say the journey of a thousand miles begins with but a step; thus, did I turn my back on civil society.
Feeling like Billy the Kid peering through the gloom at Pat Garrett come to render justice, I tentatively eased my way through the deserted intersection. I knew I was wrong, but I was racing the sun, to whom there is no pleading bad traffic. So, hoping the rumors I’ve always heard about radar guns and the gray area found in the nine miles over the limit are true, I settled in at 54 miles per hour in a 45 zone. The Deputy Sheriff’s truck ahead, steadily pulling away from me to accelerate through a yellow light, only furthered my descent into criminality. Reaching that same light, now red, I waited only a heartbeat for his lights to fade before I pressed on against the dawn, a desperado unconstrained by the presence of badged authority.
Soon enough, with more sun at the horizon than either of us would have liked, my friend Chris and I stood in the muck of a beaver slough. A single duck paddled well within range, leaving a gentle wake in dawn-burnished swamp water just as the clock ticked us over into legality. I thought back to a recent debate about “water swatting,” in which a friend argued that killing a duck on the water is more ethical, as it offers a quicker and more certain death than the generally accepted notion that ducks should be shot on the wing. I’ve seen enough injured ducks fly elsewhere to die in pain and read enough Jim Posewitz to ruminate on the question. But I was gunless, only there to handle my Labrador Jed if the opportunity arose. The decision lay with Chris.
Chris and I watched what I believed, and still believe, to be a drake wood duck lift off, circle us, and depart for the next pond over. I looked at Chris and his 12-gauge with a question in my eyes. His answer came in the low tones of daybreak, “My eyesight is bad enough in low light, I couldn’t be sure whether that was a woodie or a hoodie. I won’t shoot a merganser.” Some laws are so immutable that even a hardened outlaw like me must follow them, and a man I already deeply respect climbed in my estimation. We stood for another couple of hours, listening to woodie hens squealing from the adjacent beaver pond, occasionally glimpsing a pair of drakes swimming back and forth. But the dams between us would not have been as easily overcome as empty intersections, particularly in view of our quarry, and I left seeking different game.
I have a long-held theory that after a cold morning’s hunt, no food is off-limits and no calories count. Call me a nutritional brigand, but nothing puts me in more of a mind to enjoy a small town diner’s full ability. Accordingly, I found myself at The Filling Station in Kenansville, North Carolina, about which conflicting reports left me confused regarding their operating hours.
Arriving in an empty parking lot at 8:30, there were lights on and movement inside, but the OPEN sign was dark. Still, the posted hours said 6:30 AM to 2:00 PM, so I pushed open the door to find five women preparing meals that they were clearly unprepared to serve. I inquired, and a woman who called me “Darlin’” from behind a stainless steel preparation table told me no, they did not open until 10:30. I apologized and explained I had come in search of a biscuit but would move on and leave them to their day. “Biscuits’ll be awhile, but I can make you a few bacon, egg, and cheese sandwiches,” she replied. Be still, my coagulating heart. “Yes ma’am, if it’s not too much trouble.” Two sandwiches, a piece of pecan pie, and a coffee later, I left feeling loved. Clearly, there are rules at The Filling Station, but we found ourselves at a figurative intersection at 4:35 and decided to ignore the red light.
The day had offered a host of moral and legal questions before 10:00 AM. I had watched Chris pass his test, even as I debated in my mind whether it was based on the right question. A woman had decided the greater good was served by me having a full belly and a warm feeling towards a place where you can get all-you-can-eat soup for lunch, where they serve a reportedly brag-worthy meatloaf on Tuesday nights. Bring cash.
But as for my own tests, there remains less moral certainty. Driving home, my decision to ignore traffic laws led me to reflect on the fact that our lives afield constantly offer us moments when no one is watching, when we can do the right thing...or not. When does the season start? Are we legal yet? Should I pass on a spike? Was that a hen? Is that fish in the slot limit? Some see such rules as an unreasonable burden. I see them as sacred questions, critical to the preservation of something sacrosanct.
I can’t square my love of some with my casual disdain for others. I can’t argue that driving my truck across the red-lit line separating me from the life of a law-abiding citizen and a scofflaw doesn’t in some way weaken the whole as much as dumping a hen pheasant mistaken for a drake to avoid a fine. But I also can’t pretend I won’t again ignore the red light to watch brown water catch the sun’s fire, silhouetting the teardrop-crested silhouette of my favorite duck, and once again learn the constant, evolving lessons in decency afforded by this blessed sporting life of ours.
Yours,
Russell Worth Parker
Editor-in-Chief, Tom Beckbe Field Journal
