I moved to Washington State for work half a decade ago. Once I saw my small hometown in southern Arkansas in the rearview mirror, I decided to keep my distance. After tasting the mountains, I wanted to pursue blacktail in the Cascades rather than deal with the mosquitos I left behind. Yet life gets a vote, and sometimes it's the only one that matters. I ended up back in the corner of southwest Arkansas which I thought I abandoned for good. Not surprisingly, I found it exactly how I left it. People included.
While there are many comforts to living in a modern-day Mayberry, it can also be extremely frustrating. Success is a low bar here. Being hired by the local tire factory or fixing air conditioners is celebrated like winning the Nobel Prize—honorable work, for sure, but myopic.
As an Army officer, I have hunted and fished across the country, have multiple degrees, a vibrant reading practice, and care deeply about my physical fitness; attributes of little interest to the guys that I grew up with. We just don’t see life through the same lens. To make matters more complicated, they don’t really get along either. One is a basketball coach who wants a life of affluence but lacks money. Another is a local HVAC technician with opinions on everything and experience in nothing. Another is a stoner hippie, only seen sober in a duck blind. The entire crew is oil and water.
But not during duck season.
After being gone for five years, I looked forward to the opening day of the Arkansas duck season. Washington is fantastic for many things, but duck hunting there is fraught with the challenges of limited access and high competition on public land. It’s a stark contrast with Arkansas, considered by many to be the capital of American duck hunting. With the expanse of public land down the Mississippi flyway, duck hunters worldwide make annual pilgrimages to hunt its flooded timber. They are often rewarded with ample duck breasts, stories of skies darkened with migrating mallards, and the pictures to prove it.
Though my return to the muddy waters I was born into was unanticipated, I was grateful to be back for duck season. Often, I yearned to hear the sound of whistling wings in the morning light, interrupted by bitter coffee and the roar of shotguns. After five years sober, I was ready to be drunk on cupped wings and sore shoulders.
The decade-old group text with my duck hunting buddies did nothing but build my anticipation. Starting in June, discussions about where to hunt and which other group of bastards may take our premium spots commenced. Endless debates about waders, boats, leases, and the best choice of ammo dragged on for months.
The afternoon before the season opened, we convened in my brother’s driveway to finalize our plan, consolidate gear, and convoy to our camping spot. Despite being agents of chaos in all other areas of life, their coordination and planning for the opening day of duck season can only be described as professional.
We filled two boats with hunters equipped with ham radios, satellite navigation, and the best decoy spread money could buy. Everyone knew their place and their job. Some ran the decoys and calls. Others were responsible for the boats, navigation, and communication. Being the least experienced and skilled in the art of duck hunting, I was responsible for food and fire.
After the typical boat issues, we launched onto the frigid waters where I learned how to hunt and fish thirty years ago. My father raised me to see hunting as faith, and the swamp as our cathedral. Despite my frustrations with the locals, I yearned for the bayou every day I was gone.
With the boats tied up and our gear staged for the morning, we huddled around a fire. Sacrificing sleep for overdue conversation and whiskey, we discussed what the morning would bring. Wind direction, decoy layout, and how to beat people to the best holes next year started the discussion. However, the conversation soon shifted away from the task at hand, and it became about each other; kids, wives, frustrations. Despite my five-year hiatus, it was like I had never left. Soon our differences were mere details of a forgotten past, and we were a team again.
The next morning went like most other opening mornings. It was cold, dark, and miserable. We pulled bags of decoys through saw briars and over cypress knees to spread them in waist-deep water. We stood, called, and waited for the first flight to jet overhead.
The ducks didn’t disappoint. At first light, we took mallards and wood ducks in sets of two and three. Despite a few shots taken early due to anticipation and unfettered excitement, our performance spoke of excellence that can only come from being raised in swamp water with a shotgun in hand.
As I watched feathers float down onto the rippling waters decorated with floating grass and lily pads, I thought about the previous night and my fellow hunters. We have nothing in common besides where we happened to be born. Politically, there was nothing to agree on, and discussions on religion were a non-starter. Despite our differences, we band together over something we love. No one asks for gas money, we exchange secrets and even share expensive bismuth shotgun shells. Everyone gives freely to the cause of limiting out on opening day. The only thing asked of any individual was a picture commemorating our efforts. Even the meat acquired was given to one person to commemorate his return to the opening morning effort: me.
The next day, the group message returned to its usual bickering about nonsense that didn’t actually matter to anyone. Our differences floated to the surface. I ignored most of the conversation. Opening day hung in my mind.
Marcus Aurelius once said to “adapt yourself to the environment in which your log has been cast, and show true love to the fellow mortals with whom destiny has surrounded you.” After being disconnected for so long, it would stand to reason that my return to the clique would be awkward. My return was anything but. The five-year hiatus made me look inward and consider my views on my hometown and its people. Perhaps I had been right about their lack of ambition but wrong in my disposition. From them, I learned far more than how to kill ducks. Perhaps I needed to change and appreciate them for who they were. I had failed to live up to Aurelius’ charge, but the welcoming arms of men with whom I shared a duck blind greatly exceeded it.
About the Author
Brandon is a freelance writer and National Guard Chaplain. He grew up fishing and hunting in southern Arkansas, but today enjoys hunting and fishing across the world. You can contact him at bbsanders.com
