For Chet Milburn and I, the college experience was filled with days of intensive learning and broadening of our horizons. Reading every minute of our spare time, exhausting field projects, and unending memorization kept us busy throughout the day. Unfortunately the Registrar decided that listing our chosen major as "Hunting and Fishing" was unsuited to their available curriculum and changed it to "Business Administration." A monstrous oversight that resulted in most of our credits not transferring, an extra three years in school, and worst of all, Calculus. (As I said to my father, "A lot of guys spend seven years in school," in which he replied, "That's true, their called 'Lawyers'.")
Since eighty percent of our wardrobe was some type of camouflage pattern, we were immediately identified as hunters among the student body (we never wore the other twenty percent anyway). One bright autumn day, Chet and I were sitting on the steps outside of the business school when a huge shadow enveloped us. We looked up to see the star offensive tackle on the football team, Andy Kiltroy, standing over us with a scowl on his face. At six feet, five inches and three hundred pounds, the man was imposing.
"Hey, you guys hunt ducks?" he said.
Not quite knowing what to expect, Chet tensed and said "Uh…yeah. Why?" I casually inched away, looking for escape routes, hoping to increase my odds of survival.
"I've been wantin' to learn and was hoping you guys would take me out sometime. It sounds fun, but I don't want you guys teasing me because I'm a rookie at huntin'. One thing I can't stand is being made fun of."
A pile of leaves fluttered as a relieved exhale escaped us both.
While we both sat in stunned silence, the implications began to overwhelm me. This was a rare opportunity for two country hicks to hang out with a popular athlete. I had visions of walking the sidelines during games and offering advice to the players. To a running back coming off the field after a failed third down play I'd say "You didn't run far enough on that play" and the team in general would be impressed with my knowledge and insight into the game. Cheerleaders would begin talking to me and I'd be invited to all of the cool parties. I could see myself walking around talking to all of the pretty girls and impressing them with my wit and charm. I could be the most popular man on campus.
"Hey buddy, are you OK?" Andy grunted, poking me in the chest with a finger the size of a zucchini.
"Oh, sure, I was just thinking that a hunting trip would be a great idea. Maybe after the hunt, we could get the cheerleaders together and talk game strategy, and..."
Chet interrupted, "We'll take you hunting tomorrow morning. Just bring your gun and your waders. We promise to not make fun of you".
"You'd better not, or spend the holidays in traction" Andy joked. At least he seemed to be joking since he was smiling when he said it. It could have been that thinking about twisting us into bowknots was his idea of high humor.
Then a funny thing happened, Andy furrowed his uni-brow, looking both embarrassed and concerned. "I didn't count on goin' out so soon. All I've got is an old .22 my grandpa gave me and...I need waders?"
When we left the sporting goods store the owner gave Andy a hug, invited us all over to his house for dinner, and offered his daughter's hand in marriage. Andy had purchased waders, a gun, a cleaning kit, enough shells for two seasons, three calls, camouflage long underwear, camouflage socks, boots, several flannel shirts, a camouflage coat, shooting gloves, five dozen decoys, an extra large decoy bag, decoy gloves, a hat, a stocking cap, a backpack, flashlight, a duck plucker, a blind heater, headlamp, knife, a 30 pack of Hot Hands and a t-shirt that said "Greenhead Grim Reaper." Chet and I lobbied to have him get a boat rigged with a blind, but Andy said he had maxed out both of his credit cards. As his Chief Hunting Counsel, Chet and I had them put it on layaway for him.
We drove into the hunting refuge in the pre-dawn darkness and started unloading the gear. After the waders were on and the packs all loaded up, Andy pointed to the excessively large decoy bag and said "Who's gonna carry that?"
"Well, I thought we would let you carry it", said Chet. "The weight of the load helps a person wade through the marsh better. We want to make your first trip as easy as possible."
He shot Chet a suspicious glance and let out a large grunt as the bag was swung onto his shoulders. After teetering like a drunken pachyderm for a few seconds, he became accustomed to the load. He really seemed to be getting the hang of it, so we loaded the three guns and shell bag onto his free shoulder and walked to the edge of the water. I said, "Well, let's get started," picked up the thermos, and lead the party into the marsh.
As the wading progressed, it turned out that Andy had some peculiarities that concerned Chet and I. First of all, he complained a lot and kept making loud grunting noises. Furthermore, stealth was definitely not his strong point. There wasn't a duck in the county that didn't here him cursing when he fell over a submerged root face first into the water. The entire mile and half of wading, he kept asking "How much farther" and "Couldn't you guys carry some of this stuff for awhile." My hands were getting cold from carrying the thermos, but you didn't hear me complaining.
After that entire wade, he then missed out on the first thirty minutes of shooting since he was fooling around and acting like he was having a heart attack. Chet tried to encourage him to get up and help us shoot, but he just lay there all splayed out in the brush making wheezing sounds. He'd have done well to look where he fell, too, since his point of landing was in a small thicket of brambles. Apparently, they were sharp since he kept whining "Somebody...wheeze...help...wheeze...going to...wheeze...have stroke...cough, cough, cough...or bleed...wheeze...to death." It was distracting and unsportsmanlike if you ask me, but I tempered any criticism. Knowing he was capable of qualifying me to get a handicapped license plate was a great motivator.
He went on like that for about an hour until Chet and I grabbed him by the duck call lanyard and dragged him into the marsh. The thirty-degree water had wonderful healing qualities, and Andy regained quite a bit of focus when he slid in.
Once we got Andy up and around, he seemed to start enjoying the hunt. Although we gave him first shot on the flights that decoyed, he didn't shoot a duck until almost noon. Whenever a flight would light into the decoys, he'd pop up too early, unload his gun without aiming, and then stand there slack jawed while they flew away.
Finally, a flight of three gadwalls circled the blind a couple of times, set their wings and glided in. The shot was perfect when he pulled up; they were straight ahead of him at about twenty yards. He shot so fast, the gun was unloaded in less than a second, and upon first glance, it appeared as though he had gone 0 for 3 again. As the flock high-tailed it out of there the last bird slowly faltered and glided slowly down about two hundred yards away.
Chet and I exchanged a worried look and then turned to watch the spectacle unfolding in front of us. Andy had been watching the ducks fly away, and when the wounded bird fell he let out a series of whoops, and began dancing some type of awkward, camouflaged, Irish jig. To our horror, he then shouldered his shotgun and began shadow boxing while singing "We Are the Champions," by Queen. The grand finale consisted of what I assumed was an attempt at moon walking while pumping his arms and shouting, "Who's da Man?" Let me tell you, Andy is a relatively agile guy for topping the scales at 300 pounds, but it was immediately apparent that dancing was not in his career prospects.
Once Andy got settled down a bit, we explained that according to the rules of fair chase and sportsmanship, he needed to retrieve the duck. He seemed motivated, saying, "I'm not gonna let my first duck get away, I'll be back in a few minutes" as he waded into the marsh.
He was fairly accurate, if by a "few minutes" he meant two and a half hours of mindless wandering. We watched him wade out to the approximate area that the duck fell and then tromp in circles. Several times we lost sight of him completely and were concerned enough that we put our coffee down. But, he was quite a trooper, and Chet finally spotted him walking a straight line back to the blind with his duck in hand. Even from our vantage point we could see the big goofy grin on his face.
When he walked out of the marsh, it looked as though the impossible had happened and Andy had gained two hundred pounds. At least that was the overall effect since his waders had completely filled with water. He stood there in all of his six foot five glory, still wearing that big grin, waders bloated, teeth chattering, with his hat on cock-eyed and holding a mangy little gadwall as the proudest hunter in the marsh.
He said, "That was great guys, let's call in another flight. When are we going out again? Did you see the shot I made to bag this one? Hey, where are you guys going?"
Chet said, "We promised not to make fun of you......and we don't like hospitals."
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