By Caleb McClain
The alarms went off at 1:45 AM, not that we’d actually slept the night before. Opening day of duck season might as well have been Christmas morning in the McClain house, except instead of presents under a tree, you get mud, cold coffee, and way too much gear to carry. I choked down a mug of black coffee with my uncle and cousin, more for tradition than the caffeine. We poured another thermos full, then hit the road.
When we pulled into the lot at Granger Lake, three trucks were already parked. Normally, I’d never “burn” a spot, but if you’ve hunted Central Texas on opening day, you know Granger is basically Walmart on Black Friday—chaotic, crowded, and everyone’s cranky. Sure enough, when we got to my uncle’s honey hole, a spot he’s been hunting for two decades, the occupants of the trucks had already beat us there.
Yours & the Assholes
John Gierach once said, “There are only two types of anglers: those in your party and the assholes.” I’m here to tell you, that applies to duck hunters too. My uncle muttered something about how times were changing, how he was too old to be racing kids a third his age for a strap of birds. Still, we were gentlemen about it, and we shuffled over to Plan B: a spot down the shore that typically wasn’t great, but it still usually held a few birds.
We spread out quick. My cousin and I hung lanterns in trees every couple hundred yards, making it look like the entire shoreline was completely occupied. I know it’s a dirty trick, but it always works wonders on crowded lakes. Almost every group that rolled in after saw the city of lights I had built and turned around. I approached anyone who wasn’t persuaded by the lights and told them that there was simply no more room. We waved off at least 10 groups, then first early shots cracked at woodies buzzing the trees, and we knew it was time to get back to the blind.
At legal light, a wood duck zipped past my face. One shot and he folded. Drake, my uncle’s black lab, launched like a rocket and made the first retrieve of the season.
The Dog Gets His Limit
A little later, four gadwalls dropped in. My uncle and I each took one, and from there it was game on. Three teal, then a single, then another flock, then pairs. The migration was slow that morning, but the birds that did show up were dead set on our spread. Every flock lost at least a bird or two, and singles and pairs were all but eliminated by our stonewall shooting. If a duck even thought about landing in our spread, he was in trouble.
By the time over a dozen birds dangled from our straps, the flight died down. Other hunters packed up and left, but we stuck around, swapping the same old stories of hunts in Canada, Laguna Madre, and anywhere else we had hunted. We were so lost in conversation that we didn’t notice that Drake had disappeared. By the time we noticed his absence, we realized he hadn’t been around for 30 minutes or more.
Frantically, we called for him, but the worry was short-lived. Out from the brush, a bouncing black lab emerged. And in his mouth? A very alive, very annoyed green-winged teal drake.
Where he found it, we’ll never know. But I do know it put my uncle one bird over his limit. Drake didn’t care—he was just proud. My uncle, on the other hand, started looking over his shoulder for the game warden.
