The call of the wild: A recent release didn’t produce a new bird, but last year’s bounty was very good before Thanksgiving

I ate the whole bird myself and didn’t feel bad.

With two teenagers and two busy adults in the house, there are times when you prepare food and if others are passing by, you offer. Otherwise, deal with it.

This bird was a wood duck from last season. My modus operandi is to pick, clean, then freeze in a light brine. I think the freezer might keep them that way until the next ice age. But this duck was thawed and waiting in the refrigerator for a special occasion: to share.

I pulled into the dark Goose Pond parking lot to find three cars already there. I felt too pressed for time to pursue “Plan B”. I hope at least one car was a bowhunter and if the rest were fowlers there would be room further down the shore for me or an invitation to join a vigil.

Since there was only one way to find out, I hoisted up my gear and headed out.

No one was at my favorite spot, perfect – no negotiating and just enough time to cast my lures before settling in on my bucket for the start of the shoot at 6:42am – 30 minutes before sunrise. With one sneaky movement, the lure traced a parabolic arc in the darkness, then CRUNK: skitter-skitter-skitter. That’s when I realized I had made a mistake.

I didn’t take the ice into account. The pond was frozen.

I jumped in and started breaking the sheet. The ice cream was more than just frosting. With a quarter inch of ice in two feet of water and a foot of mud, I had my work cut out for me. I broke a perimeter then broke the central sheet in half to push each slab under the main sheets.

A gunshot rings out to my north. “Rat’s!”, I muttered, or something like that. I was burning for filming time. A few minutes later I was on my bucket, sweaty but satisfied to see that the open hole looked inviting and my battery-powered splashing lure was adding some nice ripples. Ducks flew overhead as I adjusted my mask and hat on my wet forehead.

Ever since the wood duck was thawed, its clock was ticking and I was getting nervous. This event or activity kept derailing my plans. Last Sunday evening, I couldn’t wait any longer and I had no takers. Lucky for me, in a way.

The pressure cooker made quick work of it, some time under the broiler perfected the look. The sides were our humble but real canned applesauce and stovetop popcorn. It was four days before Thanksgiving and this meal looked like something a single Norwegian farmer outside of Lake Wobegon would have prepared for the big day. Probably with a box of fresh snus for dessert.

The ducks were running from the Cedar River in small groups, mainly of three or five. A herd of 20 made two passes past me, but found reasons to keep moving. Nearby gunfire to the northeast and northwest confirmed the location of my unknown Confederates.

The migration of ducks is stimulated by the photoperiod for some and by frost for others. Blue-winged teal are the first to look south. Their journey begins at the end of August until September. Early hunters usually capture birds that have not even put on their magnificent breeding plumage. Canvasbacks typically begin their migration in mid-October. Then there are the ducks that need encouragement in frozen lakes, think mallards and green teal. This morning, it was the latter.

As the sun rose, air activity diminished, reports from distant guns diminished. My coffee thermos was sitting in the bucket. The hot coffee looked so good, especially since my previous sweat was now manifesting powerful cooling effects. But I couldn’t do it. The ducks were still roaming the sky and I didn’t dare risk this opportunity as I was holding a cup of coffee instead of my old wing master.

A peak of rising sun lit the north shore, then, just as quickly, a flat, leaden light returned as the sun dispersed into the clouds. A nuthatch poked around and called hello. A bald eagle flew past me, from my left to my right. It flew low and slow over my decoys. They weren’t afraid of it. The eagle showed them no interest. It was turning out to be a great morning.

At 8 a.m. I had to go. An expected meeting and the magic hour had passed anyway. It didn’t matter if my wrist strap remained unused, it was a glorious morning. Nature’s restaurant didn’t open for me today, too bad. The man’s freezer allowed me to take advantage of last year’s bounty this Thanksgiving season. Something I’m grateful for.

Looking up, looking ahead and keeping my pencil sharp.

John Lawrence Hanson, ed.D. teaches at Linn-Mar High School. He serves on the board of directors of Marion Tree and is a member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America.