Mans Best Friend
A short essay on the four legged companions that make life in the Duck marsh so much more enjoyable.
As I sit here this evening by a warm fire, it was not my intention to write about dogs. However, my yellow Labrador, Bree, is sitting next to me snoring softly. After a long day in the cold duck marsh, my mind started to drift over the thousands of hours of my life spent with duck dogs. As I was reliving memories, both grand and tragic, I received a text from a friend informing me his black Labrador of 14 years crossed the bridge. Maverick was 14. A long life by dog years. But it's never long enough. I've hunted over him many times. He was a brute of a dog physically. But he was a big goofball in personality.
Maverick in His prime with Pairs of Mallards and Black ducks
My friend never counted his retrieves. But I am sure they were in the thousands. Young kids first birds. Disabled veterans, longtime friends, Old timers, who hadn't been in a Marsh in years. Maverick retrieved birds for them all, and did it with style.
Maverick with a young hunter and Pheasants
Those who are not duck hunters can never understand the bond that we have with our retrievers. Regular pet owners love their dogs and appreciate them. They are part of their daily lives. But duck hunters have a relationship that goes even deeper. Being able to read a dog's body language. The flash of their eyes when they see distant birds. The true grit they have being able to withstand sub freezing temperatures, winter winds, and conditions that would send even the hardiest of souls looking for cover.
They do it to please us, but they also do it because somewhere back in their ancestral DNA there is a code written that tells them that is what they were made for. Those who have seen the best retrievers work understand this in a way that no one else can.
Maverick was right at home in the snow and ice.
That is why when one of these bright souls leaves the Earth it is fitting that we take time to remember them. And reflect on all the joy they have given us.
I've owned three working retrievers over my 30 year hunting career. The first lived to be 15 and hunted until she was 13. Belle was a wonderful dog, maybe the best I will ever own.Though my current Labrador is going to give her a run for her money!
My first Labrador, Belle. In those days all I had was a canoe, and some homemade Canada Goose tire decoys!
I look at the segments of my life that these dogs occupied. The young man without any children. Training a dog with all of his heart, the hopes she would one day be able to pick up a downed duck. Much to his surprise 10 years later, she's diving underwater for crippled, black ducks on her own without any direction or handling from me.
That's the great thing about seasoned retrievers. They learn the game on their own and can exceed the working handler. I know hard-core field trialers would look down on this statement.
But I found that great retrievers have their own personality and style. Much like great baseball players or running backs, each have their technique and form, so does a retriever follow suit.
Belle at 10 years old with a Greenwing. Photo Len Maiorano
My second dog Brooke did not have superior drive on her own. But she retrieved hundreds of birds merely to make me happy. So much so she retrieved two limits of Teal on the day she died. That was sheer heart. Nothing else. She will always have my utmost admiration for that final act of courage. (Some may have read the account of this written by Anthony Hauck In Delta Magazine Greatest retrieves issue)
Brooke with a Hen Teal
My current retriever Bree just turned three. These are the glory years. Fresh legs, worlds of enthusiasm and drive that would make even a young 20 something green with envy. As it was put to me by her breeder,
"This one needs a job. "
Truer words were never spoken. If she goes for a few days without hunting or training you can see the frustration build. Thankfully I haven't lost a bird in nearly 2 years since she has been by my side. Granted, I tend to be very conservative with my shooting and only take shots that I am fairly competent can be retrieved. But her nose for cripple in the flooded Marsh is something that impresses even me. Much to my surprise she even loves the wide open roiling waters of the wintertime Delaware bay. Snow geese on these wild shores have become a favorite of hers. Dogs will always surprise you!
Bree with a Late Winter snow Goose.
These great dogs are one of the reason I started making Decoy urns. I can't say I was the first to come up with the idea, but I was one of the pioneers.
After my Belle passed away, I was given a square Red painted MDF box the crematory provided. It held the ashes adequately, but inside there was so much more. A lifetime of memories for my family and I.
Since my decoys were hollowed already, I thought about placing some of her ashes inside that bird so I could hunt with her again. I realized there were several other factors that needed to be taken into consideration. And with time and experimentation I perfected the making of Decoy urns.
I've heard it said that I make nothing other than "dog coffins"
At first I was bother by that statement , ( even though it's far from the truth ) However now it doesn't bother me one bit!
I'd rather honor the memory of a hard-working retriever and someone's best friend then make a bird that sits on the shelf to be gawked at and never used.
Truth be told, urns are some of the most meaningful and important work that I do.
Wigeon decoy urn for Hunter
It is more than just something to turn a dollar. It is a calling.
I've connected with people from all over the country, heard their stories, felt their tears, listened to them pour their heart out about things that only duck hunters can understand.
If I had to go, the rest of my carving career making urns, that would be fine by me.
I told my wife on many occasions regarding Bree, "This one better live forever, because without her I won't be any good."
I know that's not possible, however I hope that day is far into the future.
Who knows, even then, with any luck, perhaps there will be another wet nosed puppy that lights my heart afire once again.
Who can resist that face!
Rails : Ebb and Flow, Life on the Tide
Blog post about Sora rail hunting in New Jersey.
This article I wrote was first Published in the April 2017 Issue Of “Hunting and Fishing Collectibles Magazine”
I thought my blog readers would enjoy it. Especially sine rail season is just about ready to go here In NJ! In the years since this first hunt, I’ve become a dedicated rail hunter. Owning, restoring and loving several of my own skiffs along the way.
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Rails: Ebb and Flow, Life on the Tide.
When the sweltering dog days of summer begin to wane, small secretive denizens of the marsh begin to arrive in Southern New Jersey. Rails, depending on species range from about the size of a Robin (Sora Rail) to slightly smaller than a Teal (King and Clappers). Rail hunting was the first real advent of hunting for leisure in the United States (as opposed to mass killing for market) and ushered in the age of the hunter/ conservationist. Artists like Thomas Eakins enjoyed rail shooting on the marshes of Delaware Bay, and this theme is the subject matter for several of his famous early works.
Thomas Eakins, “Pushing for Rail”
Being a lifelong outdoorsman and living in the Traditional “heart” of rail country it was quite ironic that I had never hunted for Sora’s in the age old way. (Poled thru the marsh in a handmade Railbird Skiff)
I had shot Clappers while duck hunting or for an early season adventure. But that pales in comparison the tradition, class and sheer excitement of hunting Sora Rail in the Rice marshes of Down Jersey.
Typical Maurice river Rail skiff.
For several years I had received invitations from two friends of mine to be their guest on a Rail shoot. Due to family or work commitments I was never able to oblige Rick and Frank. This year was different. With a nice high tides predicted, (one must hunt rails when the high tides makes poling across the rice flats possible) and a good crop of birds on the marsh I was able to finally say “Yes” to this adventure. On this trip I would also be bringing along a brand new hunter, my friend Adam (13) to experience his very first try at wing shooting.
The night prior to the hunt I checked my gun, cleaned it and realized all of my non-toxic shot was much to large (size 4 or larger). Sora’s are lightly built, graceful creatures so small bore guns and light loads are key. A desperate call to the local mom and pop shop secured me two boxes of prized #7 steel shot. As I loaded the truck I let my mind wander to what the day would hold. The forecast was calling for rain, but even that couldn’t dampen my spirits.
High tide was predicted at 2:37 PM for our hunting location. Rick suggested we meet at 11:00 AM to give us time to get to the shooting grounds and allow an early start should the tide come up quicker than anticipated. Rick has been hunting and guiding for rails for over 30 years. He uses a handmade Fiberglass skiff he built especially for this purpose. Though he got out of the guiding business several years ago his knowledge of the River, cover, and tradition of Rail hunting is hard to beat. His father started him pushing clients at 15 and his wiry stature is deceiving as he can easily move a hulking gunner, boat and gear over thick vegetation and a mere skin of water.
My pusher for the Day, Frank is cut of the same cloth, though he would be easily mistaken on the street for a linebacker or MMA fighter. Quiet with a quick smile, he handled his Sassafras framed, Cedar planked skiff with a skill that spoke of his many years on the water.
After a half hour trip down river we arrived at the first of the flats we were to hunt for the day.
Towing the skiffs downriver.
Prior reports revealed this spot had produced exceedingly well several days previous. As Frank and Rick muscled the boats through the still rising water, Lack of Flushing Rail and the finding of other guides lost bird Markers ( brightly colored buoys used to mark downed birds) soon began to indicate this meadow was probably shot out. Rick made the call we would head farther South yet.
As we were pushing to the edge of the last rice Island to access our route south, a quick yet distinctive black flash caught my eye. I mentioned this to Frank who poled me to the spot. A quick flush, flutter, and BANG later, my first Sora lay softly on the Rice.
Frank pushing through the Rice
As we retrieved it, its dainty form, beautiful colors and Quirky smirk made me an instant fan! I can’t quite describe the feeling, but it was as if I discovered something I never knew I lost.
Drake sora rail in hand
Our trip to the southern grounds proved to be a wise decision as our next push Flushed Multiple Sora’s of which I shot perfectly. Up until now Adam, who was a little apprehensive on zones of fire etc, had not shot his gun. Rick, who was the gracious host, was determined to change that. The next Sora, that was spotted running, was marked in a clump of Rice. Rick positioned the boat deftly, allowing Adam the best possible angle for a shot. As the rail jumped Adam drew a bead, swung and fired. A beautiful one shot kill. I had to opportunity to see it all from 30 yards away and it was as pretty a scene as Eakins could paint.
Rick, working through the cover.
From there we continued to criss-cross the fresh real estate, putting up Rails every so often. Sometimes they would run and evade us, other times flush wild and make it to the cover of the nearby Woods. All in all it was a wonderful way to live a day. The highlight for me (or low light) was when Frank spotted a larger Cinnamon colored Rail dart through a hole in the rice,” Virginia!” he exclaimed, referring to the somewhat rare and extremely beautiful relative of the Sora, not often seen or taken in these parts. My pulse began to quicken, my neck feel tight, I was amped and anxious to make the shot. The Virginia flushed a mere three feet from the boat and my first shot was rushed and much to quick, I watched as the shot wad opened up 20 feet after it passed the bird. I drew a fresh bead thereafter and swung on the now crossing Rail. The shot echoed of the tree line as I watched the Virginia glide safely to the cover of a cattail stand 40 yards away.
Disappointed with my shooting I longed to chase it, but Rick, ever the purist, echoed the refrain, “We ain’t here to chase one bird, let him be!” And so it was. The bird beat me, some would call it Buck fever, or nerves, I call it hunting. Hunting a quarry so noble you let it live out of respect for it all. Respect for the bird, the environment, the tradition. Respect For the opportunity to do something so engaging with good friends, in a free country.
Ricks goal in the hunt was to pass along the tradition to the next generation. I think that was well accomplished. Adam and I added several more Sora’s to our bag. But that was not the true measure of the day. That came in abundance. An abundance of laughs, an abundance of stunning vistas and for Frank and Rick and abundance of Advil that night before bed!
A respectable bag of tasty sora Rail. Small bore gauges are perfect for rails. 28 gauge shown.
As Rick once said “Rail Hunting is the best few hour hunt you can hope to have” and I for one could not agree more!
Thanks for reading, Jode