With billions of stars shining down on this cold, clear Christmas Eve, one could imagine the Star of Bethlehem illuminating the land as camel caravans journeyed across the desert. However, this adventure did not involve a desert, or even any dry ground, but it did include some sand.
The outboard motor droning against the river current pushed the boat past towering cypress trees dominating the shorelines. A few miles upstream, we turned off the main channel into an ancient oxbow lake.
A growing sandbar would eventually seal the entrance, but this morning we could still enter the lake in our light, shallow-draft boat through a tiny ditch flowing out from the lake. The motor propeller kicked up sand in the ditch as we crossed the bar into the lake. For this reason, few people hunted this oxbow.
Wood ducks typically fly at first light. The dawn flight seldom lasts more than about 15 minutes. During that time, sportsmen in the right spot can fire quite a few times. Woodies love acorns and frequently fed along an oak ridge deep in the swamp behind the lake.
Beyond the sandbar, the ancient oxbow became much deeper and resumed its former riverine shape. We rounded a couple bends and tied up to some brush growing along the thickly wooded shoreline. Wood ducks flew over this spot every morning to get to the ridge and its acorns. From this location, we could see up the channel in both directions.
With temperatures hovering just above freezing, we shivered with cold excitement and nervous anticipation as a pale hint of crimson barely back lightened the skeletal trees on the eastern shoreline. Soon, we heard the distinctive whistling of wood ducks beginning their morning ritual. Several twisting black specters rocketed down the channel every few minutes.
As legal shooting hours began, we opened fire at the swift, erratic waterfowl whizzing past us. For the next 15 minutes, we couldn’t reload our shotguns fast enough as birds suddenly materialized in front of us and quickly vanished.
Then it ended. Only chirping songbirds and the haunting cries of a pileated woodpecker punctuated the dawning stillness. In the lull, we warmed our hands around our glowing gun barrels and grabbed some strong, hot coffee to heat our insides.
“So far, we’ve shot more than a box of ammunition and didn’t touch a feather,” my friend remarked.
“Day’s not over yet,” I replied. “Maybe we’ll get a Christmas present.”
Then, a lone drake wood duck, among the most handsome waterfowl in North America, suddenly appeared. It flew much lower than the others straight up the channel. Dropping the coffee cup and grabbing my gun, I pulled the trigger. The bird splashed into the channel almost around the bend. A single pellet found its mark.
“That’s a beautiful bird,” my friend commented as we retrieved it. “Look at all the colors. Incredible! Not a feather out of place!”
“Yep!” I answered. “This one’s going on the wall, a little Christmas present to myself.”
