Psychic Ducks

I spent a large portion of my twenties on the road as a traveling sales rep for a large hunting company. From trade shows, pop-ups, to meeting with independent retailers, I met many interesting people. Perhaps none more interesting than a man named Henry that I met at a waterfowl event in central Arkansas.

Although a bit odd, Henry and I became great friends through our shared love of waterfowl hunting. That’s essentially where our similarities ended. I don’t think there is clinically anything wrong with him, but he could definitely benefit from some light therapy. I’d even help with the copay.

Nonetheless, he owned about 200 acres of prime waterfowl habitat in the NE corner of Arkansas. A mix of flooded timber and rice fields, it was the picture perfect setup to catch dense flights of birds near the end of their migration. Problem is, we were never able to time it right.

Henry always had these superstitious theories as to when we should come down, and then at the end of the trip, theories on why they weren’t successful hunts.

One season at the end of December he called me up, “Clay, next weekend is the anniversary of my uncle's death. You know what his middle name was? Drake! Tell me that’s not a sign. You gotta get down here!”

The uncle theory held no weight on my decision. At least I don’t think so. It was going to be the first week of January, a time any duck hunter would get excited to be in an Arkansas pit blind. So I drove down, not counting on Uncle Drake to throw us any extra luck from the heavens.

We didn’t see shit. Ended the weekend with a few woodies in my cooler and about 500 extra miles on my truck.

“You know Clay…” Henry started. “My uncle wasn’t even really into duck hunting. Not sure he had ever gone actually. Starting to think his death anniversary was a sign to stay out of the woods. Maybe like a respect thing. That’s on me. But next weekend marks three years since I got my lab. I gotta good feeling about that one. Want to stick it out for another week?”

I was in my truck headed home before he could finish that sentence. I don’t blame Henry. I blame myself for even entertaining pseudoscience from a guy that doesn’t wash his baselayers all duck season, fearing that he will “wash the luck out”. Wake up, Clay.

Regardless, Henry and I still kept in touch, and I still made annual visits to hang out with him and attempt to shoot some ducks together. Still, we never got to experience the shooting mayhem you would expect from a duck hunt in this region.

Fast forward to last January, I got a call from my squirrely friend Henry, letting me know with immense excitement that he had a new lady in his life. One that he met at a bar (never a good idea), however, there was something far more exciting about this connection (in his eyes) than just a new fling. What he considered far more important was her career. Tarot card reader.

“Clay, she predicts the future for a living. Naturally, I had to bring up duck hunting…. She says it’s going to be on fire this weekend. We’re going to hammer them, get your ass down here.”

You’ll never meet a bigger skeptic than me. 99% of the time, I don’t trust the government. Half of the time, I don’t even trust most doctors. So am I expected to take the word of some “psychic” who vaguely interprets cards based on even more vague symbols, based out of a strip mall that shares walls with the local Subway sandwich shop? No. But I really wanted to shoot some ducks, and all of my local spots were frozen. So I loaded the truck up.

The morning started slow. Early whistles of teal rang throughout the fields, and then there was silence. I was already preparing for whatever conspiracy theory Henry would have made up for the lack of action. Just as I was reflecting on how I got to this moment, with Henry’s love life and delusions influencing my decision, six mallards dumped into our spread. Our shots rang true.

By the time I made it back to my seat with our kills, a group of 10 or more were cupped within 15 yards of our blind. With my gun and sling hanging off my shoulder, I hurried out to get more fallen birds. As I stood in the middle of the spread, a lone pintail flew right above me, I dropped the greenheads, shouldered my browning, and watched the sprig smack the water. The madness never ended. All weekend we were like kids at an amusement park.

After countless trips down south, hundreds of conspiracy theories listened to, and several skunked hunts, finally, the chaos every waterfowler dreams of had graced our presence. Why this trip? Just as I asked myself that, a thought entered my brain. Could it be? The southern psychic?

I looked over to Henry and shouted, “Marry her. At least for a few duck seasons.”