David Sikes/Caller-Times file

DUCK HUNTING: A hunting dog retrieves a duck for a worker with the South Texas Hunting Company in 2000. Careful scrutiny can help a hunter distinguish teal, redhead, wigeon and pintail ducks.

Watch closely for duck differences

Scrutiny uncovers subtle cues that make teal, redheads, pintails distinctive

By David Sikes/Caller-Times Outdoors Columnist

At one point in my career, I couldn’t tell a redhead from a blue bill unless it bit me on the nose.

And I certainly couldn’t discern one duck from another in the heat of the hunt, squinting down the barrel of a shotgun at an approaching flock.

It’s embarrassing for a Louisiana boy.

But I’m learning.

No, the skill is not inherent in my family, to answer the smart-aleck question, "Ain’t you Cajuns born knowing what duck is what?"

If anything, what I was born with was a desire to hunt ducks. Unfortunately, my father preferred wingshooting of the less-soggy variety.

His loss.

And it’s my burden, which I’ve resolved to overcome with the help of a handful of longtime waterfowlers, who’ve agreed to play tutor.

Once in the blind, I ask them to treat me, to an extent, as their student, the way their fathers or grandfathers might have done when they were kids. There are no crash courses in duck identification 101, no Cliff’s Notes for the duck deficient.

Skill is developed
The skill comes from observing thousands of waterfowl in every imaginable situation and absorbing the nuances of their habits, patterns, calls and shapes.

On a hunt a few years ago, neighbor Lenny Girard and Rockport guide Danny Adams II agreed to point out these subtleties to me, repeatedly. I agreed to listen, observe, then shoot.

I mastered the former skills better than the latter.

But seriously, Adams and Girard accepted the challenge gladly, imparting years of know-how to their eager student.

I already hold a somewhat childlike attitude about hunting — relishing each experience as high adventure rather than taking the more hardened militaristic approach of some hunters — so my role was easy to assume.

It helped that I trusted my teachers implicitly.

Class began before sunrise, as do most duck hunts. We bundled up and boarded Adams’ airboat, which took us to a remote blind on the backside of San Jose Island.

The eastern horizon glowed pale yellow as we floated several dozen decoys; careful to keep the pintails separate from the others. In full light, we noticed a disappointing sky, bright and blue.

Duck hunters prefer cloudy conditions to offset the keen eyesight of their prey.

At least we had a preferred north wind. Or had it switched to southeast?

Wind shifts
We had set our decoy spread on the north side of our blind, counting on the north wind to prevail. But after sunrise, the wind shifted. We countered by repositioning some of the spread.

And the show began.

"Here comes three sprigs," Girard said, using an alternative name for pintails. "See how graceful they fly? See the slow wing beat?

The pintails approached with cupped wings, but too high to shoot. Wait, they’re circling.

Here they come from behind us, gliding in for another approach. Girard and I remained crouched in the blind, awaiting Adams’ command to rise and shoot.

The birds seemed to drop from the sky just above our spread.

Incoming.

"OK take ‘em," Adams shouted before they hit the water.

We emptied our guns, then laughed as the birds soared almost straight up and away. None fell.

Graceful fliers
"No bird, no bird," Adams said, laughing and attempting to settle his enthusiastic Labrador retriever. "I know boy, I know. They stink."

But all was not lost.

"Here comes another group, coming right at us," Adams said, grabbing his shotgun. "Think I’ll help y’all out this time."

Once again, the cautious pintails kept their distance at first to scrutinize our decoys. But they wanted badly to land. With each circle they descended, giving me ample opportunity to take mental notes.

They are indeed graceful fliers and, by the way, one of the tastiest ducks that visit the Coastal Bend.

"OK get ‘em," Adams shouted.

I picked out one of the larger drakes and shot quickly. It tumbled into the brine. Girard dropped one too. I think Adams’ gun jammed.

This article is originally from the Caller-Times publication South Texas Life.
View the original publication.