"The Trip's Not Really Over Yet"

As I sit down to write this, my truck is covered in mud. Not just a little mud, mind you; but so much mud that the only part of the truck that is even remotely clean is that area of the windshield covered by the sweeping of the wipers. My truck is obnoxiously dirty. It is so filthy that everyone I pass on the road must think, “He’s not washing that thing on purpose. He wants everyone to know he’s been riding in the mud.”

You know what? They’d be right. The mud that’s caked to the sides of my truck like scales on an alligator is a souvenir of sorts. It came from rural farm roads and slick levee crossings on the Great Prairie of east Arkansas. Every time I look at my truck in its soiled condition, I am reminded of my recent inaugural duck hunting endeavor; reminded of the ducks warily surveying our blind from overhead; of Big Cypress Creek’s tea-colored waters; of the tupelo gum I hugged in the North Hole after the rice fields had frozen over; of the marvelous work of my friend’s thirteen-year-old black Lab in his final season before retirement; of the pastel sunrises that set fire to the cypress brakes below; and of the camaraderie we shared for four splendid days behind the decoys.

There was the morning I forgot my coat and a front blew through at daybreak, sending the mercury plummeting 30 degrees in 30 minutes. I sat there shivering and praying for ducks to bomb our decoy spread so some action might warm me up. Luckily, the ribbing from my friends did the trick until the ducks showed up shortly after the wind shifted. I enjoyed the best hunt of the trip with soaked-through shirtsleeves and a mild case of hypothermia.

There was the trip to Mack’s Prairie Wings in Stuttgart, necessitated by the used chest waders with boots that were two sizes too big which I’d purchased on the internet. After the mud sucked the boots and my socks right off my feet while wading back from the blind on the second morning, I decided my being frugal wasn’t worth my being miserable, and made the investment in some waders that fit. They made all the difference in the trip.

There were the errant shots, the ill-advised shots and the just plain stupid ones. For a while there it seemed like I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn; until one time I did. “I got one!” What a feeling!

In some strange, silent way, as long as I don’t wash the mud off my truck, the trip’s not really over yet. I am clinging to the fond memories of my trip like the mud now clinging to my fenders and wheel wells. It took me six days to unpack my bags after returning home. The CFO was extremely patient about the large duffle, the blind bag and the shell belt that sat on her bedroom floor for almost a week. I think she realized long ago why it takes me so long to let go after a really great trip like my Arkansas duck hunt, and so she cuts me some slack. She understands me pretty well, as tough as it has been on her to gain so much knowledge about me in this respect.

I have a couple mallards and a green winged teal at the taxidermist, which I can realistically expect to get back near the latter part of 2009 or early 2010. Once they’re hung on the walls in my study, they will serve as permanent reminders of my four days spent in the finest waterfowl habitat in North America. But a year is a long time to wait. So for now I will have to settle for a muddy truck, some unpacked bags, a stack of photographs and a pile of gear not yet ready to call it quits. Trivial, yes, but they're trophy enough for now.



(c) Roger Guilian 2009