Duck Season on Doctor's Lake

Author Laments the Hunting of 'Sweet Little Travelers'

Wood ducks may be found throughout North America, and they are hunted in many states.

It’s that time again—the season when my precious, sleepy Doctor’s Lake neighborhood sounds like a live action Terminator 2 movie. Many mornings as dawn breaks and before anyone’s alarm clocks sound, shotgun blasts start crackin’ through the air sounding like New Years Eve’s fireworks in our backyards.

Adults stagger out of bed, muttering words that would get them kicked out of Sunday School, while children whimper in their sleep and dogs dive under furniture like they’re fixin’ to ride out a tornado.

Turns out there’s no crime spree; it’s just duck hunters on Doctors Lake.

It was years ago, in the wee hours of the morning, when I first heard the blasting on Doctors Lake. That sound reminded me of back when my Uncle Clayton, not exactly the brightest firefly in the jar, use to go fishing in my grandpa’s pond—his choice of lures was dynamite.

Still drowsy, I jumped out of my bed and ran to our dock in my jammies, heart pounding, my hair looking like I’d been electrocuted and stumbling like my Aunt Minnie use to do after a half bottle of Ripple.

When I got mid-way of our dock, close enough to borrow a cup of sugar, a small boat covered in a camouflage tarp floated by.

Two heads were bumped up to the top of the tarp as four arms slinked out from underneath it, and began to quietly paddle up to a huge flock of peacefully snoozing tiny wood ducks—sweet little travelers that had stopped for a rest on the lake while on their way to warmer weather, minding their own business and dreaming duck dreams.

Suddenly, the two heads became bodies, and the two men started beating the paddles on the water loud enough to wake the dead. The little ducks flew into the sky like whipped cream squirted from an aerosol can. The shooters started blasting the flock out of the sky.

I watched as several of the miniature birds suddenly became limp and plummeted toward the water.

I started waving my hands and calling for the men to stop shooting. The older man waved back—with his middle finger. The other guy looked embarrassed. It was a real Hallmark moment.

I grew up on a farm. In the winter, my family killed wild animals to feed us, so I’m not against hunting. But those tiny ducks barely had enough meat on their bones to feed a flea. The hunters acted less like sportsmen and more like drive-by shooters, so I ran inside and called the Clay County Sheriff’s Office to tattle on the sunrise snipers.

This was back when Rick Beseler was sheriff—pre-diddling Darryl, when response times were faster than thick molasses. By the time I’d thrown on real clothes and ran out the door with my husband barreling out after me—fully dressed and trying to decide whether we were under attack, or if I’d gone slap out of my mind—an officer was already pulling up in front of my house. Meanwhile, the two “hunters” were still out on Doctors Lake, scarin’ up those teensy little ducks and blastin’ away like they were defendin’ the homeland.

The deputy advised us to stand at the beginning of the dock while he walked out and had a “conversation” with the hunters. I walked a distance behind him anyway, as he called the hunters to come over to talk with him.

The older hunter sternly told the officer he had brought his grandson out to teach him to hunt, had already checked all the rules and regulations and knew he was “in full compliance.” Grandpa told the officer he knew he could shoot on the lake and around the neighborhood docks as long as he stayed a prescribed number of feet away from our homes.

The officer agreed, but suggested he get a little farther out in the lake. Gramps didn’t move his boat and gave me one of those nanny-nanny-boo-boo looks. The grandson gave me a sad smile that suggested he probably wasn’t into shooting any more mosquito-sized ducks.

The deputy invited us up to our driveway and told us that the elder hunter was, in fact, right. Then—mostly, I suspect, to make me feel better—he added that, personally, he thought it was a mighty poor idea for folks to be shootin’ that close to houses on the lake. But legally, he said, his hands were tied… at least until one of us lake residents was mistaken for wild game and took a load of birdshot in the backside. Alright, fine—I made that last part up. But Lord knows, it sounded like that’s exactly what he meant.

So, this time of year, the children, dogs and uncaffeinated adults on Doctors Lake will continue to get yanked out of dreamland by shotgun blasts, all so a few folks can feel like sportsmen while terrorizing birds the size of a chicken nugget.