I was recently organizing some old memories I keep in a shoe box and came across a half-completed painting along with a few other wildlife drawings I did circa 1994. Nothing special, but they reminded me of my love of duck hunting from when I was a younger man not afraid of sitting in an icy beaver swamp at four in the morning and in awe of God’s amazing creation. Any soil I trod upon to reach my destination buried deep in the dark waters was worth the plow I pushed through the hardened clay of central North Carolina. The plan formulated in my mind the night before the big hunt often caused my sleep meter to slow as I laid awake anticipating the coming dawn. It was a sweet time still tucked away in my Dewey Decimal mind I still search from time-to-time.

Watching the sun tip its hat over the swamp littered with summer’s decaying cattails, rotting tree stumps and the faint sound of a beaver minding its dam was one of the most exhilarating ways to pass a frosty winter morning. Some mornings, the air was so cold, my breath appeared as if a thick cloud of cigar smoke billowed from my mouth. The moist steam condensed on my beard and would freeze within what seemed like seconds. The ice around my lips was uncomfortable. My facial hair transformed from a fur like throw rug to a corse shag carpet. I recall a few January hunts where, with every step through the swamp, the padded knees of my neoprene waders would break loose another shard of ice. The air was still and felt sharp on my exposed skin.

After setting a couple dozen decoys, all a replica of the birds I hoped to harvest, the ripples from each man-made duck being dropped moved to the outer edge of their pool. Once I returned to my blind, the swamp I sat in was once again placid and still. The anticipation of what was to come caused my heart to race. My mind rehearsed each gunning scenario and my eyes focused on the dark holes in the swamp where a duck might lie in wait before it takes flight. It was still dark.

The only light I could muster was from a flashlight held in my cold, shriveled hand. The neoprene gloves I wore soon became ineffective. The smell of organic mud and stained water from the tannins released from decaying leaves submerged below the surface was pungent but was an aroma that set my mind at peace like comfort food after a stressful day’s work.

Only thirty minutes before the ducks began to fly, I would build a makeshift blind hoping to conceal myself enough to fool my prey.

As the sun begins to rise, I would hear the hurried flutter of wings above. Somewhere between dark and dawn, the silhouettes of ducks would begin to emerge from their murky roosts. Tufted Titmice and Black Capped Chickadees would dance in the flora around me. I was never sure if their song was a serenade or simply a fuss of annoyance as if I had somehow invaded their domain.

Only five minutes until I could legally allow the gun powder and steel to combust inside my Browning Gold shotgun . By this time, my heart was pounding and it took all I could muster not to pull the trigger as ducks flew above.

Finally, as I looked at my watch, it was legal shooting time, almost three hours after beginning my cold and dark journey through the oak and pine inhabited woods. My truck, parked along the gravel rural road, was but a faint memory of the warmth of civilization. My feet and hands were numb but my heart and mind were alert as if God Himself had called me to attention.

I pursed my lips on the duck call that had so many times before coerced even the most wary drake Wood Duck into my decoy spread. And then, as the pink and red hues of nature began to explode, my gun raised from my lap as if it were attached by strings directed by a master puppeteer.

As I sighted my barrel on the first duck of the morning which had foolishly chosen to approach my spread, wings cupped, twisting and turning to navigate the right opening amongst the plastic replicas of it’s kind, I pulled the trigger.

From its flight of which it had once mastered, it fell from its graceful approach which, in my opinion, is unmatched by any other sporting experience being afield has to offer. As I collected my quarry from the icy water, I reveled in the beauty of God’s creation. It was hard to think then, as it is now, that a master craftsman had not carefully constructed each feather on the bird I held in my hand. Its colors were magnificent, like royalty held on high. As I made my way back to my post, I was as content as an old dog lying under a shade tree on a hot summer’s day. Although the heat of summer felt as far away as the warm bed I had left a few hours earlier.

It was a good morning. All my mornings in the swamp were good, even the days when the ducks and I had conflicting schedules. Even if they couldn’t join me, I was ok with that. Mornings when my only company were the Titmice, Chickadees and an occasional beaver that made his displeasure of my presence known, still fulfilled my spirit.

So my journey began, in reverse. As I picked up my decoys and retreated back to my truck, I felt a lot of things, not including my fingers and toes. I mostly felt grateful. Grateful that I was allowed a few hours, out of an otherwise hurried life, to find peace in the swamp amongst the creation that God had so graciously allowed me to share.

As I think back to those days, I now realize how much I learned along my journeys to the murky beaver swamps that speckle the landscape of Chatham, Wake, and Orange counties. I learned that life is not lived on a couch or behind a desk. Life is lived by pursuing our passions.

In my early to late twenties, one of my passions was waterfowl, whether it was painting, drawing, carving, hunting or reading, I consumed every detail of every feather I could. Time with hunting buddies and the bonds we developed have made us brothers forever. Even though we are now separated by distance, our love of waterfowl and for one another has not diminished.

Now that I’m fifty, I’m remembering the things that once made my heart pound and mind race as if it was given a direct injection of serotonin. I have decided that life is better when we pursue our passions.

So, perhaps I will strap on some chest high waders, grab my old Browning and head afield. Or, maybe I will finish those old paintings, pencil sketches, and wood carvings which are scattered about between the dust of my attic and buried deep in my chest of drawers.

My hope is, life will yield good fruit and allow each of us to pursue that which we love so much. For me, it is ducks. May my body also be brave enough to leave the warm confines of my soft and inviting bed at some insane hour, hop in my pick-up truck and continue the journey I began thrity years ago.

I’m grateful to have shared a little of nature’s handmade delight over the years, even if it is icy, pungent, and sometimes too cold to bear.