I’m not a duck hunter, which means I’m not a hunter of any wild animals because if I was then it would surely be ducks, as I was born and raised so close to the Delta and its bayous and flooded timberlands. That isn’t to say I’ve never stood in ice cold water in some rice field, in the dark, shivering and wondering to myself…why?
The first time was when I was about ten and my dad, who wasn’t a hunter either, was convinced to go duck hunting by a friend, and as that man’s son was my best friend, I got to go along. We went to a town called Crockett’s Bluff on the White River in Arkansas County, named for William Finley Crockett, the son of Davy Crockett.
We ate well those two days I remember, and I didn’t do so bad shooting skeet over the river, but I never hit a duck.
25 years later I was selling bonds in Little Rock at T.J. Raney and Sons, which had its share of avid duck hunters like Bobby Raney and Joe Owen. My wife, Kathy, and I became close friends with Joe and his wife Roxanne, and it wasn’t long before Joe had me on a shopping spree at Fort Thompson, where I gave them a credit card and they gave me a Remington shotgun, some shells, waders, a jacket, a hat and thermal socks and underwear. A week later Joe even got me to buy a dog, one like his, a Chesapeake Bay Retriever I named Sam.
I guess I hunted with Joe about four times. Sam got to go once but it was kind of a disaster. Not his fault as he hadn’t been trained. A time or two Joe’s brother Booga came with us and once he brought his friend Peg Leg, who hit everything he aimed at.
After one season I hung up my waders for good and went back to golf, but I will always remember the beauty from those cold November mornings as the dawn rose over the horizon and you saw those first groups of birds circling at different heights. There really isn’t anything quite like it and I get why people love it so.
There are legendary duck hunters in Arkansas, as you might expect from the “Duck hunting capital of the world.” Men like Wallace Claypool, who did the opposite of me and set aside his golf clubs for a shotgun, after going on his first duck hunt at Reelfoot Lake in northwestern Tennessee in 1925, a lake which had been formed by the New Madrid earthquake of 1811 and 1812.
Claypool was hooked after that and 15 years later would purchase 3,500 acres a few miles east of Weiner in Poinsett County, of which 1,350 acres make up the reservoir known as Wild Acres. Claypool bought the land specifically to attract ducks, which it did in a huge way with its timber and shallow waters.
In 1956 the Claypool Reservoir was featured on a national TV program, Dave Garroway’s “Wide Wide World.” The program had already done a show on catfishing in Arkansas and the communications director for Arkansas Game and Fish, Tom Mull, recommended they come back and do a show on duck hunting, featuring a live hunt. Garroway went for it and Mull had his assistant, George Purvis, handle the details.
Producers wanted to air the program on December 23 and began setting equipment up, which was difficult because of logistics and all the mud. But they finally got there and then only needed the ducks to comply. Would they be there?
They soon had their answer and the one they’d been hoping for as some 40 acres were covered in ducks. And then it was time to get them into the air. As NBC’s cameras kept rolling, a rocket with three sticks of TNT was fired from across the lake and 350,000 winged creatures burst into the sky. The spectacle lasted a full eight minutes until Garroway ended the hunt by saying, “Now if you will brush the duck feathers off your sofa, we’ll go on with the rest of our program.” Wild Acres was now the most famous duck hunting spot in the country. Hunters from around the world came to see and try their luck at the amazing spot. On December 27, 1959, Wernher von Braun, the German aerospace engineer, who went from designing rockets for the Nazis in World War II to doing the same for NASA after the war, hunted at Wild Acres. It was a Sunday and he got his limit. When he returned to the lodge after the hunt, he learned his mother had died early that morning in a hospital in Germany.
Claypool, the consummate conservationist, controlled the hunting rigidly, keeping it to mornings only and just three days a week.
He would sell the part of the land in 1963 and the rest in 1966. In 1969, a survey recorded over a million ducks in the state, and that same year Claypool and his wife Sally visited Wild Acres for one last hunt.
He died July 21, 1973, at the age of 87. Nine years later, on the very same day, July 21, Dave Garroway died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound at his home in Swarthmore, Pennsylvania. He was 69 years old.
So what is it about the sport that gets people out of a warm bed before dawn and out into the cold fields and flooded timber?
In an interview with Arkansas Game and Fish, Steve Bowman of Little Rock, who co-authored the Arkansas Duck Hunter’s Almanac with Steve Wright of Fayetteville, said it well. “It's not simply about ducks or hunting. It's much more than that. Duck hunting is an emotional thing for me.” “We're just a bunch of old dudes just wanting to see the sunrise with some waterfowl involved in it. We all stop and just kind of catch our breath when we see the first movements of ducks right in front of us.” “I can't imagine not having duck hunting in my life, and more than that, I can't imagine not having Arkansas duck hunting in my life.” There is another story from two hunters that brings home the love of the sport. The tale, written by James Nunnally, appeared in the March 1982 issue of Outdoor Life, under the headline, “I’ll Never Hunt Ducks Again.” Nunnally and his doctor friend, Dr. George Dahnke, both of Memphis, decided to go hunt in a floodway over in Arkansas.
Nunnally wrote, “the floodway was still timberland. About 100,000 acres of it had been dammed and canalized to prevent the St. Francis River from flooding the towns of Marked Tree and Parkin. The forest floor was flooded all year, hence, the lure for ducks.” It was a gray day, just before dawn when the pair headed out in their boat. The temperature was 22 degrees as they traveled the eight miles to the chosen spot. Ducks were flying everywhere but it wasn’t long before they had set up they realized they needed to move to a closer spot where they could hear what sounded like thousands of ducks. They left the boat and after three hundred yards of wading came upon “the mallard equivalent of the famous Antoine’s restaurant in New Orleans.” “When the ducks began lifting out it sounded like a tornado,” Nunnally wrote.
To make a long story short, the day that began with so much promise soon turned dire when they realized they couldn’t find the boat.
“The thought of being trapped in the cold with no place to rest and nothing to eat or drink was terrifying, especially because nobody even knew just where we were. The frigid wind sought out each opening in our winter gear, probably seeping in through buttonholes. The cold water was a danger on all sides of us — and we were helpless. I could tell George was hopeless — a bad attitude for one who would survive.” “Ducks were in the water on all sides of us, and they were noisy. Each time a susie quacked or a drake wheezed, George would mutter and mumble. Finally he burst out: “Damn the ducks! Damn all ducks!” “Why, George, I thought that you liked ducks and duck talk,” I teased. That night was the only time I ever heard him say an oath. “I hate the things!” he said. “If I ever get out of here, alive, I will never hunt ducks again!” Then, with the sun sinking on the horizon, they heard an outboard motor. They were saved.
Nunnally finishes – “Mr. Ambrose, who had sent our rescuer, was ready with his brandy bottle. We followed the brandy with cup after cup of scalding coffee. As we sat huddled over a substantial meal, our first of the day, we were so near the big stove that steam from our drying clothing obscured our vision. George fanned the cloud of steam from in front of his face, and, peering anxiously, asked, ‘J.D. can you make it over here again Wednesday?’” “It was then one o’clock Monday morning. He would never hunt ducks again — until Wednesday morning, that is.”