I boarded the plane making my way through the narrow aisles with my carry-on and cooler in tow. Trying not to anger all the other frustrated passengers, I arrived at the back of the plane. I happily threw my suitcase filled with four days of dirty clothes in the compartment above my head, saving myself $25 in luggage fees. I shoved the cooler under the seat and sat down to recollect the last four days of bliss when the stewardess asked how the fishing was?
I was perplexed, “Fishing?” Then I thought maybe the scruffy four days of unkempt facial hair and the camouflage jacket was the giveaway. I replied, “No I was in Louisiana, hunting ducks.” Her eyes turned sad. Her finely plucked eyebrows furrowed and her welcome aboard smile turned to a frown. “Why? What did the ducks do to you?” she asked. Trying to raise her spirits, considering I was going to rely on her for my limited selection of food and beverage for the next two hours, I tried to justify my perceived mass genocide of the bird population. I calmly told her we used slingshots. That seemed to quell the mass hysteria of gun control debates I could see swirling in her head. I directed her back to the conversation of food and asked her what she eats. Before she could answer, I rattled off the major farm animals, chicken, beef and pork. All were answered with a no.
I had found myself face to face with a vegetarian. At first I was nervous, considering I was dressed in her favorite food group. Then she mentioned fish. I asked, “What did the fish do to you?” She laughed, knowing full well the conversation was going to be entertaining and thoughtful. Since she couldn’t think of one instance where a fish harmed her, I continued the conversation regarding my means of procuring organic protein.
If you eat something on that plate, it had to have lived somewhere and it ended up dead on your plate. My meal is more than that. My meal is an experience filled with contemplative thought, friendship, stewardship and the satisfaction that I know where my meal came from. My “food” started in Waterproof, Louisiana a few hours north of New Orleans on 800 acres of woods, bayous and a lake. For help with the procuring process, I had my Dad and a fellow friend fly with me to visit our friendly “organic farmer.” Not only a farmer, he is the owner of a beautiful little piece of America. As a friend of five years, I appreciate the time he spends feeding, cultivating and ensuring a healthy habitat for these passing aviary culinary delights.
The next three days would be spent waking up at some ungodly hour before the sun casts its first warming rays. While fully dressed in the stewardesses favorite food, we would nestle ourselves in a small hut waiting for up to seven hours to fulfill our limit of six feathered friends.
One might consider this boring or compare it to watching paint dry. I think not. Artists have tried to capture the vastness and grandeur of a glowing ball of fire cresting over the horizon to bring warmth and light. I get to experience the slowness of this event for the next three mornings.
Within the first moments, the glow is filled with ducks speeding to their next destination. Some fly sporadically high, other fly low or are structured in a V formation. The sight reminds me of World War II movies with the mass amounts of bombers heading to Europe for victory. Unlike the bombers, ducks fly this route every year and have been for the past hundred years. We sometimes waited in silence soaking up the grandness of it all or in conversation retelling adventures of procuring and gathering. The sun finally reveals its light. It dances and sparkles across the water. Plastic forms of floating ducks break up the dance. Then it happens.
Two out of the thousands of ducks that make their journey down the Mississippi Delta, decide to rest in our flock of plastic silhouettes. Patience and travel have paid off. Now it is up to me to put food on the table. Success is now resting in the center of the circular ripples.
Stay tuned for Part Two of Jeff’s duck hunting adventure. Learn more about Southeastern Pennsylvania-based artist Jeff Schaller at jeff-schaller.blogspot.com.
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