Six mottled ducks worried around an evaporating southwest Florida cattle wallow, quacking and chattering into the bluebird December morning. Travis Futch, Dirty J, and I had spotted them on the truck ride to camp after a so-so teal hunt, and with bag limit space to spare, we hatched a plan of attack.
Parking behind a nearby cabbage palm island, we swapped to full chokes and maneuvered within 60 yards, crouching and belly-crawling through the broom sedge and wispy dog fennels until the cover expired and all we could see were yellow bills and peach faces periscoping above the browning pasture grasses, gleaming in the winter sun.
On three, we heaved up and charged, and like in a war movie when the soldiers leap the trenches on command, one immediately fell,…
