The lone mallard hen just appeared in our Arkansas honey hole spread that beautiful sunny December morning. Susie realized things weren’t right. With head held high she cautiously swam through the unresponsive plastic imposters. In our five-man blind, the command was whispered, “don’t shoot her, don’t shoot hens.” I am sure it was said loudly enough to be heard by the other four hunters hugging trees in the flooded timber around the hole. I’m sure it was loud enough for Susie to hear.

In Arkansas duck hunting is not a sport, it is a way of life. They say, “If it doesn’t have a green head, it ain’t a duck.” Our group had always emphasized picking out drakes. This emphasis was part ego, part conservation. (The most skilled hunter has the most drakes in his bag, right?) When Susie reached the edge of the decoy spread, she took flight. She was about to clear the trees when brought down with a single lethal dose of Hevi-Shot.

Immediately afterwards “Frog” was asked, “Why?” He responded, “Hey, I’m entitled. Hens are legal and I’ve got duck stamps and an Arkansas lifetime license.”

I didn’t utter a word for the rest of the hunt, through breakfast or the 30-minute ride to my cabin. That night I couldn’t sleep. In between my fits of righteous indignation, I had flashbacks of hens I had killed in my intense competitive pursuit to outdo my buddies.

Why, I wondered, was I suddenly so enraged by the killing of a hen? What had changed within me? It was clear this mood-change was my personal issue -- not Frog’s. In the morning I decided to investigate why suddenly I found the killing of a hen so terribly wrong – wrong for our sport and wrong for the ducks. I made plans to follow the birds back north the following spring to investigate hens on their native turf – the breeding grounds. Somehow, I intuitively thought I’d find my answer there.

* * * * *

Breakfast the following morning with a close friend and respected waterfowl authority produced a road map and contacts for my investigation. I developed a four-phase plan. First, I would thoroughly look at waterfowl behavior in Arkansas immediately following the hunting season. Second, I would follow the ducks back north to major staging areas in the Rainwater Basin and the Platte River areas of Nebraska. Third, I would visit the breeding-grounds in South and North Dakota. Finally, I would hunt in October for “uneducated” ducks in North Dakota. All in all, I would spend more than six weeks afield learning “the rest of the story.”

My plan was preceded by several consecutive duck seasons in Arkansas that had, at best, been spotty. As always, there were a privileged few who regularly limited out. However, on most hunting clubs, leases and state waterfowl management areas (WMAs) duck numbers were down and most hunters felt ducks had changed and now were “not of the huntable, workable sort.”

During this same period, numbers of ducks on Arkansas’ National Wildlife Refuges fluctuated between large and small, depending upon water levels and the weather. Many local hunters blamed moist-soil and grain crops on national wildlife refuges for the poor shooting. They believed these foods grown with duck stamp dollars concentrated the birds on sanctuaries.

Hunter frustration increased, as did the adverse economic impact on rural communities. This was keenly felt. It reached an emotional peak last December when a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service refuge employee based in Arkansas was hung in effigy at a popular duck hunter boat landing.

For those willing to entertain fact over emotion, there were ample clues to suggest more substantive reasons for what was going on. (For the truly open minded, there is the Arkansas Wildlife Federation report written by duck hunters for duck hunters). A few examples illustrate the problem.

Arkansas duck stamp sales in recent years increased from 39,000 to 95,000. From 1994-2001 there was a 98 percent increase in the number of shotgun rounds fired by Arkansas duck hunters. On some mornings at Bayou Meto, a famous flooded-timber wildlife management area, you can count close to 100 cars and boat trailers in the parking lots. The first 30 minutes of legal shooting hours sound very much like a division-level artillery barrage.

We now often see high-flying ducks “flinch” at the sound of far away gunfire. Ducks already in flooded timber today often refuse to fly, choosing rather to swim and hide. Public hunting areas close at noon and hunters have to be out by 1 p.m. As hunters motor out they sometimes witness an influx of ducks wearing Timex’s. I heard one account (perhaps apocryphal) of an old hen leading a long line of swimming mallards out of the sanctuary area and through the timber into huntable space just as the clock was striking noon.

When spinning-wing decoys were introduced several years ago, my friend, Rick Dunn, owner of Echo Calls and the 1997 World Champion duck caller, said, “Our sport will be diminished by this development.”

Today, every “Billy Bob” and all his cousins have received a spinning-wing decoy for Christmas. The prevailing attitude is, “You gotta have ‘em to compete.” Some mornings Arkansas hunters look like the Maytag repairman with all the “essential” battery powered gadgets they carry and set up for their hunts.

As for the ducks, by the middle of January bonded pairs are quite common. I’ve seen more than one mallard hen follow a shot drake to the water. On a number of occasions my companions and I have flushed hens while attempting to recover her downed mate. However, these events never before caused me to realize that breaking up these mature, experienced pairs meant we were “eating our seed corn.”

* * * * *

I returned to Arkansas from my home in Kentucky a week after duck season ended. I found ducks everywhere. The Arkansas Game and Fish Commission rest area adjacent to my small duck hunting property was completely empty. Just days before it held thousands of ducks, now not a one. The U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service Refuges also were empty. Outside of the refuges and rest areas where there was ample food and water there were ducks, lots of ducks. Where had these ducks been during the season? I think the answer is obvious.

After scouting much of Northeast Arkansas, I decided to spend a week or so observing a large group of mallards using a flooded slough and soybean field between the Cache and White Rivers. The area contained abundant natural food and harvest residue. The landowner readily gave me permission, but there was a look of disbelief in his eyes when I explained what I was up to.

I was in the water in my “ghillie suit” before sunrise every morning for the next two weeks to greet the mallards returning from their roost. Their routine was always the same: Feeding, resting, preening, and courting. Feeding appeared to be the first priority and continued off and on throughout the day. Most fed in the water, but some hens, particularly the larger ones, would feed far into the dry sections of the soybean field.

It was easy to tell paired birds from those that appeared not to be. The paired ducks did everything together. Drakes with a hen were defensive, those without were on offense. The paired birds generally appeared to be in excellent physical condition with beautiful nuptial plumage and were out front in competing for and finding food.

I did not witness any courtship flights or copulation. Cars and trucks traveled the adjacent highway almost continually, but unless they slowed down or stopped, the ducks continued about their business. The vehicles that halted were probably trying to figure out what the nut in the camouflage suit was up to. If not disturbed, the mallards stayed and fed until almost dark.

The nearly continuous feeding caused me to question my long-held belief that ducks only fed for brief periods twice a day, evidenced (or so I thought) by the morning flight and the evening flight.

* * * * *

Waterfowl have their own version of March Madness. It is on the staging grounds where thousands pause to feed and rest before continuing their long flight back north. It is here that I found the elaborate process of selecting a mate and obtaining that final layer of body fat for the reproductive cycle cranking up in intensity. It is an amazing spectacle.

When I checked my local contact, he said, “They’re here in big numbers. You better come now before a good south wind takes them north.” I was packed and on the road before the sun rose the next morning.

My destination was the Rainwater Basin and the Platte River area in south-central Nebraska. After an 18-hour drive pulling a cargo trailer packed with sneak boat, blinds, ATV, camera equipment and other duck stuff, my motel bed was a welcome sight.

The next morning I discovered someone had slashed the tires on my brand new cargo trailer, but thank goodness not my truck. This cost me a day, but early the next morning I located my site, a prairie wetland complex literally packed with mallards, pintails and geese. The drought had concentrated the birds. At least 50,000 ducks and geese congregated on the 600-acre area. One could almost feel the sense of anticipation in the birds.

This small plot of ground surrounded by vast farming operations was for the ducks a strategic filling station and rest stop along the long highway back north.

After analyzing their flight patterns, I set my pop-up blind at the end of one of the flight glide paths. In spite of gale force winds, sleet and snow, the flight show continued. Several times my excellent concealment permitted some flights to come so close I could have reached out and touched their wings. A beautiful American Bald Eagle appeared from time to time, flushing the ducks and treating me to an almost “they blackened the sky” scene.

For eight consecutive days I was in the marsh every minute my physical stamina would allow. Almost every morning I broke ice as I waded out into the wetland ponds to set up my blind. The numbers of ducks increased daily as more northward migrants arrived. The party was on!

I witnessed all sorts of very complex and interesting courtship behaviors, some of which I’m still trying to understand. Courtship appears to be a very competitive process. Even if a hen had selected a mate, several drakes still competed for her favor. Curiously, hens often incited conflict between competing males by looking at one drake while swimming toward the chosen male. It was clearly a “you and him fight” order. Seconds later the fight erupted.

Biologists tell us a drake’s body size and plumage coloration are key selection factors for hens. Watching this spectacle made me realize that big fat greenhead with stunning plumage I picked out of the flock and bagged in late January just might have possessed the most desirable genes for successful reproduction. Size does matter to a hen -- and not just any drake will do.

Aerial skill is another way drakes attract a hen’s attention and intimidate rivals. I’ve witnessed funnel formations of ducks in Arkansas descending on a new feeding site, but the courtship flights were aerial beauty beyond description. I was buzzed continually by flights of five-to-eight drakes courting one single hen. It was artistry in motion. Even now it causes my heart to beat faster to think about it.

The staging grounds showed me that testosterone and hen hormones cause waterfowl priorities to shift. Feeding is still “job one,” but courtship becomes a close second. Both vegetable and invertebrate foods were abundant in the marsh and that seemed to explain why mallards and pintails did not feed that much in the surrounding grain fields. By contrast, white geese and speckle-bellies made daily flights to feed in nearby stubble.

When the ducks were not feeding they were courting, and when they were not courting they were feeding. I did not observe as much loafing and preening as I had witnessed in Arkansas.

During the long drive back to my Kentucky home, I reflected long and hard on my experiences. Prior to this trip I had never considered that the quality and availability of nutrients on both the wintering and staging grounds might determine much of the success of the reproductive cycle. Now, I began to accept what a few biologists emphasized -- a malnourished and exhausted hen cannot beat the odds on the nesting grounds. I wondered if hunters who bitched because of U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service food plots would sing a different tune if they had witnessed what I had.

Uppermost, I felt a deepened sense of awe and reverence for the birds. Since my first duck hunt over 50 years ago, my passion for waterfowl has remained constant. But now firsthand experience was teaching me how beautiful, complex and fragile the waterfowl reproduction cycle really is.

* * * * *

In the middle of June I drove to eastern South Dakota after my local contact told me the nesting season was reaching its peak. He gave me a quick tour of my study area and showed me a nest or two. I was then on my own. His only guidance was to use good common sense and not do anything to harm the ducks. I gave my word and kept it. I dared not run my ATV through the grassland, but could use it to haul my equipment to its edge.

My study site consisted of a large wetland complex with a beautiful slough and cattail marsh alongside a large upland tract of grassland. Within a mile of the site were numerous small seasonal wetlands, plus a very large freshwater lake. My foolish notion that nests would be in the cattails quickly evaporated. The grassland was the nesting area. It quickly became apparent the coons and mink would have preferred my idea, but Mother Nature is smarter than that.

Right away I began to discern what sort of landscape an experienced, mature hen seeks. She wants a body of water where she and her drake can copulate, feed, loaf and preen. She wants an expanse of grass where her nest and clutch stand a reasonable chance of escaping detection by predators. And finally she needs a place where she can successfully raise her brood to flight stage, plus a place for her to molt and grow new feathers for the fall migration. This site had it all.

With camera in hand, I spent my first two days in the upland grasslands photographing every nest I could find. I had never before seen a waterfowl nest. I quickly learned it’s not easy to find nests. I had to discipline myself to walk very slowly and to carefully put the toe of my boot down first and do so very gently. I discovered broken eggshells from abandoned nests show up even in tall grass. Examining the abandoned nests then taught me what to look for and where.

Of the first twenty nests I discovered, only three were still being incubated. Four others had eggs in them, but clearly had been abandoned. Predators had destroyed the rest. One nest I found on day one was destroyed when I returned on day two. Several days later, the suspected perpetrator, a large well-fed raccoon, fell victim to a steel trap.

I have read that hens lay one egg a day, but sometimes skip a day, and that the average clutch contains eight-to-10 eggs. Most nests I found fit that general rule. Also, hens do not begin incubating the eggs until all are laid so that they hatch at more or less the same time. I also was told larger, more experienced hens produce larger eggs and fledge larger clutches.

Importantly, biologists have found that a hen’s recent nutritional history is tremendously important. The more body fat a hen possesses, the larger her eggs and the more nutrients the eggs contain for the ducklings. Also, a properly nourished hen has the capacity to nest multiple times, if her first or subsequent nesting attempts fail. From the number of destroyed nests I found, a hen’s physical ability to make multiple nesting attempts is critical. If that ability is lacking due to nutritional inadequacies, the odds for her success decrease.

Hens will sit on the nest until you almost step on them. I learned to keep my distance and not interrupt the incubation process. When one flushed, I was treated to the “crippled duck” routine. The hen would fly a few yards and go to ground feigning a broken wing in an attempt to draw me away from her nest or brood.

I only discovered one brood and almost stepped on the mallard hen before she flushed. Her 10 dark brown and yellow little fuzzy ducklings hid motionless in the tall grass, but were reluctant to leave the nest even for an intruder. Ducks are not hatched featherless and helpless like most birds. They have the capacity to maintain body temperature on their own, but even so I quickly retreated so she could return and gather her little brood. They were gone when I checked the next day.

One gadwall hen permitted me to approach her without flushing. I backed away and waited until she took a break late in the afternoon, then set up my small blind less than 20 yards away and left it overnight. I entered the blind the next day before daylight and left when she took a break in the late afternoon thus causing minimal disturbance. Her tolerance allowed me to spend two full days observing and photographing her. Initially, she would react to the sound of my camera shutter by raising her head and looking in my direction. After a short time, she ignored it completely. I believe she knew something was inside that muskrat lodge, but was determined to incubate her eight eggs no matter what.

Her nest site was within 100 yards of other nests. She had carefully concealed it underneath and between clumps of grass that had fallen over making a tepee-like structure. It was of simple design and composed of readily available on-site materials like dead grass. Not much effort appeared to have gone into the construction. As the incubation process progressed she continually “gardened” around it using her bill to rearrange the grass to her liking.

She regularly shifted her body position and rotated the eggs to insure uniform incubation. She pulled small feathers and down from her breast to line the nest. When leaving she would first cover the eggs with the down. She would take flight only after rearranging the grass and walking some distance away. I could hear but not see her return. She would light close by and walk in a non-direct manner to the nest. I interpreted this as an attempt to throw off predators.

She was silent, but constantly on guard for predators, even those from above. The price for not doing so is severe. I found one mallard hen’s stripped carcass just a few feet from her nest. She had apparently fallen prey to a hawk or owl. Nest sitting is dangerous business.

I never saw the gadwall’s drake and can only surmise that, like many drakes do, he had abandoned her once the incubation process was well underway. It’s a male thing, you know.

Interestingly, weather changes very quickly on the nesting grounds. My first day with the gadwall hen was cool and balmy. She huddled on the nest and only took a short break in the late afternoon. The second day was hot and humid. She kept her bill open and appeared to be panting heavily. I, too, was hot in my stuffy little pop-up blind.

To my relief, she took an earlier break during the second afternoon. I used the opportunity to take down my blind and leave. The only evidence of my being there was trampled grass where my blind had been. However, the mental images of that determined mother will remain in my mind and heart forever. I believe she pulled it off. I witnessed nothing in the days afterward to cause me to think otherwise.

For the next three days I utilized traditional duck-hunting strategies and set up my photo blind in the marsh alongside a slough that ducks were using. From the slough the grassland nesting sites, including my gadwall hen’s, were clearly visible. This vantage point allowed me to observe almost the entire wetland complex.

Many ducks and several Canada geese with goslings swam within a few feet of my bazooka-size telephoto lens without exhibiting any concern. From these locations I discovered what goes on in areas adjacent to waterfowl nesting sites. It was quite interesting.

Contrary to what I’ve read, some nesting hens came to water briefly in the morning. These hens may not have been far along in the nesting process or may have needed a morning drink. I could see them when they took flight and when they returned to their nests. Some still had a drake escort who would join and water with them and even fly back to the nest area, but not land. If these hens were feeding, I couldn’t see it, but I don’t think they were. Mostly they wanted to drink. Lone hens were very vocal once they left their nest. Perhaps they were calling their drake to join them.

I witnessed a pair of blue-wing teal copulating and photographed the entire process, including (figuratively speaking) the cigarette afterwards. At first, the drake chased her around and around the pond, half flying and half walking on the water. They raised a huge racket. Then she gave in and after a couple of minutes with only her head sticking out of the water, it was over. They then proceeded to wash and preen directly across the slough from my blind. I have read that bonded pairs may repeat this process several times a day. While I saw other drakes chasing hens, this was the only start to finish routine I observed.

One thing I hadn’t counted on was how secretive hens are with their broods. I assumed if I waited long enough a proud hen with her ducklings in tow would swim by. No such luck. So I traveled across the border into North Dakota to spend three days vainly searching for hens with broods. On the way to the interstate and the long drive home, I managed to get several distant photographs of mallard hens with ducklings swimming in roadside wetland ponds, but that was all.

My expanded travels also provided an opportunity to observe ruddy ducks and redheads and their courtship rituals up close and personal. Ruddy ducks in breeding season are colorful little floating tugboats that rapidly bob their heads up and down in a display routine for the female. It was quite interesting to watch two brightly plumed drakes vie for one hen’s attention. It was pretty clear which one had been chosen, but he sure did have to spend a lot of energy running the other suitor off again and again. The female ruddy duck almost mirrored his actions as they fed, preened and swam together. Several times he did what is called “mock preening” by putting his bill under his wing and rubbing it to make sounds. It looked like scratching fleas to me, but she evidently appreciated it.

All too soon, my solitary sojourn came to an end. What did I learn from all this? Based primarily on what I observed, I believe a hen must have several things to successfully fledge a brood.

She must have the opportunity to locate and efficiently feed on the right foods on the wintering grounds and staging areas in order to build up her body mass and fat reserves to successfully complete the reproduction cycle.

She must bond with the drake of her choice, one that will protect her from constant harassment and provide the genes necessary to produce the best possible offspring.

She must have the strength to fly hundreds or thousands of miles to arrive at the place of her birth accompanied by her drake. She must have the strength to fly elsewhere if environmental conditions on her birthplace do not foster reproduction. She must retain sufficient strength after her journey to begin the physically arduous task of nesting and egg laying.

She must possess the maternal instincts and stamina to successfully raise a brood to flight stage. Some hens must have the ability to make multiple nesting attempts.

She must possess sufficient stealth and strength to survive her summer molt to migrate southward in the autumn.

Perhaps most importantly today, she must possess the instinct, experience and skill to avoid predators to protect her eggs, her brood and herself.

This long, complex chain of events reinforced my concern about the value of each hen. I believe many old-time Arkansas hunters intuitively understood this fact. One of them, Bud Crossman, always used to say when a hen was killed, “You’re busting eggs now.” He had gotten it, but the rest of us (I include myself in this category) still hadn’t.

Now, I understood why I suddenly felt so strongly that there is something deeply unethical and unsportsmanlike about willfully shooting hens. Importantly, what I saw and learned continues to take deep root within me.

* * * * *

Three of us journeyed to central North Dakota to spend 10 days hunting waterfowl. Our trip coincided with the release of the Arkansas Wildlife Federation Duck Hunting Report. Both were seminal events in my life as a duck hunter.

Because our outfitter botched his job, we had no choice but to freelance if we wanted to duck hunt. We quickly learned how friendly, open and hospitable North Dakotans really are. Even though we had to commute 150 miles round-trip each day, a gracious landowner allowed us to hunt his entire 10,000 acres. All he asked in return was three or four good fat mallards. Used to paying at least a $100 an acre or $5,000 per pit in Arkansas, this was, needless to say, a refreshing discovery.

The early autumn weather was horrible. Temperatures averaged 85 degrees the entire time.

None of us were prepared for the vastness of the nesting grounds or the incredible number of small wetlands. Everywhere we looked we saw marshes and ponds with ducks swimming on them. We were optimistic. Cattails would provide us with good cover, the water wasn’t deep and treacherous, and a huge decoy spread or lots of calling would not be required. It was going to be a piece of cake, we thought.

What we hadn’t planned on was how quickly the ducks reacted to gunfire and hunting pressure. The season had only been open one week when we arrived, but the ducks were far more wary than expected. It took a couple of days to break the code, but finally we learned the way to get shooting was to continually change locations. Once we began shooting on a small wetland, the ducks would shift to a new one. We never enjoyed consecutive days of success on the same slough.

I firmly believe we were mainly killing either young “uneducated” ducks or the slow learners.

A North Dakota Fish and Game rest area was located just north of our hunting area. As time progressed, and the shooting increased, we saw more and more ducks using that area for sanctuary. The ones that didn’t played a pretty effective game of hopscotch to sloughs where they hadn’t been gunned.

We had dinner on our return trip with my son at Fort Leavenworth, Kan. I privately shared with him my strong conclusion that today’s increased hunting pressure is a major factor influencing duck behavior. I further stated my belief intense gunning pressure has played a significant, perhaps dominant, role in the recent decline of duck hunting in Arkansas, as well as elsewhere.

One in our group returned to Arkansas convinced by our North Dakota experience that refuges and rest areas are ruining duck hunting. He had forgotten that one purpose of refuges is to protect our breeding stocks from over-shooting. More importantly, he was unaware wintering-ground refuges in late season allow hens to rest and feed undisturbed. This is critical if breeding hens are to accumulate fat reserves. He has his right to be wrong, but we remain good friends to this day.

* * * * *

Months have passed since my journeys northward. During that time I’ve read volumes about waterfowl and waterfowl management. (I’m still working my way through the tome, Ecology and Management of Breeding Waterfowl.) All have been very enlightening and helpful. But in my military career I learned most from senior enlisted soldiers. I believe this was because these mature, experienced soldiers were experts, not in the theory or science of things, but in their execution and operation. They taught me to pay close attention to the real world to learn what works and what doesn’t work.

In light of that and considering what I have read and observed, several things have become very clear in this old infantryman’s heart and mind. These include:

• Willfully killing hens and ethical sportsmanship are mutually exclusive. The old redneck, Bud Crossman, had it right when he said, “You’re busting eggs now.” The skillful and expert duck hunter demonstrates his skill and sportsmanship by harvesting drakes and carefully avoiding hens. For many Arkansas hunters this is a no-brainer because greenheads are so highly valued.

• To minimize the loss of hens during hunting season, we need to adjust the legal shooting time to the daylight hours when it is possible to visibly identify one’s target as a drake.

• One “accidental” hen should be permitted in the legal bag limit to avoid the unintended consequence of a strict rule that would encourage the feeding of our mistakes to the coons. One hen should not be an entitlement.

• Continuous, ubiquitous and long-term hunting pressure is responsible for many of the changes in duck behavior. This is a duck hunter and landowner’s problem, not caused solely by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service or state game agencies. Folks who think otherwise should get over it so together we can move on to do something constructive for duck hunting, like endorsing shorter seasons and lower bag limits.

• Spinning-wing decoys are, I believe, detrimental to the sport and should be permanently banned in all flyways.

My journey produced in me a deepened commitment to live the remainder of my days with the same degree of dedication, persistence, skill and wisdom my hospitable gadwall hen demonstrated. In my opinion, she and other “super hens” like her are the real heroes. They face a daily struggle to survive and reproduce.

Hopefully, she and her latest brood are up in the Dakotas now growing new feathers and gaining strength for the long flight south. She and others like her have given me a new model and standard by which to judge myself and my fellow sportsmen.

Those of us who feel passionately about the sound of whistling wings need to dedicate ourselves to improving the numbers of ducks and the ethical foundation of our sport. If we apply the same dedication as that gadwall hen, we will find lasting solutions and waterfowl hunting will continue far into the future.