I have grown up in a world of pessimism and despair. Every year my old man and his buddies would spend countless hours on the phone discussing poor fall flights and the problems attributed to our loss of ducks. (Keep in mind we were in the Atlantic Flyway so we really had NO ducks). I paid little attention to their televangelist outlook of impending doom. My eyes had never seen the good old days of the Chesapeake Bay region. My head had been filled with the stories and pictures of times past. While interesting and intriguing to any young hunter I was busy filling my memory with my own hunts. History was boring to a 13-year-old and at that point I never gave the future much thought. During that time period I enjoyed every hunt whether we got birds or not. Success wasn’t necessarily a full limit of birds. Many hunts only provided a duck or two. I would be elated with a pair of mallards or a single canvasback. If I happened to get a species I had not previously shot then that was a phenomenal day. These hunts were some of the greatest times of my life. I was out there shooting ducks and, in my eyes, having great success. The older guys often grumbled and moaned, but I couldn’t have been happier. A couple times each season we would have a great day with full limits and lots of shooting. Days like that would flood my mind the night before a hunt. I would lay awake tossing and turning. The excitement and anticipation would be almost unbearable. Those days when all the variables came together made for great hunts and grand memories. I had learned early on that every hunt can’t be perfect. My duck hunting reality, for the most part, was that a two-bird day was good. We just didn’t have substantial numbers of ducks to provide great shooting on a consistent basis. I grew up being perfectly happy with my hunting situation. My old man would take me out every year to hunt different areas and species. I got out and was getting birds and that was that. Bottom line was that I was successful. There were plenty of guys getting zero birds so who was I to complain? Funny how success is all in the eye of the beholder. As I have matured as a hunter I have realized that I have carried my views into my adult life. I’m still happy with going out and getting a pair of birds. Throughout the years I have taken every species of puddle duck and nearly every species of diver in North America, yet I still get excited when I get a duck that I don’t see very often. On a recent trip to California my dad and I got into a few ring-neck ducks one morning. Neither my father nor I had killed or even seen a ring-neck in six or seven years. We were elated with the rare addition to our bag. We got some funny looks from others back at the clubhouse but you couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces. Hunters who complain and grumble that they didn’t get their full limit of greenheads are restricting their own enjoyment. Take time to enjoy the day. Sit silently and watch nature wake up as the skies lighten to the east. As the day progresses take the shots that are offered and be happy now matter how the hunt ends. These are different times, especially for the older generations, and like the ducks we need to adapt and evolve. Maybe the future will bring back the great flights of seasons long ago. Drastic changes in regulations and management could prove effective. Time will tell. I still lay awake in a sort of nervous anticipation the night before a hunt. I’m usually filled with hope and optimistic thoughts about the next morning’s expedition. Remaining positive is the key to success. If the morning ends and I come in with a teal and a spoonie, you’ll still see me smiling.