I Am Not a Duck Hunter (But I Went Anyway)

Let me be very clear from the start: I am not a duck hunter. Or any kind of hunter, really.

I sleep late. I drink coffee. I sit in a warm house while duck hunting or any kind of hunting is happening somewhere else—outside, in the cold, on purpose.

Don’t get me wrong—I am fully supportive. I will cook, send food, help prep, and cheer them on enthusiastically. I just prefer to do all of that from the comfort of my warm, cozy house, where I am perfectly content to stay while everyone else tromps through the wilderness before sunrise.

That said… I am also a photographer with boys who love wandering through cold, frozen woods—and access to an entire tub of camo that has been handed down, outgrown, and passed around for years. Add a camera to the mix, and apparently that combination is enough to earn me occasional access to these hunting expeditions. It also helps that my husband loves me and is willing to humor me whenever I get one of my wild hairs.

With rules. And supervision.

Duck hunting starts at an hour of the morning I usually pretend doesn’t exist—especially on my day off. I got up early. Painfully early. And for the first time in recent memory, I did not put on makeup. Not even mascara. I’m not 25 anymore, and after 40, makeup is less of an option and more of a requirement when leaving the house. I barely recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror.

Even more alarming? I didn’t have coffee.

This is normally a hard no for me. I really like my morning coffee. Skipping it should have been my first warning that this day was going to be interesting.

My oldest son handed me my assigned camo and very seriously insisted I wear a face mask. This was not a suggestion—it was a rule. Apparently, my uncovered face alone had the power to scare off every duck in the county. Maybe it was the no makeup, but they assured me it was simply because ducks can see everything.

We loaded up and headed out, and before I could fully wake up, I was walking through the woods in complete darkness. Flashlights sliced through the trees. My husband held my hand—because after 25 years, he knows me well—and I clutched my camera with my free hand like an emotional support item and the only justification for my presence.

By this point, I had already been given very strict instructions, repeated more than once for emphasis:

• Stay in your assigned bush

• Do not move

• Do not look up and “moon pie” the birds

• Absolutely no pictures until the birds stop flying

• And don’t even think about using a flash

I nodded very seriously. No laughing. No commentary. I needed them to know I could be trusted in this high-stakes operation.

Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that the cool kids had let me hang out—on a trial basis—as long as I stayed quiet, stayed put, and didn’t commit the ultimate sin of scaring the ducks.

Once we were settled and waiting for the exact moment of “legal light”—which they somehow know down to the second—I sat there thinking… absolutely nothing is going to happen. All this effort, and no ducks.

There was a lot of duck calling. A lot of sky watching.

By them. Not me. Because remember, strict instructions.

And then suddenly… birds start landing.

Out of nowhere, it sounds like World War III has erupted, but for just a few seconds. Loud. Intense. Chaotic.

And then…

Silence.

Complete, utter silence. blink..

This cycle repeats itself several times: waiting, calling, watching, seconds of chaos, silence again. I learned very quickly that duck hunting is about 90% sitting perfectly still and 10% everything happening all at once.

Finally, the birds stop flying, the shooting is over, and I get the OK to move. Finally!

I immediately jump up and go into full photographer mode—running around taking pictures of everyone gathering ducks, picking up decoys, and reliving the action.

I’m crawling. Climbing. Getting the angle.

And then… plot twist.

Unbeknownst to me, there was a cottonmouth curled up on a stump that I had been crawling all over trying to get my shots.

A cottonmouth.

I have absolutely no idea how I didn’t step on it, trip over it, or fully pass out on the spot.

Thankfully, it was cold, and the snake had zero interest in moving. The boys quickly handled the situation while I stood there, realizing how close I had come to making a trip to the emergency room.

Once my heart rate returned to something resembling normal, they humored me—begrudgingly—and let me take a few more pictures on the walk back to camp…including one of the snake before it was quickly dispatched.

Final Thoughts From the Non-Hunter

Would I call myself a duck hunter now? Absolutely not. I still prefer my warm, cozy house, a comforting cup of coffee, and warm slippers.

But I did love being there. I loved watching my people do something they love. I loved the early morning light, the boys laughing, and the chance to document memories I’ll always be grateful for—as long as I stayed in my bush, didn’t move, didn’t look up, and didn’t embarrass anyone. I understood the assignment...

10/10 experience. Would bring the camera again. Would strongly prefer fewer snakes.