In The Heart of Lake Michigan

For most people, the thrill of duck hunting paints a stereotypical picture of cattail marshes, swamps, flooded timber, and crisp-cut cornfields. These are just the tip of the iceberg. Growing up in Northeast Wisconsin, I lived next to one of the biggest bodies of fresh water in the world. A desolate environment of rolling waves, high winds, and flesh-piercing water temperatures. To most local duck hunters, this place is nothing short of paradise. It offers a vast variety of duck species to harvest. Bluebills, Canvasbacks, Scoters, Redheads, Buffleheads, and the most elusive trophy of them all, the Old Squaw. Its shores are inhabited by a long history of old-time sailors, fishermen, and duck hunters- a recipe for some of the oldest, most rugged niched waterfowl hunting in the United States. Layout hunting.

Like most waterfowl hunts, it begins during the hours of darkness where a hot cup of 4:00 AM coffee will wrap itself around your soul as if it knows what your body is about to endure in the next 6 hours of your life. Constant weather checks on your iPhone are critical. Putting all your focus on the wind speed and direction, because this was Lake Michigan in November. A month where good men have perished on this body of water. A body of water that shares the same icy reputation as other great lakes in not wanting to give up their dead. But for us, this was just another Saturday morning.

As the lights of the pickup truck loomed over the dock, you had a sense of ease noticing the calmness of the shipping canal. Almost as if mother nature was lending you a false reality of what was happening beyond its protective jetties. As the truck doors swung open, it was time to get to business. 6:00 AM, exactly one and a half hours until shooting light. First came gearing up your body with clothing. This process was nothing short of preparing to go extended deep-sea diving in the arctic circle. Layers upon layers of Gortex, and different shades of grey. Grey is the color of choice for camouflage in one hundred and fifty feet of water. Next came the preparation of the tender boat. Like busy sailors, we loaded gear, ammo, decoys, and other essentials.

As we break the cover of the shipping canal, we are angrily greeted with the gales of November. Cutting through the layers of Gortex the winds hammered from the northeast were a welcoming sign for any sea duck hunter. Three miles until we reach our first pin. As the darkness began to get thicker the lights from the shore slowly suffocated away. Staring into emptiness is an uneasy feeling, especially floating over one hundred feet of water. The bouncing of decoys in the slotted bags resembled makeshift toy soldiers ready for deployment. The captain begins to throttle down as we near the area for this morning’s hunt. The feeling of knees buckling beneath you was a sign of rough seas and uneasy stomachs. Headlamps flickered on as we began rigging up our long line ropes. Half-inch thick paracord with a twenty-pound weight attached to each end of the line.

Each spool of paracord had roughly three hundred feet of line. Enough to hit the sandy bottom of Lake Michigan, with twenty to thirty decoys on each long line.  As one crew member spooled out line, the other began clipping decoys as the boat followed a straight line according to the navigational map. As if we were an assembly line, we worked as a cohesive and fluid team. The spotlight from the boat’s starboard bow illuminated the decoys’ deployment over the gunwale. Upon contact with water, the decoys sprang to life and settled into a rhythm of working ducks. Three perfect lines of decoys are situated against the wind. With decoys secured and long lines anchored, it was time to deploy the layout boat. A flat low profile boat shaped like a flying saucer, with a cockpit in the middle that the hunter lays down and maneuvers his body for each shot he takes. As the captain makes his loop around the decoy spread, we slowly push the layout boat off the stern and into the black chilly waters where it resides. At last, we made it to the upwind side of the decoy spread. As we near the last decoy the captain launches the fifty-pound weight into the water to safely secure the layout boat.

Exactly five minutes till shooting time. As the captain looped back around towards the layout boat, each crew member positioned themselves on the left side of the boat. With multiple hands reaching out we grabbed the layout boat and secured it to the side of the tender. The layout boat was ready for its first pilot of the morning. I swung my legs over the tender and down into the layout. Not an easy task in eight-foot swells. As I lay down in the cockpit of the layout, a few final instructions and a chorus of encouragement erupt from the crew. After giving the crew and captain the thumbs up it was time for them to let go. The strong grasp of the crew quickly turned into letting go and pushing away. It was just the sea and me. Alone in a flatboat floating above one hundred and fifty feet of water. The perfect depth for feeding Old Squaws. With nothing but a thin sheet of aluminum sheltering me from the frigid waters.

As my body began to relax, I couldn’t help but look off to the horizon, where the water met the sky in an eerie fashion. Glimpses of the horizon would quickly disappear as the swells would swallow you whole in the midst of twenty miles per hour northeast winds. Each time the layout boat crested a wave you could see the decoys dancing like an orchestrated act. Gaining the attention of far-off travelers coming closer to shore to feed for the morning. Bingo, the first flock of the hunt coming straight up the long lines. A curious little bunch of bluebills. It seemed like an eternity, as they battled the heavy winds, fighting with each stroke of their wing. They danced just inches off the water’s surface, with most attention focused on the decoys. They neared the edge of the spread. “Little closer now, little closer..” I would tell myself. At last, they closed the gap to ten yards. I clicked the safety off and began to sit up. Like little rockets the bluebills screamed into the decoys with nothing but confidence. I picked my first target. A bull blue bill giving himself up over the spread. As I punched the trigger hard with excitement the recoil rang through my cold bones. The splash of water to the left of the duck confirmed a close miss. I followed through and connected on the second shot. A contrasting pillowcase of white feathers erupted over the dark water. My head swiveled in the cockpit of the layout boat scanning for one last opportunity. None presented itself. Keeping all my focus on the lifeless bird floating in the waves, I reached for the handheld radio. “Bird down”. With the captain’s confirmation of “roger that” he began to close the half-mile gap. I loaded up and prepared for the next volley.

As the boat neared, the silhouette of a crew member stood tall on the bow with a fishing net in hand. Using hand gestures I signaled to the captain the exact location of the fallen bird. With one swift swoop, the bird was in the net. I glance over to see the crew holding up a fully plumed bluebill, reassuring them that this morning has been successful. After the fallen bird was lifted proudly by the crew, they began to slip out of sight into the horizon. “Back to business,” I told myself. As I gazed off the water’s surface I noticed a flash of white off in the distance. “Could it be Old Squaws?”. Unable to identify the flock of birds I laid my eyes on, I began to scan the horizon with much more detail. Then an all too familiar sound of squawking gained my attention off to the right. A big group of Old Squaws. Like little bugs they crawled just off the surface of the water banking hard towards the decoys. Trying not to lose sight of them, a rogue wave came barreling through smashing the layout boat. My view of the birds was obstructed by a wall of water ripping its way towards shore. As the layout boat climbed out of the wave, the birds presented themselves just over the next swell, bombing into the decoys, as if they had been to that exact spot a thousand times before. In seconds I was engulfed with white birds dancing in every direction around me. I quickly sat up scrambling to get the safety off. In one fluent motion, I carefully picked each target and followed through to the next. A slam dunk. Three birds, three shots. My first flock of Old Squaws.

The art of layout boat hunting is nothing short of spectacular and unique to its own. A combination of old-style traditions mixed with the new technologies of today’s waterfowl hunting industry. Layout boat hunting requires a certain level of fortitude. It is known as one of the most dangerous styles of hunting. These low-profile boats date back to the era of market hunting, from the early 1930s to the late 1950s. Most people who enjoy this method of hunting are not only educated on duck behavior but also savvy to the sea. This region of the United States tends to draw the most rugged and dedicated sportsman to her shorelines. A long line of hunters, who will simply do what it takes to be where the ducks go.

The Author recommends a song to pair with the article, telling a tale of the treachery of the Great Lake: Gordon Lightfoot – The Wreck of The Edmund Fitzgerald