"Duck Hunters Are A Strange Breed"

Occasionally, when I find myself in a pensive sort of mood, I’ll sit around thinking about duck hunting and what there is about it that can make a person crazy. Just what is the psychological nature of a sport that annually causes otherwise sane, normal human beings to go so completely berserk?

Consider the cost, for example. With the possible exception of nightly bar-hopping 365 days a year, waterfowling has to be among the least cost-efficient activities going.

I have an acquaintance up north who owns a chain of discount hardware stores. The man is a nice enough fellow and normally a pleasure to be around. Except during duck season.

During that time of year he virtually lives and breathes ducks and can bore on to tears with his incessant lecturing on bag limits, quotas, calling and foolproof methods for identifying waterfowl in flight.

This same man is a strict fiscal conservative most of the year: He is, other than my spouse, perhaps the tightest tightwad I have ever encountered.

Yet, here is someone who thinks nothing of spending thousands of dollars on duck boats or buying decoys in lots of two hundred at $50 per dozen. Not to mention the small mint he doles out for shooting clothing, shotgun shells, dog food and other assorted waterfowler’s paraphernalia. As near as I can figure, each duck he shoots over the course of a season come to approximately $214.93 per pound.

Other than capital outlay, another prime factor in the absolute absurdity of duck hunting is the horrid weather conditions one must endure to participate. The majority of waterfowlers are quite familiar with what is or isn’t “duck weather” but, in case you are not, just close your eyes and imagine any weather conditions which would justify canceling any other North American outdoor sporting event. That’s a perfect duck day.

Someone long ago forgot to tell this continent’s waterfowl that creatures blessed with good sense stay home when the wind chill factor is 40 below and the rain and sleet fall hard enough to cause a mildly serious brain concussion. Of course, there is some evidence that brain damage might be the reason for one being a duck hunter in the first place.

Clinical psychologists tell me that the average duck hunter harbors masochistic tendencies and derives perverse pleasure from the suffering he experiences. Deep down, he hopes every shot he fires misses so he can add to the fulfillment of these warped desires.

Well, I don’t think I’d venture to go that far, but I agree that duck hunters are indeed a strange breed. They spend too much time, money and effort in an attempt to shoot a limit of birds. They regularly risk frostbite, pneumonia, hypothermia, and drowning and then have the audacity to call it fun. How weird can you get?

Well, I’ll tell you.

Years ago, before age and joint pain seriously limited my waterfowl adventures, a buddy called and invited me along on a big-reservoir duck shoot. The weather forecast called for freezing rain, low pressure and intermittent wind gusts up to 40 miles per hour.

You wan weird? I went. Though I’d die if I didn’t.

Yep, strange folks indeed. I know. I used to be one of ‘em.


Bob Kornegay



Reprinted from The Albany Herald 2005