By J.S. Jones
Each fall, I go through the ritual of preparing my duck hunting
equipment. The decoys are all laid out on the floor of the garage
and checked over. All of the duck calls are cleaned and checked
for proper tone. My waders are submerged in the bathtub to check
for leaks and repaired. Hopes are high for fall days filled with
game and friendship. The waders look forward to ending my life.
I think I've tried every type of wader produced and found that
the bad mojo between us is not brand specific. Canvas, neoprene,
thick, thin, insulated or not, they might as well be made out of
crepe paper if I own them. I could be trying on a brand new pair
of waders in the local sports store, and if someone dropped a can
of soda, I'd have wet socks.
Now, duck hunting can be hard on waders, and there is a limit to
the abuse they can withstand. However, every time that I try to
wade into one of my honey holes, there seems to be an event which
leaves me wet from the chest down and reading the instructions,
again, on how to repair neoprene. It doesn't take much; a stout
willow reed or tree branch will do the job. But those are some of
the more mundane events, which seem to fade into the background.
They have become so routine as to be a non-event. It's much more
sporting when the waders try and attack in an unexpected way.
A case in point is the time when I waded a half mile into flooded
timber at the local waterfowl preserve for a late season duck
hunt. I happened to be by myself, and had packed in all of the
usual things in a daypack. For most of the trek, I was up to my
chest in water, and the spot that I was to hunt was no different.
The process of setting out the decoys had just begun when I felt
my boot suction into the mud. I struggled to pull it out, pulling
and twisting the boot to get the marsh to release its grip. For
several minutes, I twisted and pulled in an increasingly frantic
manner, afraid that I would lose my balance and take a spill.
Finally, I gave one last monstrous pull with all the strength I
could muster. My foot gave way, but I had pulled so hard my leg
continued upward, extending to a near vertical position. To an
uninterested observer, I may have looked like an extremely
flexible chorus line girl, in wetland camouflage, practicing the
high kick for a Rockettes audition.
When I could pull my foot back down, I immediately noticed two
unique sensations. First, the place where my leg hooks on to the
rest of me seemed to have gone numb and been set on fire all at
once. The other sensation was a wet coldness, running up my leg.
My immediate thought was that the impression of a Bruce Lee high
kick had severed all of the nerves in my hip, but the coldness
continued to spread beyond that point. On further investigation,
I found that the final tug was an opportunity for the waders to
render their revenge and the boot had separated from the rest of
the waders. Without much choice, I picked up the decoys and
trudged the half mile back to my truck. In one hand I held my
shotgun, in the other, a detached wader boot.
The walk wasn't too bad since I couldn't feel anything below my
belly button. But as I came in sight of the parked truck, a
foreboding scene was before me. A game warden was leaning on his
truck watching me lurch towards the shore. My progress was slow,
but I finally emerged from the waters edge. I stood before him
looking like Jethro Bodine in neoprene and trying to think of a
partially believable explanation for my condition.
With the insight and brevity known only to game wardens, he said
"Cold?"
"Well, uh, yes officer. You see what happened is, waders hate me
andà"
"Be quiet and get into the truck."
"But Officer, I can explain, my waders made me kick myself in the
forehead andà."
"I said, get in the truck. I can't have you freezing to death on
my shift. There's too much dadgum paperwork to fill out."
Copyright ® J. S. Jones 2003
About the Author:
J. S. Jones tells his hilarious stories at the web site of The
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