Mallards

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Re: Mallards

Postby Sgtstadanko707 » Wed Jan 08, 2014 1:54 pm

sprigpig1 wrote:
Privileged hunter wrote: And what the hell is a troll?


image.jpg

image.jpg


Sprig where is my pot pie.
2013/2014 season
Days's in the field- 44

Number of birds- who cares.
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Re: Mallards

Postby sprigpig1 » Wed Jan 08, 2014 2:00 pm

Sgtstadanko707 wrote:
sprigpig1 wrote:
Privileged hunter wrote: And what the hell is a troll?


image.jpg

image.jpg


Sprig where is my pot pie.


Lol
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Re: Mallards

Postby blackfootmigrator » Wed Jan 08, 2014 2:43 pm

LOUD NOISES!


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Re: Mallards

Postby JonD » Wed Jan 08, 2014 2:56 pm

Privileged hunter wrote:Arrest my case


You obviously didn't comprehend what I said in my post about my banded sprig as I was insinuating that since my pintail was banded locally it was obviously a local bird, so according to you we should not be shooting pintails because they are also local birds like all the mallards in the state apparently. I guess I just find it funny that somebody advocates not shooting one of the most abundant species of duck in the world. I guess we should just fill in our bag limits with more Pintail, Scaup and Canvasback then?
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Re: Mallards

Postby slowshooter » Wed Jan 08, 2014 4:12 pm

Every band has a story behind it...

The night was long and muggy, the sirens in the distance told a tale of burglary or murder. The bar had an odor as though someone had painted decades of cigarette smoke on the plaster walls with a paintbrush dipped in a bucket of 3 dollar gin. The usuals were there, dipping their beaks into their cups while they talked times gone by and the friends they had lost during the migrations.

The door opened and the wind swept in, the murmurs stopped for a minute. Just long enough for folks to look towards the door to check and see if they were going to call out to a long forgotten friend... Or if it was just another sad sack with slumped shoulders, wandering in to order the cheapest drink and slyly fill pockets with the orange tinted crunchy nuggetry that the bartender poured into small white dishes in front of every customer.

She shuffled in, tentatively at first and then waddled towards me with a look I knew was trouble. She moved like an oiled weasel... I had spent a few years doing the Alberta - Scottsdale run. I knew trouble when I saw it. "Are you Mike Pintail?" she asked? Her quacks felt like the cool water of a golf course sprinkler running down my back. Shivers.

"Yeah, what do you want?" I quacked gruffly.

She was demure to be sure. She made like she was going to preen but stopped, froze... Then slowly looked at me with her right eye. Her head cocked just right.

Trouble never looked so good.

"I need a bull for this job and I heard you're the best around here."
"Well I'm not an easy duck to hire or find. What do you need done and what do you have back at the pond to trade?"
"Trade? I don't trade. I pay and I pay well."

Pay? She was a buyer of services - and that meant yellow gold.

It's not often someone is willed to put cold hard corn kernels on the table. That meant the job had to do with eggs or worse, other hens. I wasn't so much worried about the corn... I was sort of worried about how she got her wings on some.

"I don't break eggs, and anything you want me to do with a hen isn't something I would do for money - or love"

"Oh, Mr. Pintail, that's not at all the kind of services I need." She fanned briefly and settled. Her neck feathers gently spreading.

"I see you've been caged."

She was staring at the ankle bracelet the pinklings had put on me. No one knew what they were for, but anyone wearing them was an outcast, a pariah. Once you go in the cage. You just don't come out the same. I was lucky because my time serving in the Airborne helped me. I came out of the service with a set of skills that made me perfect to become a Private Ducktective.

The job sounded simple enough, just a delivery and a pick up. I had to escort a bird named Wendi Wigeon to some ponds, and then pick up some swamp grass… And then she said where the Wendi and I would part company…. Maxwell.

It took me a milliflap to regain my senses. I hate that damned town. That's where the pinklings netted me, caged me and bound me with silver. Nothing but bad memories and hearing the metal creak as it wrapped around my leg.

But it was corn after all.

We haggled a bit. A little corn here, a kernel there... In the end she paid more than she wanted and I got less than I needed. Perfect.

Wendi and I set out the next morning, flying out of the Sanctuary was tough because there were some skybusting morons shooting into the closed zones again. Cripes, what idiots.

We got close to the drop off pond and I saw a black dot. I knew that that meant and quacked to Wendi to pull right and level out over the water, she banked and I held on a little longer than I should have. The hole lit up and belched fire. I probably could have made it if I hadn't had warned Wendi to fly away.

My skin stung as the feathers tore out. It felt like I was being pecked in the chest with a jackhammer.

I fell, seeing the sky rotate around as I spun to the surface. When I hit the water I knew my time had come…

And then. Darkness….

Wendi made it to the pond as planned, my hen took the corn, bought a jet ski and took up with a drake mallard. That winged harlot.

Me? I'm in heaven now, waiting to be reincarnated as pinkling serial killer.

Turns out there is justice in the universe. And I plan on delivering.
All this for a bowl of borscht.
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Re: Mallards

Postby quack-attack » Wed Jan 08, 2014 4:19 pm

Privileged hunter wrote:Arrest my case

arrest?
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Re: Mallards

Postby JonD » Wed Jan 08, 2014 4:25 pm

slowshooter wrote:Every band has a story behind it...

The night was long and muggy, the sirens in the distance told a tale of burglary or murder. The bar had an odor as though someone had painted decades of cigarette smoke on the plaster walls with a paintbrush dipped in a bucket of 3 dollar gin. The usuals were there, dipping their beaks into their cups while they talked times gone by and the friends they had lost during the migrations.

The door opened and the wind swept in, the murmurs stopped for a minute. Just long enough for folks to look towards the door to check and see if they were going to call out to a long forgotten friend... Or if it was just another sad sack with slumped shoulders, wandering in to order the cheapest drink and slyly fill pockets with the orange tinted crunchy nuggetry that the bartender poured into small white dishes in front of every customer.

She shuffled in, tentatively at first and then waddled towards me with a look I knew was trouble. She moved like an oiled weasel... I had spent a few years doing the Alberta - Scottsdale run. I knew trouble when I saw it. "Are you Mike Pintail?" she asked? Her quacks felt like the cool water of a golf course sprinkler running down my back. Shivers.

"Yeah, what do you want?" I quacked gruffly.

She was demure to be sure. She made like she was going to preen but stopped, froze... Then slowly looked at me with her right eye. Her head cocked just right.

Trouble never looked so good.

"I need a bull for this job and I heard you're the best around here."
"Well I'm not an easy duck to hire or find. What do you need done and what do you have back at the pond to trade?"
"Trade? I don't trade. I pay and I pay well."

Pay? She was a buyer of services - and that meant yellow gold.

It's not often someone is willed to put cold hard corn kernels on the table. That meant the job had to do with eggs or worse, other hens. I wasn't so much worried about the corn... I was sort of worried about how she got her wings on some.

"I don't break eggs, and anything you want me to do with a hen isn't something I would do for money - or love"

"Oh, Mr. Pintail, that's not at all the kind of services I need." She fanned briefly and settled. Her neck feathers gently spreading.

"I see you've been caged."

She was staring at the ankle bracelet the pinklings had put on me. No one knew what they were for, but anyone wearing them was an outcast, a pariah. Once you go in the cage. You just don't come out the same. I was lucky because my time serving in the Airborne helped me. I came out of the service with a set of skills that made me perfect to become a Private Ducktective.

The job sounded simple enough, just a delivery and a pick up. I had to escort a bird named Wendi Wigeon to some ponds, and then pick up some swamp grass… And then she said where the Wendi and I would part company…. Maxwell.

It took me a milliflap to regain my senses. I hate that damned town. That's where the pinklings netted me, caged me and bound me with silver. Nothing but bad memories and hearing the metal creak as it wrapped around my leg.

But it was corn after all.

We haggled a bit. A little corn here, a kernel there... In the end she paid more than she wanted and I got less than I needed. Perfect.

Wendi and I set out the next morning, flying out of the Sanctuary was tough because there were some skybusting morons shooting into the closed zones again. Cripes, what idiots.

We got close to the drop off pond and I saw a black dot. I knew that that meant and quacked to Wendi to pull right and level out over the water, she banked and I held on a little longer than I should have. The hole lit up and belched fire. I probably could have made it if I hadn't had warned Wendi to fly away.

My skin stung as the feathers tore out. It felt like I was being pecked in the chest with a jackhammer.

I fell, seeing the sky rotate around as I spun to the surface. When I hit the water I knew my time had come…

And then. Darkness….

Wendi made it to the pond as planned, my hen took the corn, bought a jet ski and took up with a drake mallard. That winged harlot.

Me? I'm in heaven now, waiting to be reincarnated as pinkling serial killer.

Turns out there is justice in the universe. And I plan on delivering.




:lol: :lol: :lol:

Now that is hilarious
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Re: Mallards

Postby #1wingnut » Wed Jan 08, 2014 4:26 pm

AWESOME! Mr. Slow :clapping: :clapping: :clapping:
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Re: Mallards

Postby hntndux » Wed Jan 08, 2014 5:31 pm

Too many Buds
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Re: Mallards

Postby marsh-mello » Wed Jan 08, 2014 6:57 pm

Well played Slow...well played indeed. :bow:
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Re: Mallards

Postby ditchbanker » Wed Jan 08, 2014 8:29 pm

slowshooter wrote:Every band has a story behind it...

The night was long and muggy, the sirens in the distance told a tale of burglary or murder. The bar had an odor as though someone had painted decades of cigarette smoke on the plaster walls with a paintbrush dipped in a bucket of 3 dollar gin. The usuals were there, dipping their beaks into their cups while they talked times gone by and the friends they had lost during the migrations.

The door opened and the wind swept in, the murmurs stopped for a minute. Just long enough for folks to look towards the door to check and see if they were going to call out to a long forgotten friend... Or if it was just another sad sack with slumped shoulders, wandering in to order the cheapest drink and slyly fill pockets with the orange tinted crunchy nuggetry that the bartender poured into small white dishes in front of every customer.

She shuffled in, tentatively at first and then waddled towards me with a look I knew was trouble. She moved like an oiled weasel... I had spent a few years doing the Alberta - Scottsdale run. I knew trouble when I saw it. "Are you Mike Pintail?" she asked? Her quacks felt like the cool water of a golf course sprinkler running down my back. Shivers.

"Yeah, what do you want?" I quacked gruffly.

She was demure to be sure. She made like she was going to preen but stopped, froze... Then slowly looked at me with her right eye. Her head cocked just right.

Trouble never looked so good.

"I need a bull for this job and I heard you're the best around here."
"Well I'm not an easy duck to hire or find. What do you need done and what do you have back at the pond to trade?"
"Trade? I don't trade. I pay and I pay well."

Pay? She was a buyer of services - and that meant yellow gold.

It's not often someone is willed to put cold hard corn kernels on the table. That meant the job had to do with eggs or worse, other hens. I wasn't so much worried about the corn... I was sort of worried about how she got her wings on some.

"I don't break eggs, and anything you want me to do with a hen isn't something I would do for money - or love"

"Oh, Mr. Pintail, that's not at all the kind of services I need." She fanned briefly and settled. Her neck feathers gently spreading.

"I see you've been caged."

She was staring at the ankle bracelet the pinklings had put on me. No one knew what they were for, but anyone wearing them was an outcast, a pariah. Once you go in the cage. You just don't come out the same. I was lucky because my time serving in the Airborne helped me. I came out of the service with a set of skills that made me perfect to become a Private Ducktective.

The job sounded simple enough, just a delivery and a pick up. I had to escort a bird named Wendi Wigeon to some ponds, and then pick up some swamp grass… And then she said where the Wendi and I would part company…. Maxwell.

It took me a milliflap to regain my senses. I hate that damned town. That's where the pinklings netted me, caged me and bound me with silver. Nothing but bad memories and hearing the metal creak as it wrapped around my leg.

But it was corn after all.

We haggled a bit. A little corn here, a kernel there... In the end she paid more than she wanted and I got less than I needed. Perfect.

Wendi and I set out the next morning, flying out of the Sanctuary was tough because there were some skybusting morons shooting into the closed zones again. Cripes, what idiots.

We got close to the drop off pond and I saw a black dot. I knew that that meant and quacked to Wendi to pull right and level out over the water, she banked and I held on a little longer than I should have. The hole lit up and belched fire. I probably could have made it if I hadn't had warned Wendi to fly away.

My skin stung as the feathers tore out. It felt like I was being pecked in the chest with a jackhammer.

I fell, seeing the sky rotate around as I spun to the surface. When I hit the water I knew my time had come…

And then. Darkness….

Wendi made it to the pond as planned, my hen took the corn, bought a jet ski and took up with a drake mallard. That winged harlot.

Me? I'm in heaven now, waiting to be reincarnated as pinkling serial killer.

Turns out there is justice in the universe. And I plan on delivering.


:lol3: ...All that practice writing for the Penthouse Forum is finally paying off for ya :thumbsup:...Bukowski?
"Good judgment comes from experience, and a lot of that comes from bad judgment." - Will Rogers
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Re: Mallards

Postby slowshooter » Thu Jan 09, 2014 12:40 pm

LOL. If that was the case it would have started like this...

I was flying by a small mid-western liberal arts college and picked up a nice blond off my wingtip. Good lord she was hot. Her feathers were so tight they squeaked when she flapped.

We made small talk. I liked open water she preferred to sit on ponds with graveled bottoms.

We flew for awhile, chattering away and finally with a soft seductive quack she said, let's set down in that pond over there.

I hastily nodded yes and she banked into wind, settling down into the liquid with the slightest splash.
All this for a bowl of borscht.
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Re: Mallards

Postby ditchbanker » Thu Jan 09, 2014 8:25 pm

slowshooter wrote:LOL. If that was the case it would have started like this...

I was flying by a small mid-western liberal arts college and picked up a nice blond off my wingtip. Good lord she was hot. Her feathers were so tight they squeaked when she flapped.

We made small talk. I liked open water she preferred to sit on ponds with graveled bottoms.

We flew for awhile, chattering away and finally with a soft seductive quack she said, let's set down in that pond over there.

I hastily nodded yes and she banked into wind, settling down into the liquid with the slightest splash.


:lol3: :lol3: :lol3:

...sliding behind her I grabbed the feathers at the nape of her neck
...she didnt resist
...but coyly submerged
...shuddering, gasping
...then all was quiet
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Re: Mallards

Postby OGblackcloud » Thu Jan 09, 2014 9:09 pm

slowshooter wrote:LOL. If that was the case it would have started like this...

I was flying by a small mid-western liberal arts college and picked up a nice blond off my wingtip. Good lord she was hot. Her feathers were so tight they squeaked when she flapped.

We made small talk. I liked open water she preferred to sit on ponds with graveled bottoms.

We flew for awhile, chattering away and finally with a soft seductive quack she said, let's set down in that pond over there.

I hastily nodded yes and she banked into wind, settling down into the liquid with the slightest splash.

Just as I started to back pedal I seen it, just the faintest glint of sunshine the kind that only comes from a hunter. Its amazing all the thoughts that run through your mind when death is just a few wing beats away. We had been on the move for a few months now . Canada , Washington and Oregon with really no reason to leave any of those places. Still a lot of food the weather was iffy but for the most part OK. Guess its the thought of love that drives most of us and California is where it starts getting good. A quick second glance and I could see he hadnt seen me yet . I couldn't sound any alarm for her but maybe if she seen me hitting the after burners she could slip out also. The first part of the plan worked her head shot up when I cut hard left and I put a little feather rattle to my turn.24 hrs ago seems like forever now.Just the other side of the border in Oregon everybody who was anybody was there. There was a couple hundred of us that left before the sun even thought about coming up.We were all wanting to get into the Sacramento Valley all the rice and corn that any of us could want.
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Re: Mallards

Postby marsh-mello » Thu Jan 09, 2014 10:15 pm

I set my wings in the gentle breeze and felt the warmth of good company about to greet me like a fire on a cold December evening. But no these were imposters....they lured me in like an addict to his drug. My drug of choice admittedly being 2 hens and an occasional loaf of bread. Not your conventional sandwich but heck I am not your conventional fly by the seat of your pants bird either. I can usually avoid these wanna be featherd f(r)iends. Knowing they usually hang at "G-spot" the regular spot being out of parkng lot 2 in what is affectionately known as the B-hole. Today was different, they were out of parking lot 1 in the infamous @-hole. The thing about this area is it is not limited to just one @-hole...there are @-holes around here everywhere you look. I should have known better. I hate @-holes with a passion and will usually avoid them like botulism on a moss covered farm pond.

The predicament I found myself in this time, surrounded by B-holes and @-holes, rammed this age old lesson home even harder than my run in with those corn-holers up north..

I banked hard to the right and gained altitude but these guys had attitude...they continued pushing their little effeminate 3- 1/2"ers at me, but soon I was out of range...in this case 40 yds. Laughing like a spoony on crack-ers I swung back over at 150 yds just to get them to empty their guns and tease more foolishness from all the @-holes. Vowing to never return again I took off back to the bean field where my feathered brethren, birds of a feather all, were all singing songs and getting drunk off the dark deep fermented pond water like Irishmen halfway to last call. The surface reminded me of a bus station which hadn't seen a cleaning lady in years. The thick patina of filth along with the other sticky tidbits and carved remnants of other occupants past. Settling in and looking for a vestige of rest and refuge, I realized those hens were not all they were quacked up to be and assured myself I would use greater caution in the future and vow to stay here for the rest of the entire season.
Last edited by marsh-mello on Fri Jan 10, 2014 2:43 pm, edited 5 times in total.
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Re: Mallards

Postby slowshooter » Fri Jan 10, 2014 1:50 pm

:clapping: :clapping:

Those were great! Coffee through the nose. ow... :lol3:
All this for a bowl of borscht.
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Re: Mallards

Postby marsh-mello » Fri Jan 10, 2014 6:48 pm

slowshooter wrote::clapping: :clapping:

Those were great! Coffee through the nose. ow... :lol3:


Mere amateurs following the master. :bow: :bow:
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Re: Mallards

Postby wanapasaki » Fri Jan 10, 2014 7:37 pm

Mmmmmmmendota shmallards :beer:
Image
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Re: Mallards

Postby Sgtstadanko707 » Fri Jan 10, 2014 7:38 pm

wanapasaki wrote:Mmmmmmmendota shmallards :beer:
Image



How dare you. You are not a true sportsman.

Nice shoot.
2013/2014 season
Days's in the field- 44

Number of birds- who cares.
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Re: Mallards

Postby wanapasaki » Fri Jan 10, 2014 7:39 pm

lol thanks buddy. First time that refuge hasn;t panned me out teal
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Re: Mallards

Postby slowshooter » Sat Jan 11, 2014 3:41 am

You can tell those were shot north of the equator or their heads would be pointing the other way. It's true!
All this for a bowl of borscht.
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Re: Mallards

Postby Texasbearcat » Sun Jan 12, 2014 9:51 pm

I would have been happy to see a green head in east texas. All season I saw woodies and teal.



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Re: Mallards

Postby Privileged hunter » Sun Jan 12, 2014 11:25 pm

With this weather you won't see any next year either.
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Re: Mallards

Postby mudpack » Tue Jan 14, 2014 1:41 pm

Privileged hunter wrote: The mallards you kill are born and raised here in california...

Shows how much you know about avian biology; mallards aren't born, they are hatched.


And I think you deciding to not shoot any more mallards is a fine idea. I think you should promote this to all your duck hunting friends. :thumbsup:
You are a true waterfowler.



:rolleyes:
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Re: Mallards

Postby 3200 man » Tue Jan 14, 2014 4:55 pm

He must of meant BARNED Mallards ? :lol3: :lol3: :lol3: where they at , I'll shoot'em !
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