There are a number of iconic destinations that hold a special place for those in search of hunting trips for fowl. The flooded timber of Arkansas would be at the top of many waterfowlers' lists of hunting trips, as would the prairies of Canada, Chesapeake Bay, and numerous others. One area has always captivated my spirit due to its unique landscape. It’s best known for the wide and shallow riverbed meandering through what is now fertile farm ground, tucked in the desolate western high plains. Limestone monoliths jut out of the rolling landscape, offering the eye a stark juxtaposition, as tens of thousands of ducks and geese loaf in the shallows of the North Platte River. Prior to this November trip, I had the opportunity to hunt this river system once before. At the time, North Dakota State University was home, and it had been under a layer of ice and snow for over three months, the mallard-filled cornfields and potholes of October being a distant memory. My longtime hunting buddy, Josh, and I schemed up a genius plan for a hunting trip to capitalize on the closing weekend of Wyoming’s honker season. The plan was light on logistics and heavy on enthusiasm.
Ducks and geese roost on the river before heading to feeding grounds in the morning. (Photo courtesy of Nick Sherrod) First Hunting Trip on the Platte There isn’t much that can go wrong on a 12-hour trip across the Midwest in the dead of winter, after all. We hit the road with a trailer in tow, attempting to contain all of the honker decoys in our possession, and another 10 dozen that we borrowed, to compete with the hordes of geese apparently waiting. Arrival time was shortly after midnight, giving us plenty of time to take a nap before setting up our full-body spread. All that stood between my first hunting trip on the North Platte was 700 miles of open road and a blizzard bearing down across the midsection of America. The arrival time slid later and later as we plodded along, fighting the driving wind and snow, finally arriving nearly five hours later than intended. Naps would have to wait as daylight was fast approaching, and we had 20 dozen full bodies and blinds to set. The other slight wrinkle was we were not going to be able to drive into the field that was enrolled in the private land, public access program. Without scouting, it was our hope that the large spread would traffic a few honkers into gun range and allow us to fight off winter’s doldrums. Youthful vigor prevailed as we sat in our blinds at shooting light, surrounded by our trap. And then we waited, wishing we had taken our time, as the birds were in no particular hurry to get off their river roost.
Doubt quickly crept in as a handful of pairs and singles flew past without the slightest bit of interest. The roaring cacophony of honking hit us before we saw the hordes of geese rising from the small tree-lined river. For the next two hours, it was pandemonium. When the dust cleared, we had a four-man limit of geese tucked behind our blinds. We picked away at hauling the decoys back to the trailer while admiring the endless streams of geese. We eagerly awaited the next morning’s hunt, but it never materialized. Instead, the right hook of Mother Nature’s combo landed. With forecasts of two feet of snow and 50-mile-per-hour winds, sound judgment surprisingly prevailed as we hit the trail back eastward. The memory of that lone hunt held a fond place, and 15 years passed before I was able to witness it again.
Nebraska's fertile farmlands surrounding the North Platte river are popular feeding grounds for waterfowl. (Photo courtesy of Nick Sherrod) Field Hunting Mallards I received the invitation to return to the magical shallows from Ricky Hart of Lucky Duck , to hunt with Ethan Kerk of Angel Wing Outfitters , located outside of Scottsbluff, Nebraska. Sitting on the tarmac of Minneapolis-St. Paul International Airport, I perused their Instagram page as tile after tile perfectly captured the essence of my memories. The drive from Denver was light-hearted, as five of us played Tetris in the SUV with our luggage and shotguns. The weathered bluffs began to appear in the distance, and as we continued to draw near, each flock and feed was pointed out with growing anticipation. As the bluffs and mesas were washed in orange hues, we planned the morning’s hunt. Geese were first on the agenda, as we plotted an edge hide on the pivot irrigated cornfield.
It was the familiar discord of thousands of honkers that anchored me back in time as we marveled at the geese coming in waves off that lovely little river. The first flocks passed by with little interest, and the pit in my stomach started to form. If you’ve waterfowl hunted, you know that exact feeling, as the birds seemingly had no interest in our perfectly crafted set-up, instead opting for a field to feed past our location. As everyone watched the spectacle of geese flipping us the proverbial bird, Ethan muttered, “Here we go.” He nodded 90 degrees from where the stream of geese originated. Coming on a string was a long line of geese locked into our field. The anticipation redlined as the birds drifted slowly into the crosswind in front of our decoys. After the roar of our scatterguns and celebrations quickly died off, everyone frantically scurried to collect the birds as the parade of geese continued. Flock after flock lit into our corner of paradise, as the euphoric sensation of success spread like a contagion amongst our group.
It was a fitting return to the Wild West, but this second day of hunting, separated by a decade and a half, was far from over.
With 10 adults either standing on tiptoes, or clawing to get a view, we intently stared at the small phone screen as the video showed the telltale outline of mallards tornadoing into a cornfield. It looked like a lot of mallards, but a phone screen couldn’t do justice to what was in store for our afternoon. We arranged a modest spread, adorned with spinning wing decoys in front of a line of 2x4 blinds. The field overlooked a creek that wove its way to the river below in the distance. Periodically, I would catch the fleeting chime of hen mallards sounding off from the trees. In an instant, somebody must have flipped a switch, becausethe length of the creek came alive.
I’ve had the pleasure of watching flocks of mallards from the northern reaches of Alberta, through the Dakotas, and down to the Mississippi Delta, and what I saw coming from this creek took my breath away. Unimaginable swarms of mallards filled the sky around us, as flocks numbering well into the hundreds began taking swings at our spread. Every single direction you looked, there were thousands of birds descending upon us. Multiple groups landed at opposite ends of the spread, all while more converged down the chute, making for complete chaos. We just watched, as not a shot was fired for the first 20 minutes. The sight will forever be seared into my very being, as a light wind whipped snow that had started to fall. Birds began to land across the field, and we started picking away at “small” flocks, which still crested fifty-plus birds. It was over too fast. We collected all of the mallards, as the insanity continued to unfold. Unphased by the trucks, they continued to cover the field. It was hard to leave, as we pulled out and watched the birds once again lay claim to their nightly dinner table. Music drifted through the lodge as we drank, ate, and reminisced about the awe-inspiring day we were able to experience.
Hunters can catch ducks moving up and down the river in the mornings and afternoons of their hunting trips. (Photo courtesy of Nick Sherrod) Hunting Ducks on the Bank of the North Platte Up to this point in the hunting trip, we hadn’t even experienced the most iconic hunt in the shallows of the North Platte. Perhaps a little more foggy than the morning before, we set off to the bank of the river for a duck hunt . Incontrast to the excess of equipment from the previous day, we scattered a dozen decoys into the 20-foot-wide back channel, hiding in the tallgrass bank. At first light, greenheads recklessly jockeyed to access our hole, and we picked away at a few flocks. The weather had warmed significantly from the day before, creating less than ideal conditions as the birds had no driving need to do much more than loaf in the river all day. As the sun rose, the movement slowed, and we were satisfied picking off singles and doubles backpedaling no more than 10 yards in front of our blind. The small stool would be my perch all day, as we cracked jokes and told tall tales, only interrupted by a duck looking to trade spots on the river. As the sun set and we loaded the trucks, the shallows came alive once again, as every nook and cranny that held water housed countless mallards.
In the serene shallows along the North Platte River, magic comes alive with the memories made and hope of more to come. This enchanting landscape, with its rolling limestone features and fertile farmlands, is a haven for waterfowl and hunters alike. The harmonious cacophony of fowl, the sight of birds descending in swarms, and the camaraderie shared in these moments create indelible memories. It is in these shallows that the true essence of hunting is captured, a blend of anticipation, awe, and profound appreciation for the wild that draws us back time and again.
