In no time, the dawning sky begins to brighten, filling the tiny opening in the trees with the oranges and blues of a clear morning. A pod of teal suddenly whistle by overhead, inciting a hail of quacking calls from the hunters below. The flock banks sharply, coming back around for a second look. Everyone stiffens. Standing thigh deep and leaning instinctively harder against the nearest trunk, they watch for the ducks to reappear. Somewhere out of sight, another group joins the first, at once doubling their size as they complete the third go-around. Mallard! Four of the bigger ducks peel from formation and drop into the hole to alight.

There’s always been something special about duck hunting in the woods. Something alluring about staking out a shallow pool of water, concealed from the world by the encroaching tree canopy, to watch ducks swoop

in unnoticed, navigating the outreaching limbs to reach the surface below. Earmarked by the iridescent green of a mallard drake and the whining call from a wood duck, and known throughout the south as green timber hunting, it can be the cause of some of the most scenic and memorable of all waterfowl trips.

Located smack in the middle of a deer lease, our secret pond hadn’t seen human faces since this same time last year. Since we agreed never to hunt it until after that season was over, we were only afforded one or two days to hunt in the sticks, but boy were they worth the wait. And tomorrow was going to be that day.Fallen twigs cracked under the jeep’s tires as it picked its way through the understory, covering as much ground as it can until an impenetrable mesh shown in the headlights. It’s another 150 yard walk, err... roll, from here, and five hunters eagerly filed out and followed the dim yellow beam of a flashlight into the night air as the crisp, clear morning rapidly approached.

At twenty minutes before shooting hour, we found a break in the cover. Underneath it, a familiar shallow pool rested calmly, soon to be disturbed by the churning of waders and thrown decoys. I took a typical position by the water’s edge, warming my hands and waiting for dawn to break while the rest of my party set up inside the pond’s boundary. It wouldn’t be long now.

From nowhere, my untargeted calling met a response, and the distinctive cackles from a mallard hen answered from the east. I just hoped that she’d have company. And she would. All eyes focused intently on that direction, knowing what was about to emerge as ten big mallards skimmed the tree line on cupped wings. The hoard dipped through the crease before disappearing over the timber. In a second they were back, circling around to get a closer look. Safeties clicked off, and a rarely heard hail call from a flying hen rang out in prelude to their final approach.

A thunderous barrage echoed off the distance, fading out into the sounds of celebratory yells and legs splashing after fallen birds, then into silence again. Five more mallards would be added before this morning would end, along with several wood ducks and an odd teal, and it would seem to be over before it started. But this hunt will live on forever in the minds of four guys who were thinking the same thing I was on the way out. Same time, next year.