The Annual Ducksouth.com Teal Hunt has evolved through time into an invite-only, potluck dinner and social the night before.  Friends from as many as 5 states convene at Willow Break lodge in Mississippi's South Delta to share their favorite hunting camp recipes, drink and swap stories early into the morning.  A few actually get up to hunt teal, but the event is not about actual hunting; it's about everything else that makes hunting camp, times with hunting friends, the absolute best of times.

Rick Daughtry, President of the West Mississippi Hunting Retriever Club in Vicksburg, Mississippi, has attended most of the annual teal socials.  He gets together a few times a year with close hunting buddies for beer drinking and boudin making, and his private-reserve boudin are an event staple.  Like bibles in church. Like black dogs in duck blinds.  The amount of cayenne in Rick's boudin, we think, is directly proportional to the amount of cold beer consumed (which in turn affects how much cold beer is consumed while eating his boudin)!  We'll be feauturing Rick's boudin recipe in an upcoming blog, so stay tuned.

When Cal Crawford, aka Donia, wanted to stuff his mushrooms with boudin for the annual teal social, Rick obliged with the best Mississippi boudin available.  Cal points out that Walmart-variety boudan (and it's misspelled exactly that way, with an "a" instead of an "i"), is poor substitute for the real thing.  Donia says, "Good food is a blessing that, like all blessings, should be shared."  We couldn't agree more.

Donia's Boudin-Stuffed Mushrooms Recipe

Remove stems and brush inside and out with olive oil

Place a few crumbles of gorganzola cheese inside

Fill with boudin (removed from casing) and make an indention in the middle with your thumb.  Then put a few more crumbles of gargonzola cheese in the indention (don't press too hard or you'll split the mushroom)

Season lightly with ground mustard and any other seasoning you like (Donia used Rendezvous' dry rub seasoning at the DuckSouth.com Teal Hunt, but seasonings such as Tony's or Cavender's will work equally well)

Either place in the oven at 425 degrees for 25min (or until boudin browns), or on the grill for 25 minutes for that special smokey flavor

Lightly drizzle Hoover Sauce over mushrooms and serve

Because they'll be gone in the blink of an eye around hungry hunters it's like my grandfather said - if the cook goes hungry it's his own damned fault!

Note: In the absence of boudin-cooking friends like Rick, there are good online sources available too: Poche's Boudin and Jacob's Andouille have been suggested as making reliably good boudin.

The following recipe was given to me by Tammy W. F.  Among the oldest of friends, I've know Tammy since middle school and she's one of the best natural-born cooks you'll ever meet.  She came by it naturally, too: 30-something years ago, the best collection of hunting trophies within walking distance of my house hung on the stone fireplace in her family's home.  I've taken the small liberty of adding marinaded teal or dove to her recipe, but it's not necessary.  They'll dissappear just as quickly without.  Tammy's Jalapeno Poppers became instantly popular at our home, and among local duck hunting circles, most recently at the 8th Annual DuckSouth.com Teal Hunt. 

The Ducksouth.com Teal Hunt has evolved through time into an invite-only, potluck dinner and social the night before.  Friends from as many as 5 states convene at Willow Break lodge in Mississippi's south delta to share their favorite hunting camp recipes, drink and swap stories early into the morning.  A few actually get up to hunt teal, but the event is not about actual hunting; it's about everything else that makes hunting camp, times with hunting friends, the absolute best of times.

Tammy's Disappearing Jalapeno Poppers Recipe

About 2 dozen fresh jalapenos, halved and seeded. If your not an appreciator, don't worry - they lose their bite when cooked.

Fill jalapenos with mixture - combine 1 block cream cheese and 2 cups shredded cheese like Monterrey Jack. (Lagniappe - If there's any left of the mixture left after the pepper have been filled, form into a ball, season with Tony's or Slap Your Momma cajun seasoning and serve with crackers to keep the hungry wolves at bay)

3 doves worth of breasts (or 1 blue-winged teal's worth), slivered across the grain, marinaded in Hoover Sauce and honey (or plain honey with a dab of soy sauce if your life is not yet blessed with Hoover Sauce).

Place one sliver of dove of teal per popper.

Top with 1/4-sliced bacon

Drizzle with Sweet Baby Ray's Barbeque Sauce (or another suitable sweet bbq sauce)

Bake 20 minutes at 350

Broil till bacon is browned and serve

Warning - they'll go very quickly so remember my grandfather's addage that if the cook goes hungry it's their own damned fault! 

A thousand images of a young adventurous boy probing the wildest and most impenetrable corners of the world overwhelmed me.  Before I could speak he continued with the fascinating depiction of discovery and fame that only a young boy with a trusty pellet rifle can conjure.  Good stuff.  I smiled and soaked it in. As it grew quiet except for the hum of all-terrain tires over asphalt, I sensed he awaited an answer. It's a big world full of dark woods and long rivers, I told him, but whether someone's been there before, or even if it's smack in the middle of the world's third-largest city, I shared, it's our true selves that is the most enduring discovery.  Unimpressed, the conversation abruptly turned to the downrange trajectory of flat versus conical pellet types.

I remember sharing a sunny afternoon on the reservoir with a high school friend.  The water seemed clear enough, but the crappie were lock-jawed. We spent more time catching up than catching fish.  He wondered how someone that had traveled extensively could be sated while dangling tiny, chartreuse-colored plastic towards stubborn fish right in our own back yard.  Opening Day Mississippi dove hunting remains my last-meal-request type favorite hunt on the face of earth, and it's been asked many times how someone that hunts places where epic dove flights seemingly obliterate sunlight can still find joy hunting for a couple more than a baker's dozen mourning doves in Mississippi.  It's pretty simple, really.  It's home.  It's what I do.  It's who I am.  If anything, travel makes us appreciate home more.

There are so many fascinating places in the great State of Mississippi, not to mention the continental United States, that we could spend the remainder of our lives exploring and still not see its entirety.  And yet we feel it in each and every of our heartbeats.  We hear it in story-form anywhere there's a gathering of like-minded humanity - among the hallowed shadows of duck blinds, at dimly lit skinning racks, around supper tables and camp fires, from creaking saddles and behind packs of baying hounds.  Countless stories, each of them unique, that say the same thing: we are Mississippi; we are home outdoors.

Stories are the lifeblood of tradition.  They define us.  They shape our lifestyle like nothing else can.  Like nothing again ever will. Make them. Tell them.  Their remembrance warms our insides like good single-barrel bourbon, compells us to oil granddad's beloved shotgun like only he could teach, scratch an old dog's ears like only they can appreciate.  Our stories burn eternal in the hearts of our children.

It's duck season somewhere®,

Ramsey Russell
GetDucks.com Journal

In July 2011, Ramsey Russell, GetDucks.com proudly became Life Sponsor with Ducks Unlimited.  Ducks Unlimited Life Sponsorship requires a minimum $10,000 commitment to wetland habitat and waterfowl conservation.  Says Russell, "It's a way of giving back to a tradition that has given to me since I was 12 years old; a way for me to personally ensure that my children and theirs can continue to enjoy waterfowl hunting as have I."  Learn more about becoming a Ducks Unlimited Life Sponsor.  Ducks Unlimited is the world leader in wetlands & waterfowl conservation - filling the skies with waterfowl today, tomorrow and forever. Join Ducks Unlimited today.

Pictured (from left to right) are Ducks Unlimited Director of Development, Chad Manlove; son Duncan Russell; Ramsey Russell GetDucks.com; and Ducks Unlimited National President, John Newman).

I traveled way, way up into northwestern Saskatchewan, deep into the boreal forest. There was a primitive cabin about 15 x 15 or so built by squatter-hunters on Crown Land and, because it's illegal, later rented to the outfitter. The outhouse and shower, which had to be refilled from the lake and heated with sunlight, were located to the rear of the building. Getting there was an adventure for a first-time traveler: pavement ceded to gravel then dirt; forged a river, water coming over hood of truck, and when the road narrowed to a trail we mounted 4 wheelers and continued for another hour or so. Wilderness: wolves howling, loons yodeling, ruffed grouse drumming, and a lake slap full of pike. I was in Heaven.

Besides the 2 guides, there were 2 other men in camp. One was a quiet but friendly reader. The other was singularly the most obnoxious, pompous been-there-more, done-that-better type person I'd ever met. You know the type. While the one read, the other talked to the cabin walls because by day two the minute he opened his mouth everyone disappeared.

We bear hunted from about 5 pm until dark, which was nearly 10 pm as I recall.  I spent the days pulling on oars steering a small boat into the wind until I'd gotten to the other side and, with the wind pushing me over the grass beds where I casted to lurking pike and brained with a bat when landed. I had spinner bait with a gold willow-leaf blade as big as your hand. I'd had it since I was a kid and it had never caught a fish. The bass back home were scared to death of it. It rode just under the surface and through a wake you could surf on. Ended up using all the spinners I had replacing swivels and hooks on that spinner. The pike loved it like no other but on day 4 the then skirtless, paintless bait was rendered useless when the last fish of the week demolished it. We ate smoked pike the remainder of the week, but somewhere on the bottom of that lake lays a gold spinner blade as big as your hand.

I was scared to death I'd shoot a small bear. The outfitter told me not to shoot a bear that was acting skittish like deer. Said look for one that came in like he owned the place; that all the subordinate bears would approach carefully, fearfully, to avoid running afoul of the dominate bear. One day the head guide asked if I minded a longer than normal ride. Said the others had complained about long ATV rides. Said there was a helluva bear hitting the bait but it was nearly 2 hours away.

The blind consisted of a platform built into a Christmas tree looking conifer overlooking a muskeg. It was about 7 feet off the ground on one side, and too high for falling out on the other. I sat in a folding chair and read a book, a barrel of donut grease and grain down the hill about 60 yards away. A lot of lesser bears came in throughout the afternoon. They'd sit across the way, literally sit like a dog or sometimes with their rear feet poking forward like a toddler, and watch for a long time before scampering down to the barrel and availing themselves of its rancid contents. Like a kid snooping in Dad's sock drawer, they were skittish and would startle at any sound, scared to death they'd get caught.

I'd lift my facemask, take a bite of giant Snickers candy bar, place the candy back on the floor and just let the chocolate melt in my mouth. Repeat. Some big hunter, I remember thinking while watching bears through the afternoon. Come clear across the country to shoot a bear and now I'm having doubts. Didn't seem right. Didn't feel right. Like watching bears at the zoo. The one time my poor dad pitches in on something like and here I am having moral misgivings about hunting. Never had experienced feelings like that before.

The following is the truth and nothing but so help me God.

The little bear suddenly bolted from the barrel like he'd been shot from cannon. I didn't understand.  The wind was good. I'd not made a sound nor so much as blinked. I looked in the opposite direction and there he was. Looked like John Wayne swaggering into a saloon. Not a care in the world that he alone ruled. Big Bear coming right this way.  I placed my hand on my rifle and sat petrified. He's walking under the blind. It's taking him forever he's so long. Shoot him when he comes out other side and starts down the hill. Moments seemed like eternities. Where's he at?

I heard scratching. Then a sniffing sound, like a lab rooting cracker crumbs out of the sofa. Looking to my right I saw 5-inch bear claws on the deck, a coca-cola can-sized nose, flared nostrils, sniffing that damned candy bar. Ears 16 inches apart between the tips.  Teeth.

The instant passed as quickly as a light beam slicing pitch darkness. I jumped and yelled all manner of real and contrived obscenities; the chair flew down the hill.  The bear woofed and exited stage left. Not fast like a circus bear. With claws raking deeply into the soil he ran as fast as a house cat in a thunderstorm. He'd made it 15 yards before bird hunting instincts overrode reality. He piled up 20 yards away at the clap of thunder. An hour later he hadn't moved so I finally walked over and took a look.  When the guide pulled up at dark his exclamations said it all: good bear. 

It wouldn't fit on the ATV, we dead headed back for help, and for a trailer, and we finally made it back to camp about 2 that morning. They broke out a pop bottle full of clear liquid that tasted vaguely of peach-infused rocket fuel to celebrate.  Good guides that they were, they also kept the campfire burning - I'd passed smooth out watching the northern lights and looking for the star formation Ursa Major.  We ate bear steaks the next night and I've had worse.

I guess I'd carpet my house in bear hides if the wife would allow. But she lets me get away with plenty so I don't push it much.

Related: Saskatchewan Canada Black Bear Hunting in Canada

By mid-morning a drake mallard and teal on my side, and a handsome shoveler on his, were all we had to show.  An errant flock of teal shot into the decoys, erupted straight up into starburst formation and retreated with 5 fewer among their count, adding greatly to the morning's effort.  By the time talks of late-lunch pancakes back at camp had turned real serious, we had 5 ducks each.  Two ducks shy.

Duncan was 2 and his brother, Forrest, 4 when we made the drive to West Point, Mississippi.  When the crate opened, 5 black balls of black lab bounded out. Engulfing the boys, licking their laughing faces and tugging their jackets it was hard to tell one pup from another but we finally agreed on the female that was soon sleeping in their laps, as they too slept, during the hours-long ride home.  We named her Delta, which is short for God's Country.

She retrieved a season-high during her third year, our second season in L'Anguille Lounge Duck Club.  We members were mad at snow geese back then, well before everyone else and their brother had an axe to grind with conservation season geese, and saved the tundra one truck load at a time.  We even took it to fleet level.  She accumulated nearly a thousand birds that season.  Like several other L'Anguille labs, those big flat shoots developed bold confidence in handling nearly a quarter-mile distant, at times, across muddy soybeans field in the recovery of snows and blues.

There hangs on the wall a surf scoter in tribute to our hunting the expansive, sea duck-rich Pamlico Sound following a main-feature tundra swan hunt.  The scoter had skipped across the water on the shotgun report, but righted itself as Delta approached and paddled away with her in tow.  Old enough to know better but too young for that much duck at the tip of her wet nose, Delta refused the whistle and gave chase.  I remember a small black dot that was my beloved Delta disappearing on the horizon, wondering just how far that fool dog would swim before turning back, and just how far it was across that damned sound if she didn't.  She returned nearly a half-hour later with a still-kicking skunk head seized between her jaws.  Ignoring praises, she climbed onto the bow and resumed the hunt.

Duncan pointed excitedly as he reached for his gun, and I jumped up just in time to sweep a drake ringed-neck from the tail end of a flock strafing the decoys.  Duncan banged to the plug and as the flock departed, we watched one break ranks and ascend in slow motion before hitting the water 3 levees over with a visible splash.  Delta quickly recovered the mark.  From the first rice levee she took a line.  Topping the second levee she trotted east.  I'd have whistled, but haven't carried one for 2 years.  She's deaf as a deadbolt.  When she stopped and squared up, likes she's always done since I quit whistling, a right back steered her charging over the third levee into a nose full of scent.  Her tail told the story.  She swam tight circles over the diving duck until finally coming up with a mouth full of squirming feathers.  Just another day at the office, she soon handed over career retrieve Number 5,000.

While mostly ducks and geese from 4 Canadian provinces and 3 US flyways, her 9-year talley includes doves, snipe, sand hill cranes, a few ruffed grouse, pheasants and quail.  Not included is the bowfin she fetched up that July afternoon we hand-seeded Alligator Slough's knee deep muck to jap millet.  She seemed as proud of that retrieve as any other.

After lunch, Duncan, Patrick and I drove over to Chris Aiken's  Webfooted Kennels.  At the first chance, she seized the wing of a snow goose, but soon focused her attentions entirely on a puppy-sized teal.  She's got a lot of ground to cover if she's ever going to replace Delta, but hopefully will have plenty of opportunities.  We named her Shine.

William Faulkner, Go Down, Moses

Mississippi public land duck hunting, January 2011

A few years ago while reviewing 30 some-odd-year-old property maps, I learned that among Willow Break's long list of agriculturally-speculative owners was the prominent former client of my grandfather.  A certain photo I had always pondered was collaborative proof:  the former farming operation presently known as Willow Break is where my old mentor shot his last greenhead in the early 80s.  He struggled to muster the voice for such recollections during our final visit a few years later.

The South Delta landscape has changed.  Dynamic systems that flooded the area naturally for eons have since been beset by engineered feat.  Flooding invariably occurs during the late-spring months when water collects for as far as the human eye can see before "speeding to the Gulf." Large buckshot-clay fields created mostly during my own lifetime to plant gold-like soybeans are again dedicated to young plantation thickets of native hardwood species.  They'll likely not resemble historic stands until my children are old, but already comprise more than a third-million, nearly-contiguous acres of wildlife habitat that structurally offset contemporary agricultural losses caused by backwater flooding. Black bears, long-since endangered in the region, have staged a comeback.

West of the creek that intersects Willow Break, near a hole named Pintail for reasons unknown but misleading, is a 300-feet length of old circle pivot.  It should have been dismantled preceding the farm's reversion to hardwoods. I'm glad it wasn't.  The sagging, metal spans are ensconced in vines; surrounding hardwoods incrementally eclipse its height each year. Were it not for steel cable supports, it'd have long ago collapsed.   Contemplating transformations among south delta people and land, as symbolized by the irrigation relic, sometimes helps to pass time while hunting under its shadow.

When mallards literally carpet the area anymore, it's more likely for hours than for days.  There are ducks, more at some times than others and usually just enough, but nothing like what must certainly have once wintered here.  Duck hunters are eternal optimists: they'll return one future day.

Willow Break's few duck hunters are necessarily dedicated.  Limits are earned. If they say there are no ducks, it means that there are somewhere between zero and a few savvy handfuls of doctorate-eligible ducks that have strategically outmaneuvered local hunters since Eisenhower.  Thriving populations of white-tailed deer and wild hogs are minor consolations when ducks are as stale as last week's donuts. But persistence pays. We hunt regardless.

Smiles creased our faces as we counted about 3 dozen duck silhouettes emerge from the tall, flooded coffee weed covering almost 2 acres in Pintail. Plenty ducks for Duncan and me. Within 15 minutes of sunrise, a crystal-clear December day was imminent.  Anxious to return, ducks paraded in slow, lazy circles overhead as we settled into the south blind.   The brisk north wind blowing directly into our faces, I hoped, would render strategic advantage.  With 4 well-spaced decoys situated far behind, and a pair placed up front for a focal point. We shared a moment absorbing nearby mallard and gadwall murmurings.

A pair of woodies rocketed in abruptly, startling us as we loaded our guns. The plan was unconventionally simple: ducks would seek safety among the coffee weed shadows after sun up, and when they banked over the front decoys to get right with the wind, we'd take them.  By the time a handsome limit of gadwalls and wood ducks hung from my leather strap, Duncan was already half way to his own as the sun crested the horizon.  Spiced with enough great shots to overpower inevitable misses, Duncan soon weighted his strap with 3 mallards.  Like the heft of a new shotgun, heavy duck straps are never burdensome.

We returned to Pintail the morning after Christmas.  The north wind was bitter.  Heavily overcast, it was spitting snow.  Few more than a dozen mallards greeted us.  We placed stools in the coffee weeds and loosely strung 9 decoys in singles, pairs and trios along the periphery, about 45 yards in each direction of our position.  It's hard to hide in the absence of shadows, so we agreed to shoot the first pass low enough over our hide.  Returning in pairs and singles, mallards slid over the cover for a glimpse at the susie softly beckoning them nearer. It took a couple hours, with young Duncan and me shooting our respective sides.  Lively banter between volleys warmed us. There were plenty; the time passed too quickly.