No Name City Awakens

The Secretary, Colonel, and President inspect habitat conditions at The Flats with Harper's assistance.

For one day in March, No Name City, Population - Duck Hunters came to life.

Sitting on an island of land a few feet above the wet and muddy, overlooking a couple hundred acres of duck and waterbird habitat. It was time for the annual business meeting of Boca-Chobee Flats, a little wetland in North Missouri where men and dogs spend as much time as they can reasonably arrange, given conditions and other demands. A place where happiness is delivered via migrations, shots and retrieves, and food and friendship.

Eight of ten members of record were present. The Michigander couldn’t make it. Probably snowed in or the ice fishing was too good. Olaf was missing too. Word has it he was attending a birthday party for his 92-year-old grandmother; living that long, she deserved his attention more than a ragtag group of idle duck hunters, but his presence was missed as was his goose harvest report and oft-entertaining stories.

Of course, the Colonel had everything arranged for our arrival. The round table was clean and shiny, coasters were available for drink placement, and cowboy beans were simmering on the stove top. Mr. President brought Italian beef and buns, and some unpronounceable relish to go along. The Secretary and resident scientist brought two pies along with a meticulously produced graph showing harvest data. At least two other pies made the trip by my last count, along with a Red Velvet cake. Yours truly, the Treasurer, speaker of truth, payer of bills, killer of dreams, brought the checkbook and a spreadsheet.

Two supporting spousal units (SUs) were in attendance putting some boundaries around storytelling and use of adjectives, and I think the boys managed their social skills relatively well. Two dogs, Ky and Harper, were also in attendance although they are not voting members and therefore, missed lunch.

A couple legal documents require this annual gathering, and we all seem to remember enough from our previous lives to know how to have a polite, structured discussion with enough formality to cut to the chase when we need to, although Henry Martyn Robert would likely cringe. But it works. Motions, seconds, calling the question, all in favor say aye. Opposed, same sign. Probably a method worth considering when dubious stories about recent hunts are delivered after dark in November; easy to dub it dung when the ayes have it, in the absence of the eyes of witnesses.

As we discussed issues of monumental importance like repairs to the tractor and the leaky blind, several thousand snow geese landed in front of said blind, and we paused momentarily to watch and reflect on one of the many reasons why we battle willows and floods, and beavers and spike rush, and cocklebur and gumbo mud. A continuous battle of will between man and nature, where the great Earth Mother simply gives permission, allowing us to stay a little longer, seemingly satisfied with our quid pro quo arrangement.

And we are thankful. It’s the tail end of the waterfowl migration and the show is still pretty good. The landscape is friendly and inviting. The only shotguns heard was the distant barrage of the unplugged on a hill where one of the last snow goose spreads remain, although the shooting had no visual effect on our feathered visitors. A few Canada geese fussed, smiley mallards and greenheads mixed and mingled with other species, a few pelicans pass through, and a northern harrier cruised the marsh with the deadly precision of an F-15.

As the formal parts of the meeting wound down, the budget was approved, existing officers sustained, Nancie was unofficially dubbed club Waterboy with no added duties or authority, and we euphemistically discussed legacy membership and immortality, pausing long enough to deny the existence of the latter.

Just a short time ago, snow covered the willows and cordgrass. But the past week of unseasonably warm, dry weather made for perfect conditions for burning the decks and now tiny patches of green are beginning to appear as a slow de-watering has begun. Just in time for those birds that love flats of mud, barring any big Spring rains.

On this day where waders, boats and guns were absent, it’s hard not to feel some excitement and begin thinking about the season opener a scant eight months away. Let the countdown begin. We can hardly wait. All in favor, say aye! Meeting adjourned.