Old Boats, New Friends

I don’t necessarily subscribe to the myth of the “good ol’ days,” there’s a lot about the right now, today that’s pretty amazing. Yet, the mystique and charm of the “good ol’ days” lies deep within reminiscence. Longing for a time and place and people that can never be experienced again, sometimes grabbing at our hearts while we skim too quickly through the seemingly unlimited pages of our own book of life.

Which brings me to the topic of duck boats.

A few years ago I purchased a handmade wooden layout boat. The boat’s provenance was known, designed and constructed by Don Humburg in the mid-1980s, the father of a friend, and built by request for a friend of another friend, all of them avid waterfowlers. These wooden marsh layout boats, sometimes called Hummers, were an innovation 40 years ago and their proliferation transformed shallow water duck hunting in Missouri.

The boat I acquired, stored in the barn of another fervent duck hunting friend, was used but well maintained. I did not hesitate when it was offered for sale and I am now its caretaker. While boat occupancy is limited, space for memories and imagination are boundless and some mornings as I load my gear I give these men more than passing recall, speaking names aloud so the marsh will once again know their presence.

More recently I acquired a second boat once belonging to Mike Olson of Minnesota, a man I did not know but with whom I have begun to develop an ethereal connection. The old AlumaCraft Ducker is a little older than I am and with a passing glance may be in better condition. Mike acquired the boat in the 1970s, likely the second or maybe third owner of this old-timey classic; I’ll be the third or maybe fourth.

By all accounts, Mike, an autobody man and painter, was an avid waterfowl hunter and good wing shot. His brother, Dave, told me Mike got hooked on hunting early in life, remembering how he used to like reading hunting and fishing stories, especially those by Robert Ruark and Nash Buckingham.

“He loved the outdoors and spent a lot of his time hunting. I always thought maybe he hunted too much,” Dave said. “It was almost like he worked so he could hunt.”

This is an idea hard for some to fathom but perfectly understood by the infected. Countless stories have been written attesting to the contagious magic of the rod and gun. A small sign that hung behind Mike’s workbench provided some clarity to his outlook on the topic: I spent most of my life hunting. The rest of it I’ve just wasted.

Hunting partner Steve Boller, ten years his younger, confirmed this passion. Just out of high school, a bonding friendship developed between the two as Mike became a bit of a mentor to Steve. Interest in trapping was an early relationship builder, including a #0 gopher trap challenge prank which was abruptly ended by Mike when Steve maybe got a little too good at hiding traps where fingers might go. Over time there would be crow hunting, waterfowl hunts in North Dakota and Saskatchewan, many Thanksgiving holidays chasing pheasants, fishing trips to Lake of the Woods, and even a chance for Steve to guide Mike to his first black bear.

Unfortunately, Mike passed away too soon in 2008 of heart failure at the young age of 59.

“Mike’s passing took the wind out of our sails,” Steve said. “And the kids just don’t have the time or same interest the way we did.”

A common story heard as the youngest Baby Boomers age out, life rearranges priorities, and time levies its toll on us all.

The old duck boat sat outside on a trailer for many years until Mike’s widow asked for help with removing it. The boat’s cover broke down from exposure to the elements as debris and water accumulated inside amongst a few old decoys still within. For Steve it was a little like opening a time capsule, freeing the spirit and memories of an old friend long gone. Memories of hunts, travels, motels, hunting with the kids, family and friends, bird dogs, cattail marshes, hardbottom potholes, lugging decoys, and a couple old duckers in tow.

The old photos tell a story too. Mike, as a young man, Filson jacket and hip boots, a Winchester Model 12 nearby, and the prize of the day draped along the gunwale of the ducker. Another picture, much later, of a father with his son, the dog, the boats, the prairie, and the ducks.

A duck hunter has many reasons for doing what he does. Books have been written and stories told for eons. But for the well-seasoned waterfowler, the real reasons most often have little to do with the killing of ducks. This is the camp to which I belong, and so in November, 2025, Mike’s boat will float in the duck marsh once again. There will be fresh paint and new camo. It won’t be North Dakota or Saskatchewan, and probably not as many decoys in the spread as Mike liked. But when the poling is done, the decoys are in place, and the camo is set up, there will be a quiet but audible announcement as I pitch out one last decoy, a canvasback once belonging to Mr. Mike Olson of Minnesota.

I will proclaim your return to the marsh, Mike. You’ll now be an unofficial member of a North Missouri duck club - you probably didn’t see that one coming - and when the first ducks drop their feet and the gun is raised from within your old ducker, I hope you’ll be smiling. And at the end of the day, I’ll make a brandy old fashioned in your honor and recall the hunt with my wife and friends. I hope to say I shot well, at least half as well as they say you could, and I’ll send a picture to Dave and Steve so they can see the machinery of dreams and memories still at work. If they look closely with a squint, maybe they’ll see what I'll see - you standing nearby, model 12 in hand and your dog Maggie sitting close.

Epilogue: Once chained to a spruce tree, somewhere north of Minneapolis, MN another ducker has been liberated. Steve mentioned it would be nice for the boats to be together again and I agreed. A negotiated release was achieved and on July 27, 2025, Steve’s boat was freed and moved to Missouri to begin a new life, my wife will be the pilot.

“The best thing about hunting and fishing,” the Old Man said, “is that you don't have to actually do it to enjoy it. You can go to bed every night thinking about how much fun you had twenty years ago, and it all comes back clear as moonlight.”  The Old Man and the Boy, -Robert Ruark