The Duck Report 2025

The North Zone for Missouri waterfowl hunting officially closed on December 30 and none too soon. From a duck shooting standpoint, it was a poor season for me and my final day in the marsh a week earlier matched that description perfectly. Yes, there were moments when ducks filled the sky, mostly enroute to somewhere else. There were glorious sunrises, sunsets, goose music, and grand late-season performances by trumpeter swans with a few tundra swans mixed in, but everything was a little off. The season began warm and dry. Meaningful cold weather, the kind that makes a duck and or goose move to warmer climes was scarce in the northern latitudes and when it did arrive it was inconsistent. Combine this with the principal of wrong time, right place and you get the idea.

When someone could actually shoot a duck, gadwalls and widgeon dominated the bag. The big flocks of green-wing teal never appeared. Speckle-bellied geese were scarce. And the coveted greenheads, well trained on the dangerous subtleties of autumn for two months before arriving in Missouri were smart, tactical, dispersed and difficult.

Then the freeze up came too soon and the good, well-intentioned hunters of Boca Chobee Flats struggled mightily, further affected to some disadvantage by distant hunters who shoot at ducks in flooded corn fields while using battery-operated, remote-controlled spinning winged abominations, but that’s a denunciative diatribe for another day.

The best hunting days for me fell at Thanksgiving and I was glad I was there as usual. While my wife does the holiday with her family, I get a pass to be in the marsh, a location more suitable to my needs and mental health. While the hunting wasn’t spectacular, it was good and I went a very satisfying 11 for 12 using the shotgun I bought my wife the previous year (Yes, it’s really hers, she picked it out, I just wanted to try it).

The in between times were a little more subdued than normal. A couple of the usual faces around camp and the card table in the evening were missing but we had our moments, and a few guests and family got to observe the curious culture of our duck camp. Games of pitch brought out some competitive yet friendly aggression and helped establish ephemeral bragging rights until the cards were dealt again.

No ducks flying, no problem. The Colonel served up platters of chicken wings and destitute hunters found a reason to smile. And the Michigander arrived at camp with some of his home-made blackberry liqueur and that pleased my wife and the Pleasant Pheasant Pluckers Society of Linn County, Missouri. All of this and more serving as a reminder - pulling the trigger followed by a splash is nice but duck hunting is about a thousand other things before and after, most of which do not include shotguns.

For me, the best part of the 2025 season was probably the weeks and months leading up to the opener. The acquisition of a couple old boats, their refurbishing and prepping, and ultimately returning them to the marsh for the first time in over 15 years was pretty special. And even though we didn't have a great hunt or the celebratory moment I was hoping for when my wife and I took the boats out on the first couple days, we did enjoy them a lot, especially when poling 'em through the ice one morning. Miniature ice-breakers, crunching and grinding through frozen liquid, journeying together with other friends on a trail of ice shards to a spot where the birds were visiting with some regularity, and just out of gun range.

And just in case you read this, Steve, I thought about you and Mike, and the spirit of your buddies Jerry, Andy, Doc (Jim), and Pops (Jim). You were all there having a good laugh, and everyone will be invited again next year for a better hunt, hopefully. By the way, I kept Mike's decoy with my spread instead of pulling it out for a place of honor. It needs more time in the Missouri marsh before I can retire it legitimately.

So now I close the books on 2025. There’s still a little time for some deer hunting but I seem to be having a hard time inspiring myself to that end except for the need for a little freezer meat. Maybe I’ll hunt today, maybe not. I’ll savor the short days and early darkness that comes with winter and the long walk otherwise known as January. When the sun shines, I’ll clean the closets, real and figuratively, and when the moon rises, I’ll invite some friends into my head for a conversation or two – Reed, the old duck hunter MacQuarrie, and Leopold are seasonal regulars but this year I look forward to conversing with Gierach and Traver, especially when I dust off the fly rods and change waders.

Here's to 2026. Let’s hope for big things and a little desperately needed sanity. Happy New Year!