“I’m telling you, when I was stationed out in Southern California, I saw the most beautiful landscapes, experienced the best food, rode the best waves…” My buddy Sal was in the middle of one of his rants, as we sat by our deer camp fire, smoking Marlboros and bragging (lying) about all of the badass stuff we did in our youth. He continued, “If California wasn’t so fucked, it would be the best place on earth.”
In my 36 years on this earth, I had intentionally never visited California, so I couldn’t really argue with Sal. I had nothing to go off of. All I knew about the Golden State was what I had read in the paper and heard on the news, and that was enough for me to know that I wouldn’t fit in there. Still, Sal did have me thinking about the beauty I may have been missing. But I could live with that FOMO. I put it out of my mind.
Fast forward a few years, I was slowly closing in on a waterfowl slam, harvesting all 43 species in North America. A feat that is coveted by any avid waterfowler, however, doing it in a lifetime seems like Tee-Ball considering Mark Peterson completed the slam in a single season. Still the only person to accomplish a single season slam I believe, but I could be mistaken. Nevertheless, there were a few sea ducks I needed to cross off my list; the surf scoter, and the long tail duck, formerly known as the old squaw.
While there are several destinations that historically hold these birds or see them grace their flyways, a friends recommendation led me to an outfitter just off the San Francisco Bay, in the previously mentioned “fucked” Golden State. As confused as I was about a California hunting recommendation, considering I assumed nobody in that state even supported hunting, promises of endless surf scoters, long tails, and the occasional white wing, had me sold that I needed to finally make a trip to Newsoms playground.
A five hour flight filled with enough turbulence to frighten even a veteran pilot landed me down at SFO. My guide generously offered to pick me up from the airport, and take me to a local steakhouse, where I insisted on covering his meal for the hospitality, and hopefully influence a successful hunt. As if he had any control over the ducks' flights that week. Were two steaks worth $300? No. But what was worth every penny was the inside look I got into a deep waterfowl culture in the last place I would have expected it.
What I assumed was a destination hunt for southern waterfowlers looking for a change of scenery from their typical delta pit blinds, quickly proved to be ignorance on my part, as my guide informed me that most of his clients were locals, locals who never missed a day on the water if they could help it. In the midst of my amusement, two middle-aged men came up to our table. I quickly realized they knew my guide, after politely but unnecessarily apologizing for any interruption to our meal, they began to spark conversation with us about how the ducks were flying, what they’ve been seeing on the water, and some pictures of limits they’ve accomplished recently. I had to remind myself that I was at some ritzy california steakhouse, and not some dive bar in eastern Arkansas.
The next morning in our boat blind, a wave of fog coated the San Francisco Bay. What painted a beautiful landscape as my friend Sal had promised, meant tough waterfowl conditions, as our visibility was limited. But within minutes of shooting light, the whistles of scoter flights echo throughout the bay, as a parade of skunk-heads dive bomb our spread.
“Shoot the bastards!!” My guide yells, as I stand up chuckling, never hearing that call to shoot in all of my years of duck hunting. Funny enough, I started to adopt it myself.
After a barrage of 12 gauge 3” charges rings throughout the California air, and the black feathers settle along top the San Fran Bay water, my guide collects our kills and displays them upon the shelf of our boat blind. Just as I prepare to take my phone out for a quick snap, I hear the cue that every waterfowler loves hearing, “Here they come!” as I quickly put my phone back in the holster, and prepare for the next rally. On and on it went.
“This might be the best kept secret. Everybody is hauling ass down to Arkansas and Mississippi every winter… this is up there with even my best days along the delta.” I shouted over the sounds of a worn out boat motor that I’m sure has seen more kills, misses, happy duck hunters, pissed off duck hunters, than I can even imagine.
“Yeah…. They taste like shit though. Other than that, it's about as good of waterfowling as you’ll get in the lower 48.”
He wasn’t wrong. California had surprised me. All I’ve ever heard about cities such as San Francisco and Los Angeles is dense crowds riddled with homelessness and feces at every step. Don’t get me wrong… I saw a lot of that. But maybe it’s time we started mentioning their waterfowl. Just maybe with an asterisk that notes the homelessness and feces as well.
After a couple days of some of the best and most unique duck hunting I have ever experienced, I was back home, with a feeling of melancholy that it would probably be at least another year until I was back in a state that I was so convinced was opposed to all of my ideals and passions. Knowing I had returned from the state he once called home while he was in the military, Sal called me.
“Heard you got some birds! How was the dark side?”
“California isn’t completely fucked. At least not yet.”