Are Duck Even Awake At 4 a.m.?

"You wanna come with me?" he asked.
"Are you serious?" was the reply that escaped my lips.
And with a nod of his head and an excited "Yeah" on my part, the duck hunting trip was set.

My brother and I are fifteen years apart and didn't spend all that much time together growing up. By the time I was old enough to no longer be a nuisance to him he was off at college. It wasn’t until my pre-teen years that we truly began to form a bond -- a bond which is now one of the most important in my life. And I fondly remember the first time we went hunting together.

I tried on his extra insulated hunting gear which didn't fit quite the way it should, but would serve the intended purpose none-the-less.

As he quickly browsed through his collection of guns and picked one out for me to use the next morning, I felt as though I was being handed a trophy.

"I get my own gun," I thought.
We went over exactly how to hold a shotgun and more importantly how not to hold a shotgun. After all my gear was picked out and all the details had been covered I couldn't wait until the next morning.

"When do I need to be ready?" I asked.

And the answer I got nearly floored me -- 4 a.m.

Four o'clock in the morning!!!!! Who in their right mind is willing to get up at 4 a.m. to shoot ducks? Are the ducks even awake at that hour? Are we going to sneak up on them while their still asleep?

Although I was less than excited about waking up that early in the morning -- not being a morning person by nature even at 8 a.m. much less 4 a.m. -- I did not let my face show what my mind was thinking.

"OK," was the reply he got.

So with my new rising time I decided it was off to bed with me, but not before I ensured that I would not need to do much in the morning allowing me to get as much sleep in before 4 a.m. as possible. So as I lay there staring at the clock by the bed side blinking 8 p.m. and glancing down to my bed attire -- thermal underwear, jeans, an undershirt, a long sleeve shirt and socks which would all ensure me an extra 10 minutes in bed by not having to put all that on in the morning -- I tried to push myself to sleep.

As sleep taunted and teased me that it would never come, I finally awoke to the sound of my brother rustling through the house.

"Did I over sleep," I panicked.

No, indeed. My brother was just accustomed to waking up at the ungodly hour to go hunting. I threw on my additional hunting gear and met him in the kitchen.

As we began to load up the boat and needed gear I clunked around in my brother's boots which had to have been at least four sizes too big for me. Waddling around somewhat like a baby with a full diaper and the same amount of awkwardness that I imagine a frog would have walking on two legs we were on our way.

As we rode through the canals, the cold morning air hitting my face, I soaked in the whole experience. The sunrise, the morning fog which still rest on the water, the smell of the marsh -- everything.

We arrived at the duck blind and I maneuvered my way into my designated spot and we were ready. It seemed like an eternity until we could begin shooting. And with a crack through the air from another blind, it signaled the OK.
Through the whole experience I had no problem shooting at ducks. Which is what I did -- shoot AT the ducks, not actually hitting the ducks at all, although the couple of times my brother and I shot at the same duck he politely informed me he thought it was my bullet that got him. And although I appreciated the effort, I knew better.

The one thing that kept distracting me as the morning went on was expected, but not in the magnitude that it came -- the mosquitoes. I couldn't concentrate with the Broadway musical I had going on next to my ear. As the mosquitoes buzzed on to the tune of "Feed Me" from the Little Shop of Horrors, I relentless twitched and blew the mosquitoes from my face.

At the end of trip we had ducks to show for ourselves, but it wasn't the ducks that mattered to me. My brother had taken me hunting with him and that was all that mattered.

For the next week I constantly thought about the trip -- not because of the memorable experience this time, but because of the continuous need to apply itch cream to my newly acquired bites which closely resembled the chicken pox in quantity and appearance.

By-the-by I found an appreciation for hunting that morning that will never leave me, and each year I wait to get the call that will say, "You wanna come with me?"