For Labradors and hunters alike, an Alaska waterfowl paradise

REDOUBT BAY — Our gear was loaded into the single engine de Havilland Otter tied to the floatplane dock, and all that remained to load was the gun dogs. Standing on the dock in the cool mid-September air, our Bush pilot grinned when he saw Cheyenne, our little pocket-size chocolate Labrador retriever.

Scooping her up in his arms, he easily negotiated the small steps up to the plane's door and deposited her inside.  When he climbed back down to the dock and turned to see Gunner, our 100-pound chocolate lab, his face turned into a grimace.

The Otter is a large bush plane, sitting high above the dock on the big struts of the floats. Getting in can be a bit of a daunting climb and loading a big dog is no easy task.  Before the pilot could suggest how we might get the big guy in the plane, Gunner ran down the dock, scampered up the steps of the plane and planted his big Labrador butt in a seat. A veteran, Gunner knew a plane ride meant one thing — ducks, lots of ducks.

Waterfowl paradise

Our pilot beamed with delight and on the short flight across Cook Inlet to the duck cabin, he would reach behind him and scratch Gunner's ears, sparking an instant friendship.

When one thinks of waterfowl hunting, it doesn't typically include flying to a hunting destination by Bush plane. More often, it involves driving to a spot and accessing wetlands near a road, or boating into secluded area where waterfowl congregate. But as with so much of the hunting in Alaska, readily accessible areas along the road system fill with hunters quickly, leaving a quiet morning in the blind a forlorn hope. Fortunately, there is an escape just across Cook Inlet, the Redoubt Bay Critical Habitat Area. A sprawling 170,000 acres of riparian habitat, hundreds of small ponds and braided tidal sloughs that bisect the entire area, it is a waterfowl paradise.

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The 15-minute flight soon had us coming in to the west, the Alaska Range looming through the windshield, just off the deck of the large slough where the duck shack we would call home for three days was located. Hundreds of mallards, pintails, widgeon and teal sitting along the mud banks flew out ahead of the plane. They quickly circled and reclaimed their spots on the tidal mud that is rich with the insect life that provides the fat and protein they need in preparation for their flight south.

The tide was still coming in, leaving a 30-foot swath of Cook Inlet mud to negotiate to the vegetation lining the shore.  The labs, well versed in the soft landing the gray muck provides, launched into gun dog wonderland when the door opened.  While we hauled our gear up to the cabin, the labs ran the shoreline, pacing the big plane as it left us in solitude.  After a quick cleanup of the mess left by a ransacking ermine we've grown fond of, we had our living quarters in ship shape and we were ready.

Right off the front of the cabin is small tidal slough running into the big slough, a beautiful spot to sit and relax while listening to the silence we are suddenly cloaked in. The labs seemed as mesmerized as we were, sitting by our sides and watching for teal that routinely scream by in their twisting, turning, spastic flight patterns.

Whistle of widgeon wings

Heading out of camp with a couple hours of light left, we follow the labs as they lead us along the sloughs and poke their noses into the shallow grass-lined ponds. Like a reunion with old friends, we listen to the lonely mallard hens calling for company, geese in the distance announcing their night flight and the whistle of widgeon wings as they fly up the tidal cuts. A short-eared owl comes by, momentarily interested in company before heading off to find a hapless vole. Our pond, the one with the small island in the middle where mallards and pintails sit dry for daily preening has both. We wonder if the ducks find the peculiar sound that chest waders make in shallow muck as humorous as we do. They don't listen long and flush unmolested when Cheyenne decides she can catch one.

The day evaporates quickly when the sun drops behind the mountains to the west.  The walk back is anxious. Teal fly by, our tradition is teal supper the first night in camp —yet we are reluctant to break the tranquility of this wild place.  Last light forces our hand and the familiar swing of our shotguns delights Cheyenne and Gunner with gainful employment and the promise of leftover scraps.

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Later, the darkness is broken only by the wet sheen of reflected moonlight on the wet tidal mud as we sit in front of camp, our duck dogs beside us still trembling in anticipation. The necessary chill is in the air, the promise of early morning fog adding mystery to the decoys we'll put out before dawn.  Our thoughts a kaleidoscope of memories of mornings on the marsh, listening to the pond come alive and the early mallard hen that will come in and keep us company as the day unfolds.

The air was still. The only sound was the soft gurgle of the slough below and the swoosh of a short-eared owl working the nightshift. Here we meld into the wild, as inconsequential and as alive as we can ever be.

Steve Meyer of Soldotna is lifetime Alaskan and an avid shooter. He'll be writing every other week about guns and Alaska hunting. Contact Steve at oldduckhunter@outlook.com