Hunting on the Kenai River Flats, surrounded by the marvels of nature

SOLDOTNA — The grass on the flats was painted in river mud from the previous night's high tide, brushed dead and wet. It crunched and sank with each step we moved toward our blind. With shotguns cold and heavy in our arms, we relied on the distant cannery lights to find our way. A strong wind blew in from the west, across the Cook Inlet, bringing one of the high tides from the October harvest moon, and in that barren wind, from high above, there was only the hurried whisper of untranslatable stories spoken by widgeon wings.

The Kenai River Flats, which span either side of a bridge over the Kenai River, appear to the average passer-by as a swampy wasteland leading out to the inlet. Before I hunted there, my only conception of the flats was when I glanced over at the sunrise on my way to work, latte in hand. Even then, I only noticed the mountains in the distance. I didn't see a habitat teeming with life or the ponds, sloughs, or blinds that offered a place to sit and drink coffee in the dark, waiting for the almost-surreal vision of ducks cupping into decoys.

When my partner, Steve, and I reached our blind, I felt a sense of arrival only a backyard tree fort can mimic, both from the pride of construction and the blind's seclusion. We built our blind before the season opened Sept. 1, using brush and grass that we braided artfully around branches. It had taken several days to weave enough grass to blend the structure into its environment. We rested for a moment before unpacking the decoys carefully and quietly.

Widgeon whistled high overhead. The distinct sound of their wings was different than the gulls and crows that flew in whooping sweeps instead of the fluttered heartbeat of duck wings. The widgeon didn't land, and my eyes followed them into the dark clouds. Steve whispered, "They'll be back."

But as soon as it was legal to shoot, the sky was empty. The wind died down as the tide went slack, emptying the ravines and lowering the water hole in front of us. The decoys held stiffly to the bottom of the shallow pond.

I set down my shotgun in slow motion. I had held it at the ready until my arms were weak. My fingers were numb inside my gloves. Steve poured coffee into the lid of his thermos and then my camp cup. The process took several minutes and broke up the hour we waited. The next hour started with another coffee break, and then another.

Shrew in the grass

It gave me time to observe life on the flats with an alertness and readiness that followed every sight and sound to its source. The sound of grass rustling was a shrew busting through tall grass before darting across the mud to safety. A creature who was a nuisance in the house was a delightful curiosity in the field.

On our way in, near an abandoned blind, a pair of dragonflies appeared frozen to the dead branches. As I neared, I saw dozens of dragonflies in pairs and singles, all frozen. I leaned within inches of a pair to take a photo. Through the lens, I could see their feet move. They weren't dead. The morning fog had come in fast and made their wings too heavy for flight. They were stranded and vulnerable on the branches waiting for the sunlight to dry out their wings. They were sitting ducks with nothing to save them but the sun. It was a reminder how everything in nature struggles to survive.

I've hunted the flats the past 10 years and can no longer look at them from my car and not recall the smell of breaking through netted swamp grass in the morning, the way the light hits spider webs at first light, or finding downy duck feathers or webbed footprints in the mud. The season on the flats lasts until Dec. 16, when few ducks remain. However, no matter how long the season lasts or how near the flats are to town, wherever there are wild ducks inhabiting wetlands, there is a gem or wilderness.

If not for the time I spent on the flats hunting ducks, I would not have developed a relationship with the birds or their environment. It took many seasons to learn enough to identify different species in flight, to understand their migrations and the relationships between ducks, farming, and predation. Participating in nature as a hunter compelled me to learn about the needs of ducks, their instincts, and the ever-changing balance required for them to survive.

Hunters as ‘citizen scientists’

There's a saying I read somewhere that a hunter "husbands his prey," and this is something difficult to explain to those who ask me how I can love ducks and shoot them. For me, hunting is what impressed upon me the value of nature beyond scenic landscapes or the opportunity to view animals in their environments. As a hunter, my investment in wild animals and wild places changed so that not only did my appreciation deepen, so did my responsibility.

Now, I'm struck by the untapped potential of hunters to become "citizen scientists" in projects benefitting game. We are a virtual army of volunteers who spend time monitoring natural places and species. Every time I hunt, I am gathering information that deepens my bond with the outdoors. How many other hunters have observations that could be used to enlarge our understanding of hard-to-access backcountry — or even the 300-acre marsh just outside of town?

Hunting can be one of the greatest cures for modern ailments that disconnect us from the natural world. In the field, it becomes impossible not to be sympathetic to the plight of wild animals, and it gives us a new perspective on our domestic lives. For me, this fact has never been more true than when it comes to bugs and rodents. I hope they live wild and free in their worlds — and not in my house.

Christine Cunningham of Soldotna is a lifetime Alaskan and avid hunter. On alternate weeks, she writes about Alaska hunting. Contact Christine at cunningham@yogaforduckhunters.com