It was late November, and I was home for fall break from college, itching to get out and do some duck hunting. Options were scarce in those days, especially in Virginia without a boat. But a hunter’s gotta hunt, so I headed to a public land space near my parents’ house with Dad’s Boykin Spaniel, Rebel.
Rebel was a paradox on four legs. He had a stubborn streak that would make a mule proud, yet he possessed a drive that could surprise even the most seasoned hunter. One minute he’d swim 200 yards to retrieve a crippled goose, and the next he’d stare us down like a statue when we dropped a teal ten yards from the blind. His eyes would say it all: “You think that’s worth my effort? Get it yourself.”
The morning was brisk but not unbearable as I packed up my gear and loaded Rebel into the truck. He hopped in with the enthusiasm of a dog who knew adventure lay ahead, even if it was just another day of ignoring commands and giving me grief. We arrived at the spot and set up our makeshift blind by the river, waiting for the ducks to start their morning commute.
It wasn’t long before I spotted a lone bufflehead flying low over the water. Beggars can’t be choosers, especially a broke college kid in Virginia with limited public land options. I shouldered my shotgun, took aim, and downed the bufflehead with a single shot. The duck hit the water with a satisfying splash about 40 yards out in the river.
“BACK!” I commanded Rebel with the authority of a general sending his troops into battle. Rebel looked at me, looked at the duck, and then looked back at me as if to say, “You’ve got to be kidding me.” He sat down, his refusal clear.
I wasn’t about to waste a perfectly good duck, especially not one that was giving me some rare success on a slow morning. The only option was to retrieve it myself. With a sigh, I stripped down to my boxers and steeled myself for the swim. The James River in late November isn’t icy, but it’s far from warm. The first touch of water sent a shiver up my spine, and I could see Rebel watching me with what I swore was a smirk.
Determined, I waded in, calling Rebel to join me. He stood firm, his paws planted on the bank. “Come on, Rebel!” I urged, but he was content to supervise my efforts from the shore. This just wouldn’t do. I grabbed him by the collar and pulled him into the water with me. He made his displeasure known but finally got the message. Together, we swam toward the downed bufflehead, me leading the way and Rebel begrudgingly following.
The water wasn’t getting any warmer, and I was starting to wonder if this duck was worth the effort. Rebel, finally understanding that there was no getting out of this, took the lead and swam the last few yards to the duck. He grabbed it in his mouth and started back to shore. As we swam, I felt a sharp pain in my shin but pushed it aside, focusing on getting back to the bank.
We emerged from the river, me dripping and shivering, Rebel shaking water everywhere. I looked down to see blood running down my leg. Apparently, I’d found a nice oyster bed with my shin. Great, I thought, just what I needed. It wasn’t life-threatening, but it wasn’t pretty either.
As we were gathering ourselves, a gentleman came around the bend. He must have seen quite the scene: me in my boxers, bleeding from my leg, and Rebel standing there with a duck in his mouth, looking as pleased as punch. The man stopped and stared, a bemused expression on his face.
“Was that you swimming in the river I just saw?” he asked, trying to suppress a chuckle.
“No, sir,” I replied, deadpan. “There must be some other sad, half-naked, half-frozen fellow down the bank bleeding from his leg with a good-for-nothing dog next him.”
The man chuckled, shook his head, and muttered something about duck hunters being crazy as he continued on his way. I couldn’t argue with him.
Back at the truck, I dried off and bandaged my leg as best I could. Rebel, now seemingly satisfied with his contribution to the hunt, lay down for a nap. I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all. Duck hunting with Rebel was always an adventure, and that day had been no exception.
As we drove home, I thought about how this story would be one for the books. Rebel might have been the most stubborn dog I’d ever known, but he sure knew how to keep things interesting. But for the moment, I was just grateful for the laugh and the memory – even if it did come with a few cuts and bruises.
Once at home, with my leg cleaned up and Rebel snoring contently on the floor, I had time to reflect. This hunt would go down in history as one of my worst hunts ever. The weather had been cold, the ducks scarce, and Rebel as obstinate as ever. Not to mention the injury to my shin and ego. Yet, as I sat there, I couldn’t help but smile.
It’s funny how the hunts that go wrong often become our favorites. There’s a kind of pride in the struggle, a joy created through shared misfortune that makes the memory all the more precious. I wouldn’t trade that day on the James River for anything. It was a story I’ve been telling for years, each retelling a little funnier and a little more embellished.
Rebel had his moments of brilliance, but it was his stubbornness that made him unforgettable. That day, with me shivering in the river and him reluctantly doing his job, was a perfect snapshot of our hunting life together. It wasn’t about the ducks we brought home – it was about the adventure, the laughs, and the sheer ridiculousness of it all.
So yes, it might have been one of my worst hunts, but it is also one of my favorites. Because at the end of the day, it’s not the ducks or the gear or even the weather that makes a hunt memorable. It’s the stories we bring back, the memories we make, and the dogs who remind us why we love this crazy sport in the first place. Some of us even have the scars to prove it.
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