For duck hunters and their dogs, the first day of the season is the best time of year.
That’s because the chance to pull on waders and slog through wetlands and shallow lakes in the still-dark of early morning is an experience like few others.
Coffee is part of these good times, cup after cup, that and setting decoys, hiding in a blind and chitchatting while waiting for a bruise of oranges and reds and tangerines to brighten the eastern horizon.
“You don’t know how many more times you will shoot ducks and do not let anything spoil it for you,” Ernest Hemingway once wrote.
Nothing would spoil Saturday morning, the first day of Minnesota’s duck season, for Mike Arms of Crosslake, a retired Catholic priest, and John Arms, his nephew, of Minneapolis.
Along with Gus, Mike’s yellow Labrador retriever, the Arms boys were hoping to see a mallard or two arrow toward their decoys, or perhaps a wood duck or blue-winged teal.
Surprised by the northwest breeze that had kicked up, they waited and waited Saturday morning, but saw mostly empty skies.
So they lit cigars.