Chris Jennings’ Blog

The public blind drawing is shrugged off by many hunters as a time-wasting experience where overcrowded public areas are overrun with sky busters and non-stop hail calls.  I am rather fond of public draws, sometimes enjoying the pre-draw anticipation more than anything. Recently, I was fortunate enough to spend a couple mornings crowded into a “waterfowler war room” with hundreds of hopeful hunters on Harsens Island, Mich.

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The blind board on Harsens Island

With the number of blinds at Harsens, there was no chance of not getting a blind on a Tuesday morning, but as hunters began to fill the room, my memories of draws gone terribly wrong were refreshed. As if they were being played on a projector in my head, I flashed through nearly every draw I’d ever been involved in, most of which ended poorly. Mornings where the only blinds left when it was my turn to choose were frozen solid, but I’d walk to the front, listening to the chuckles in the back of the room from other hunters who thought I didn’t know the area was a block of ice, and choose them proudly – only because the dog was too excited to take home that early in the morning.

My heart went out to those who were paired up with me at Harsens Island. It seems to be my destiny to get drawn somewhere near the end, a trait I believe I inherited from my father. Our luck has been noted by many draw attendees and many are excited to see us arrive – then they know their odds of getting last pick have decreased dramatically.

I have spent many mornings anticipating my name or number being called at public blind drawings, but never have I seen the waterfowl hunter turnout Harsens Island has every morning. At 5 a.m. the wind howled outside the Michigan DNR barn on the island and hunters poured out of vehicles, scurrying to register their draw cards. Trucks, boats and dogs filled the parking lot, and camouflage–clad people were everywhere. Old men, women and boys alike tossed their number into the computer drawing system, and at 5:30 a.m., the sealed envelopes were placed in a pile on the counter.

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Awaiting the draw on Harsens Island

The drawing rules and regulations, along with shooting times and other miscellaneous property rules, were read before the draw. One old-time duck hunter, more than likely bored after hearing the same set of regulations read to him for the 500^th time, stepped forward to choose an envelope. The time had come. The moment we had all rolled out of our warm beds to face the cold north wind for was finally at hand. The roar of chatter that resonated from the waterfowling warriors in the crowd fell silent and it was like waiting to be chosen for an Academy Award. The smell of strong coffee and old duck hunting jackets overwhelmed my senses as my ears and eyes focused on the old man drawing the envelope.

Numbers were announced quickly, “42, 7, 13, 19, 36, 20…” Once they read 40 numbers, I just stepped to the side to let everyone else celebrate their great fortune. The early-chosen hunters marched toward the front, beaming a smile from ear-to-ear, to select a spot in the flooded corn while the rest of us lurked near the back to watch the big board of blinds dwindle. I sipped my coffee and watched as the victorious ones danced their way toward the parking lot, floating through the air on the expectation of killing a limit of greenheads. The trick at Harsens is to get an early enough pick to be in the flooded corn while the rest hunt the surrounding marsh.

My blind was out in the marsh. I won’t mention what number because it is of no significance, as it is more than likely a place the locals would like to avoid if at all possible. But the marsh was a magical place, with shadows cast from the towering vegetation. We tucked ourselves back into the cattails at shooting time and watched as our two dozen decoys bobbed in the wind. Shotgun blasts filled the air around us, but I enjoyed the marsh’s enveloping aura and watched ducks from a distance. The wind rattling the cattails provided a constant thrashing sound, and we watched flocks of birds streaming along the horizon.

We managed to shoot a drake wigeon, which kept our group from putting the dreaded zero on the board. I stood outside the barn after checking in and watched as hunters checked game straps of mallards one after another. The excitement of hunters who ended up with great draws was contagious, and my optimism for the following day’s hunt soared.

A larger crowd than Tuesday; Wednesday morning was just as windy and looked to be a duck hunter’s kind of day. My heart was set on a good draw as the guys I planned to hunt with were just as optimistic as I. The numbers were drawn, “16, 21, 51, 36, 2, 47…”

We made our way out to the marsh around 6:30 a.m., and I would say what number blind we chose, but it’s not significant as it is more than likely another place the locals try to avoid.

Good or bad draw, the hunts were spectacular. While other groups managed to put up greater numbers, our group was graced with the marsh’s beauty and serenity on both mornings. Filling a bag limit can sometimes be forgotten, but the time spent hunting in the marsh on Harsens Island is one that I will never forget.