The Sun’s Gonna Rise Tomorrow

“Come hunt tomorrow. You need it.”

My buddy Dave Holzknecht sent that text on a late-January Saturday afternoon as I lay in bed, when I’d normally be out chasing waterfowl. 

It had been exactly one week since we lost one of our best friends, Justin Steinman. 

I didn’t want to duck hunt. I didn’t want to do anything but mope. I have lost grandparents, fraternity brothers, and others in my life, but not somebody with whom I had spent nearly 60 days a year hunting ducks and geese. In some ways, I was closer to Steinman than I was with my family. And I was hurting.

Steinman was six years my junior, but I learned many things from him in the five years I knew him — calling waterfowl, picking the perfect hunting spot, proper decoy placement, and how to be a decent human being, just to name a few. As a new public land waterfowl hunter, I encamped myself with him, Dave, and others and absorbed as much as I could. 

He lived with me for a year. We cooked together, fished constantly in the spring and summer, visited our local dive bar and favorite neighborhood restaurant, all in our years of becoming great friends. We just clicked. 

But most importantly, we hunted well together. Not a word needed to be spoken when ducks were working or when to take the shot. We were good at it. I could not fathom duck hunting without him.

He made every hunt enjoyable, even if a shot was never fired. 

I recall one December day with a lull in mallard activity. He had purchased a pack of donuts at the local Casey’s some hours before and was having his mid-morning snack when he said, “Hey Milo, look, chocolate milk!” I watched as he dunked a donut into the dirty marsh water and sent it down the hatch. We laughed for a solid minute. It was the type of guy he was, and I am glad I knew him. 

Freedom At Last

Ultimately, Dave was right. I needed to get out of the house and back in the saddle again. I loaded up my waders, my 20-gauge, and shells that Steinman had handloaded for me. I headed to southwest Missouri, still unsure of what I was doing. Upon arrival, Dave, who had been squirrelled away at his camp, greeted me with a Mexican duck dinner. We reminisced, expressed our feelings, and hit the hay early. I lay awake for some time before falling victim to physical and emotional exhaustion. 

Early the next morning, we set off for the river. Missouri was in a deep freeze at the time, and if ducks were going to be around, they would be hitting dry fields and rivers. Dave shoved off in his kayak to our spot, some 200-yards upriver, and I clicked on my headlamp to make the trek onto dry land. I got turned around twice, cursing my futility. My mind still was not right. I pressed on and reached the area we would hunt. It was a steep bank overlooking a mildly flowing river — a great ambush spot. We would be shooting down on any ducks who came into our calling and decoys. After setting the spread and enjoying some coffee, some normalcy began to return.

As the sun rose on the east side of sorrow, turkeys serenaded us with thunderous gobbles. A pack of mallards, chuckling in unison, cruised overhead with purpose. Heading to feed on anything they could find, I silently surmised. The anxiety and uncertainty began to subside. Shortly after shooting light, a hen wood duck landed out of sight, and Dave stalked after her. Moments later, we had our first duck of the day. 

As he got back on the bank overlooking the river, I was happy he had us on the board. As he went to put the duck on his game strap, we realized it was banded. We hugged, high-fived, and yelled in jubilee. Maybe this was the right choice, I silently thought. 

Shortly after the banded wood duck excitement, two mallard drakes came screaming in, slammed on their brakes, and pitched right into our decoy spread. I did not even shoot. Dave dispatched both. It felt as if I had shackles on me. Soon after, a pack of gadwalls and wigeon repeated the actions of the two mallards. 

We let loose with our 20 gauges, and all but one of the six were lying in the river. Freedom at last. I scurried down the sharp bank and gathered up our ducks. I smiled for the first time in seven days as I touched the grayish blue leg of a yearling drake wigeon. 

As we sat there reveling in our success, I finally started to feel right. A weight lifted off my shoulders and I laughed. I had not laughed in a long while. Sometime later, a group of mallards flew in, and Dave took them. Later, I connected with two mallards for the first time that day, just like I had done with Steinman many times before. 

For the first time in my life, I can say it was absolutely about the ducks I harvested. We ended up with eight ducks: four mallards, two gadwalls, a wigeon, and the hen wood duck. Shy of a two-man limit on paper, but not in our minds. 

Waterfowl Hunting: A Brotherhood

Waterfowl hunting is a brotherhood. Contentious at times, but a brotherhood, nonetheless. We all do it because we must. It defines us. When you meet good ones, you best latch onto them and take in all you can. 

I was lucky enough to know Steinman, and his ideology lives on. I have been hunting since I could fathom a thought, but first hunts come in all shapes and sizes. This was one I was not expecting to occur. Life, and duck hunting, finds a way to displace your plans and mindset. Good friends and determination are assets you must utilize to push forward. 

“I cannot believe you are duck hunting again so soon,” a sentiment I both heard and felt. 

But you must remember, nobody can tell you how to grieve. Ultimately, getting back out there and hunting was the cure for my ailing mind. After this memorable hunt, I thought, I cannot believe I did not duck hunt sooner after I lost my friend. Continuing his legacy, utilizing his tactics, and spending time with another good friend was more therapeutic than anything I could have imagined. 

I have had many first hunts, but none as unique or hard as the one after losing a close friend. I was riddled with anxiety, uncertainty, and dread. It felt as if I was waterfowl hunting for the first time in my life again. 

How do you continue doing something that reminds you of somebody you can no longer talk to? I love waterfowl hunting. It brings me peace, and I have met some of my best friends doing so. 

But so soon after his death felt wrong. I since have learned you had better strap on your waders, put on your best face, and attack the day. His time on earth is done, but I can do my best to honor his legacy. I may even dunk a donut in a marsh one day to get a laugh out of my friends or children. 

As the morning flight subsided, we sat in silence for quite a while. Not an awkward silence, but a silence that heals. 

I broke it. 

“You know, if it were me who passed away, Steinman would be here with you instead of me,” I said to Dave. 

“And he with you,” Dave immediately replied. 

My healing process had begun. This day in late January confirmed the sun will rise tomorrow.