The Gravel Bar 

Here is one of the stories I wrote for my book. It's about a very special place where I spent many, many hours alone, with friends, with family, and with various dogs.

 

As you slowly bump along the dirt road you will eventually come to the trestle where slow moving freight trains clack along the tracks on their way across the river. Below the ancient ties the riffled water gives way to a pool that often holds good numbers of salmon in late September and early October. As the pool tails out, the river widens and slows: the flatness of it disturbed only by boulders scattered just under the surface. There in the soft current, during the later part of the season, you will find goldeneyes, buffleheads, Canada geese, a few wigeon and once in awhile a mallard or two. A bit further downstream, the road side of the river bank is lined with large oak trees under which woodducks spend many hours searching for acorns or resting on the rocks scattered along the edge. As you continue along, the oaks give way to willows which become too thick to see through, and the side of the mountain on your left walks toward the river until the two nearly become one. Here the rocky face and the willows form a sort of tunnel that transports you into a new world and all that you brushed past fades away into a new reality. Before you the world begins to widen to the point where it would be easy to be content with the view, and for most people that would be enough. However, for those very few who know, the real treasure lies not ahead but is hidden just beyond behind the willows in a place not easily seen.

 

Each river holds its’ hidden gems close to its’ breast. These places are not freely given but instead must be discovered through a desire to see just what is beyond the horizon. Things that come easy are often underappreciated, but that which must be worked for to attain becomes treasure to the explorer. Many will wander by something forever, always wondering, “What if?’, yet never will they move past the question. Others will take the first step, but they lack the imagination to see what might be, and they return to the path of familiarity. Only a select few ever see the possibilities presented, and even less will embrace the unknown long enough to get to know it. Only those in that last group will be fortunate enough to find the gravel bar. 

 

I have hunted the gravel bar for many years. Upon arrival in the early morning
darkness the gear is dropped off on the side of the road before moving the truck a short distance down the way. With just a headlamp to shed light on the path the walk back to the drop point always seems longer than it really is. The gear is placed in plastic sleds and skidded down the embankment until it reaches the base of the willows ten feet below the road. After carefully stepping into the water the sleds are pulled into the river. Held by ropes on the sled bows they are floated along behind as you walk through forty yards of mid-calf water until reaching the gravel bar. The sleds are then drug up onto the rocks to hold them in place.

 

Always the first order of business was to place the decoys. When I first started hunting here, I used floating duck decoys only. Before long I started including a few full body standing duck decoys. At some point I added a few full body standing geese and later added some floating geese.  In the end I settled on two dozen floating ducks, mostly wigeon with a few divers, a dozen floating geese and a half dozen standing full body geese. I’m reasonably certain I put more thought into that setup than was necessary, but I have always been prone to experimentation. The most curious part of all of this was that each and every day I hunted that gravel bar I would first walk to the middle of it, and, using my headlight and my flashlight, I would scour the area before deciding just where to put every bird. I say curious because based on the water level, which was immediately obvious upon reaching the bar, I knew exactly where the decoys were going to go. Still, it never stopped me from examining it all as if it was the first time I had ever laid eyes on it.

 

Next it was time to set up the blind. I started by setting up, against the willows at the end of the bar, a homemade eight foot wide frame of one by four boards that was made to adjust for both height and the unevenness of the ground. Then lightweight camouflage netting was placed across the framework, one side to the other. The last order of business was to place willow branches along the front and sides. At that point the entire blind blended in with the background so well that even for me it was hard to see in the daylight once you were out fifty yards or so. The willow branches were used over and over throughout the entire season. They were cut the morning of the first trip of the year, and at the end of each day they were collected, bundled, and placed back in the willow trees where they were not easily seen. When the blind was set up the two plastic sleds were placed one inside the other, drug into the blind and set to the back. A folding camp stool was placed between the sleds and the blind and that became my throne for the day. After once again checking the decoys I would sit down in the blind, open my pack, uncase my gun, pour a cup of coffee, place my call lanyard around my neck, turn off and remove my headlamp, and quietly sit while I waited for the rising sun to transform night into day.

 

Although I could not see it in the dark, I knew exactly what surrounded me. To my front was a gravel bar about twenty-five feet wide that stretched twenty-five yards to the front before disappearing into the water. To the right of that was a slice of still water and to the right of that were tall willow trees that filled the space between the water and the cut bank leading to the road. Behind me was a thick, tangled mass of willow trees. To my left was the main channel of the river. The current here was swifter than it looked, but not overpowering, and stretched thirty-five yards until it reached the far bank. Here you were met with black berry bushes, oak trees and willows that separated the river from a field. When the air was clear you could look up and see the stars so bright and clear you thought you could reach up and touch them. When the air was cold the warmer water formed a mist that hung over the river. Some days that mist was light enough to see through while others it was so thick you could hardly recognize the end of the bar. I much preferred it to be light.

 

It's amazing what you can “see” in the dark. If you sat silently, and listened closely, you could hear the sound of the water gently rolling across the rocks as it traveled along the side of the bar. Across the river, and out into the field, there was the soft lowing of the cattle. Occasionally there was the sound of the breeze running through the trees as it traveled up or down the river. As darkness slowly gave way to light, I would search the sky above the water looking for ducks as they began to trade up and down the river. Catching glimpses of them now meant the morning would be productive while seeing nothing would mean I would have more time to enjoy uninterrupted cups of coffee. Very seldom would these river ducks ever make a sound in the air instead choosing to make their way to wherever they were going without great fanfare.

 

I killed a great many ducks and geese here: mallards, woodducks, wigeon, goldeneyes, buffleheads. I shared my paradise with others: Sarah, Aaron, Bob, Mark, Ryan…but mostly I hunted alone. I worked my dogs here: Hannah, Houli and Silas. I saw ducks, geese, salmon, otters, kingfishers, and songbirds. Yes, I shared, but in this one, single, solitary place I was given more than I ever deserved. Here I received joy and sorrow, satisfaction and frustration, excitement and boredom, plentiful bounty and empty hands. But the one thing I was given that stands above all else, was contentment.

 

When one day death overtakes me, spread some of my ashes here, for the gravel bar is a place I never want to leave.