Days with the Ducks in Idaho. 
The golden days of two months’ vacation 
spent in Colorado, Utah and Idaho were draw- 
; ing to a close, and now the fulfillment of desire 
j seemed at hand, for it was on Sept. 15 last that 
Idaho’s game calendar said, “Open on ducks.” 
For that event we had been impatiently wait¬ 
ing, as day after day the feathered tribe, safe 
under the guardianship of an excellent law which 
is enforced here without fear or favor, had bid 
us defiance. I had walked the shores of a pond 
literally filled with ducks which paid but very 
little attention, and now, equipped with an Idaho 
license, was bent on taking toll. 
On the 14th Will Calvert, my brother-in-law, 
came down from Pocatello and we began to 
make preparations. Guns were overhauled, a 
plentiful supply of shells procured, and bright 
and early on the morning of the 15th we set 
out, only to meet with disappointment. The 
ponds I spoke of were simply depressions filled 
with waste water from the irrigating canals and 
we found that this supply had been cut off, so 
that very little water remained. A few snipe 
fell to our guns, but no ducks, so we vowed 
that “Mahomet would go to the mountain,” and 
began preparations for the trip we had been 
planning if suitable hunting could not be found 
at home. 
Will knew a Frenchman who had told him 
of the wonderful hunting he had found on Raft 
River, and in search of the Frenchman we went. 
He, with true Gallic eloquence, painted a glow¬ 
ing picture which decided us then and there to 
make the trip. “It ees about twenty mile,” said 
Frenchy, and gave us minute directions. For 
twenty miles on this river, he said, the only 
building was a sawmill and here it seemed was 
the opportunity we had longed for. Away from 
civilization we should surely meet with abundant 
success. 
A hurried trip to town, a munificent store of 
provisions, a covered wagon borrowed from our 
good neighbor Billy Betcher, and everything was 
in readiness to start the night of Sept. 18. At 
4 o’clock the next morning we rolled out to find 
a drizzling rain and heavy clouds which be¬ 
tokened more. After a hurried breakfast pre¬ 
pared by Mrs. Case we decided first to try our 
luck on the ponds again before starting out, so 
just at daylight we sallied forth. Ghostlike, the 
earth was wrapped in wreaths of vapor, mak¬ 
ing it almost impossible to see any distance. But 
this favored us to some extent, for at the first 
pond we surprised a lone pair of mallards and 
made a clean kill for each gun. The rain had 
nearly ceased when we got back home with six 
ducks, and 10 o’clock saw us away. The day 
was still disagreeable, but propitious for the 
duck hunter. As in this part of Idaho the more 
rain the better the sandy road, we made good time, 
and at half-past three we reached Downard’s 
ferry, a flatboat attached to a cable stretched 
across the wide shallow Snake. We drove on 
board, the boat pushed off and the current pulled 
us to the other shore. “Four bits,” said the 
boatman, and thus was another ex-Missourian 
discovered. 
“How far to Raft River?” we asked, and he 
said h was about thirty miles. It had been a 
long time since that 4 o’clock breakfast and now 
the camp stove came out, a fire was kindled and 
bacon was frying and coffee boiling in an in¬ 
credibly short time. At 6 o'clock we completed 
the twelve mile trip across a sage brush desert 
to the ranch house, which lies at the foot of the 
mountain and is the last outpost of civilization 
for many miles. A mountain stream wanders 
down toward the Snake, fed by giant springs at 
the mountain’s base. A flock of teal rose from 
a little pool, the surroundings looked ideal for 
a camping place and here we decided to spend 
the night. The ranchman, with Western hos¬ 
pitality, bade us put our horses in his stable, and 
as we had feed along, would take no pay. We 
asked the oft repeated question, “How far to 
Raft River?” and were dumbfounded when he 
replied that it was twenty-five miles. 
Right there we decided we would search no 
more for Raft River. It may be a mythical 
stream for aught I know, but the ranchman 
confirmed the F'renchman’s story of the good 
shooting there, and we hope to visit it some 
other time. 
We had been told that there was a lake here 
and decided to visit it before night, but after 
a hard tramp found only the dry bed and no 
sign of game. Returning, we pitched our tent. 
To the right a barren sage brush desert, to the 
left the lofty mountains, and for our immediate 
surroundings a giant rock against a ledge, and 
in a niche of this we placed our camp stove, the 
wagOn was backed against the tent, and the re¬ 
sult a cosy little room fit for the king of camp¬ 
ers, and we, his loyal subjects, were content. 
Harley Calvert, who had accompanied us,- was 
commissioned assistant to the cook. The ducks 
killed en route were soon simmering in the pot. 
If you never ate boiled canvasback and broth 
prepared by a capable cook like Will under the 
shadow of an Idaho mountain, you have lost 
something that any epicure would exclaim over. 
Is is no stereotyped phrase when I say that 
ample justice was done to it. And there was a 
fourteen-year-old boy who got his fill of duck 
for once. Gone were the cares of earth, the 
fetters of business. We were boys again back 
in mother nature’s lap with only thought of the 
morrow and its store of joys. 
The air was vibrant with the call of the moun¬ 
tain jay when we awoke. 
“Ducks?” asked the ranchman, “you can kill 
all you want right here without going to Raft 
River,” so down the stream we started. The 
creek wound like a snake, dense sage brush, 
some of it ten feet high, on either side. Here 
you could step across; again a pool of several 
yards had formed, often backed up against a 
cliff many feet in height whose sheer blank 
walls looked forbidding, indeed. We flushed 
two teal which, circling, dropped down again 
a few hundred yards on. We approached the 
overhanging bank when just below, but out of 
range, up came a drove. “There go our ducks,” 
said Will, but I was undecided, and just then 
the two came up nearly in our faces. In¬ 
stinctively Will took the left and I the right, 
both scoring kills. We separated. Will cross¬ 
ing the stream in order that we could explore 
each bend, the many crooks making arduous 
walking. I was a little in advance. Will some 
distance away when, at the crack of his gun, I 
whirled and beheld literally a shower of ducks, 
while ever and anon at the crack of his gun one 
came tumbling down. We gathered up five for 
the five shots. Again Will proved to be in luck. 
'I'hree teal flushed on his side and a beautiful 
double added to the bag. “Here, old man, scare 
a few over my way,” I yelled, but Will grinned 
and pocketed his game. 
Some distance down I led by a hundred yards, 
determined to get some shooting if there was 
any to be had, but keeping a wary eye back, and 
all at once I saw four come up from under one 
of those steep banks not thirty yards from my 
fellow hunter. “Bang!” and a duck came down. 
“Bang! bang!” and two others fell. The re¬ 
maining duck, a mallard drake, was coming like 
an arrow in my direction and I was holding 
on him with the certainty of at least one more 
kill to my credit, when Will’s repeater spoke 
again and it was all off. And the pesky scamp 
had the audacity to laugh about it, too. But 
it was just as much sport to watch such shoot¬ 
ing, twelve clean kills on flying ducks with 
twelve shots. A little further I ran on to a 
flock of mountain quail, beautiful blue fellows, 
with mottled breasts and tufted heads. The sea¬ 
son was not open until Oct. i, but I imagine it 
would be no easy task to secure a good bag, as 
they hardly flush at all and run like partridges 
through the sage. 
On our return the shooting fell to me, and 
while I did not equal Will’s score, I did well 
enough. Our bag consisted of five varieties, mal¬ 
lard, teal, blackjack, broadbill and a large brown 
duck neither had ever seen before. For dinner 
we had friend teal, young and tender as a spring- 
chicken, with the gamy flavor of wild rice added, 
a feast to tempt the most dainty palate. 
We broke camp and followed down the stream 
about ten miles to another ranch. This, time 
our camp was made in a little sage brush pasture 
inclosed with fence, in one corner a little open 
spot with handsome cedar trees. Satiated with 
hunting, we waited for the night. The coyotes 
serenaded us and I slept to dream of the rush 
and whir of wings escaping from a big-mouthed 
prowler who was trying to rob me of my game. 
Daylight, and as cold as a November morn at 
home. The little stove puffed valiantly and again 
it was fried teal with bacon trimmings, hot cof¬ 
fee, potatoes, snowy Idaho bread with creamery 
butter. What more could mortal man ask for 
with the crisp mountain air pulsing in his blood 
and a day of sport ahead? 
Harley drove the team back around the wind¬ 
ing mountain road and we followed the stream. 
On the home stretch across the sage brush desert 
little lizards darted, and in and out the diminu- 
