Carl Wussow’s Spring Pond
It was October 20 and Major Peabody was going hunting. During the last half of that month, he usually went hunting for ducks and grouse. The terms of the Peabody Spendthrift Trust obligated me to personally deliver his first-day-of-the-month remittances. The Major expanded that responsibility to include driving him to and from the airport whenever he undertook a hunting trip.
I had already brought his suitcase to the van when he came out of his apartment building carrying a light brown pig skin Leg-o’-Mutton gun case containing his vintage 20 ga. double barreled Lefever shotgun. The weapon was his pride and his joy and he wouldn’t let me touch it, let alone carry the gun case. He explained the reason with a terse statement. “You might, drop it.”
Today, as he closed the outer door of the building, I noticed he carried only the pig skin case. From past experience, I knew he always took two weapons with him - the Lefever for the grouse and a 12 ga. for the duck. “Major,” I called out to him. “You forgot your 12 ga. shotgun.” Peabody paid no attention to my warning. He slid open the back door of the van and carefully placed the Leg-o’-Mutton on the seat. As he opened the door to join me in the front, I tried again. “Major,” I repeated, but got no further.
“Let’s go,” he interrupted. “I don’t want to miss the plane. I do like to be in the woods in mid autumn. It’s a great time to be there. The greens of the spruce and balsam and the reds and yellows of the deciduous trees are a memorable sight.” I couldn’t believe Major Peabody would leave on his regular late October hunt without his duck gun. Now that he was sitting next to me, I decided to try again while we were still close enough to his apartment to easily return and get the missing gun.
“Major, I believe you’ve forgotten one of your shotguns,” I said loudly, slowly and enunciating carefully, thinking he may be losing his hearing.
“No need to shout, my boy. I’m taking only my Lefever,” he said, just as if that simple statement were an explanation. There had to be a method in his madness. Leaving his duck gun behind wasn’t an oversight. My curiosity was killing me. We drove on in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.
“I suppose your curiosity is killing you,” he said. “There is a good reason for leaving the 12 ga. behind. I might as well explain it to you.” Peabody leaned back, made himself comfortable, and told the story.
“Five or six years ago,” he began, “I was invited to participate in a Ruffed Grouse hunt. The invitation was extended by a man I met during a previous South Dakota pheasant expedition. Frankly, I didn’t particularly like the man. Normally I don’t associate with a person who would ground swat a pheasant. Still, one must be willing to subordinate personal feelings if one is truly interested in securing opportunities to be asked to join upland bird hunts. I accepted the man’s invitation.
“The other hunters were strangers to me. They were cut from the same cloth as my host. It was not a pleasant hunt. To name a few of the perpetrated outrages: shouts of ‘I got him’ rang out from men who hadn’t fired a shot; a poker IOU wasn’t honored; and, the only Scotch whisky in camp was blended. There was only one good consequence flowing from that entire misbegotten foray. My host had hired a local named Carl Wussow to serve as guide and camp cook.
“Carl and I got to know each other. During the first evening, we both apologized for being in the company of the others. Carl admitted he had a bad experience with the host. He told me he didn’t get full payment for the food he bought for the previous year’s hunt. He had again asked to be reimbursement for those out-of-pocket expenses. He request was again denied.
“After preparing the next morning’s breakfast, Carl quit. He left the camp and took his food supplies with him. I joined in the exodus and the two of us hunted together for the rest of the week. It was the beginning of a solid friendship. I now have a standing invitation to visit him and hunt on his land.
“Carl owns 160 acres in the Argonne National Forest. His quarter section harbors grouse, Woodcock, wild turkey (both distilled and two footed), deer and various other birds and animals. It also contains two pot holes and a spring pond. I’ve never been to the pot holes, but he took me to the pond.
“The substantial flow of water from a spring produces a waterway that curves like a scimitar. It’s seventy or eighty feet across at its widest point and about a quarter mile long. Then it pinches together, gets some additional water from the pot holes and forms a stream which empties into the Brule River. The pond isn’t very deep and I could easily see the gravelly bottom. Carl told me he caught trout there in the springtime before the sun and the weed growth raised the water temperature
“Of course, I thought about duck hunting. In answer to my questions, Carl eyed me speculatively and came to the conclusion I could be trusted. He took me to a knuckle of land that stuck out into the pond. A well camouflaged blind was concealed at its point. From the blind I could see both ends of the scimitar.
“Carl told me the pond wasn’t always productive, but usually provided first class pass shooting. Both local and migrating duck seemed to have a natural flyway down the center of that scimitar. He told me I could use the blind. He also told me it was his secret place and warned me to keep my mouth shut.
“For the next three years, whenever I visited Carl during the duck season, I’d get up early. Carl would make a pot of coffee for me and then go back to sleep. I’d carry a dozen blocks to the pond, set them out and await the action. I’ve seen muskrats. I’ve seen otter. I’ve seen deer come to the pond to drink. I’ve seen eagles – far more eagles than ducks. Hooded Mergansers came once in a while to feed on small fish. Occasionally a Wood Duck or a puddle duck would make a brief appearance, but, otherwise, the Duck Hunting Gods never smiled upon me.”
When we arrived at the airport, the Major took his Leg-o’-Mutton and suitcase, headed for the check-in and made a final comment. “Last year I managed to drop my first duck – a teal – and if Doc Carmichael hadn’t alerted me, I wouldn’t have been awake to shoot that one. In short, my young friend, the 12 ga. will stay in Philadelphia when I visit Carl Wussow. As much as I love duck hunting, I’ve given up on Carl Wussow’s Spring Pond. From now on my attentions will be directed toward Carl’s Woodcock and Ruffed Grouse.”
* * * * *
Carl’s nephew, Tom, lives and works in Green Bay. Like his uncle, Tom is a hunter. This year, for the first time, he would join Carl and the Major for their regular October hunt. Tom was waiting for the Major at the Austin Straubel airport. He introduced himself, loaded Peabody’s gear into his pick-up and they started the trip north to Carl’s cabin.
On the way, Tom told the Major how much Carl loved to hunt ducks. He told him how, for years, he had planted wild rice, duck potato and wild celery in his pot holes. Every duck in the neighborhood spends its evenings there. Tom was convinced that Canadian ducks considered Uncle Carl’s pot holes to be the very best restaurants on their migratory route. Peabody’s jaw dropped, but Tom was watching the road and didn’t see it.
Tom chuckled about how close-mouthed Uncle Carl was about his secret duck hunting pot holes. He was sure Uncle Carl had told no one about them, excepting, of course, the Major.
Then Tom chuckled again and added how Uncle Carl usually told people to hunt his spring pond. He even built a nice blind for them even though seeing a duck on that pond was a very rare experience.