waterfowling

Sadie is a 5-year-old chocolate lab and not only a well-trained retriever, but a prime example of the classic relationship between gunner and gun dog. During the past couple autumns, I've been privileged to spend a few mornings with Sadie and her owner, Doug Harloff. Each outing has been invigorating, being able witness firsthand a good wingshot and his loyal sidekick at work.

A short wait in the dark was followed by a pre-sunrise calm.

Low light as Doug & Sadie both wait for the morning's first flight.

Decoys are in place.

The onset of a retrieve.

The return trip - mission accomplished.

Time for a little TLC.

Checking the northwestern sky - no ducks sneaking in the backdoor.

Doug explains to Sadie that the ducks have stopped flying.

Look at Sadie's facial expression: "Whaddya mean we're leaving?"

Happily for Sadie, on the way home there was a bit of pheasant action. She's equally good at locating ringnecks. 

Having spent time with Doug and Sadie both in the cattails and afield, I come away with the impression these two are not simply an owner and his dog - they're good friends.  

With autumn nearly upon us, and early goose season underway, I got to thinking about the late Albert Frieday. I decided to call his son Bill.

I was still in high school when Bill’s younger brother Steve introduced me to the sport of waterfowling. We mainly hunted geese in corn lots and later I came to relish the mileu of the duck hunter. Steve entered the Marine Corp after graduation, and upon his return, we took up where we left off. Steve wasn’t home a week when we headed off in search of new places to duck hunt. Our first day of scouting for new hunting grounds resulted in a hike through tall grass that left paper cuts on our legs. In our haste to leave the grassy overgrowth we soon found ourselves   stuck thigh deep in swampy muck.  

Not long afterward I met Steve’s father and brother, Bill, also a Marine vet. It was only a matter of time before I had the opportunity to hunt with the elder Frieday, a man I had heard Steve speak of a great deal. I remember hunting with Albert on two occasions, and both times I walked on egg shells. 

Albert Frieday while serving in China.

Albert was a stern man, a no-nonsense individual not to be crossed. He grew up in Oakfield and took to the swamps and woods in his early years where he wielded both shotgun and fishing rod, becoming handy with both. In 1926 he entered the Marine Corp and in 1928 took part in the Nicaraguan “Banana Wars” and later manned a machine gun in China. After seven years he left the Corp but was drafted by the Army in ’42 after Pearl Harbor which resulted in another four year hitch.  After the war Albert and his wife Mart Catherine settled down in Batavia.

The rafters of the Frieday garage were stocked with carved duck decoys, mostly wooden but some were fashioned from cork. There were also a number of goose decoys, hip boots, and of course, Albert’s foul weather gear. Inclement weather didn’t deter him one bit, the nastier the better. “The weather didn’t bother Dad at all”, said Bill. “He liked to hunt ducks & geese in foul weather.”  One of Bill’s earliest recollections of going afield with his father was as a 12 year old, helping Albert set decoys in the pre-dawn darkness. “I was too young to hunt, but I remember carrying burlap bags filled with decoys along muddy trails while it was pitch black outside” said Bill, who along with Steve eventually became an avid waterfowler for a number of years. 

Albert was an old-school duck hunter, shown below with his Winchester Model 12.  He would pluck every duck and goose by hand, right down to the last feather. Mary Catherine Frieday would place strips of bacon over the ducks and geese prior to roasting and many a wild duck and goose dinner was enjoyed in the Frieday home. The depression era fresh in his mind, Albert made it clear that no wild game harvested was to be wasted. But there were exceptions to this rule, much to Albert's chagrin.

The Friedays had a pair of Irish Setters, Freedom and Goldie, who were mainly used for hunting upland game, but Albert would often take one of the dogs along when he hunted ducks and geese in corn lots and winter wheat fields. Prior to one such hunt, having loaded our gear into the back of Albert’s station wagon, I hopped into the back seat alongside Freedom. In the pocket of my field jacket was a pack of Twinkies and a bag of M&M’s. I tore open the Twinkie’s first and with my right hand stuffed one in my mouth. With my left hand I extended the remaining Twinkie toward Freedom who was eagerly waiting with his maw wide open, his huge tongue at the ready. The cream-filled cake was inches from his mouth when Steve and Albert boomed in unison, “DON’T GIVE HIM ANY.” At the time I didn’t realize they were thinking of the dog’s dental hygiene – I just thought they were being mean. It was late afternoon when the first flock of geese came in. They passed by at close range and Albert dropped a double. Freedom promptly ran to the fallen birds, picked one up and – headed in the opposite direction. He eventually returned but without the goose, which we never did locate. For years I figured the dog was being vindictive, as a payback for the reneged Twinkie. Only recently did Bill Frieday tell me Freedom had a habit of running off with downed waterfowl.     

I was fortunate to have known Albert Frieday, if only for a short time. He was not only an old- school outdoorsman, he was a husband, father, Marine and Army combat veteran and a great American.