The Raft

D. E. Larsen, DVM

Don and I duck walked along the old fence line beside the marsh on our place on Catching Creek. I clutched my old shotgun to my chest. Peering through the tall grass that grew along the fence, I kept track of the flock of ducks feeding on the pond.

This pond would be nearly dry in the summer. There was a ditch that drained the pond into Catching Creek. But with the rains and the high water level in the creek, it filled quickly in the fall as the ditch would feed water back into the pond from the creek.

Opening weekend of duck season brought a lot of excitement this year. We were eighth graders and this was our first real duck hunt of the season. Actually, of our lives. Mine was a borrowed shotgun from my Uncle Duke. An old double barrel with a broken stock secured with black elastic tape. It had two triggers and hammers. It was a sixteen gauge, it was hard to find shotgun shells in that gauge. Don’s was an old twelve guage pump. When standing with the stock on the ground, the gun was a good six inches taller than Don.

There was not a lot of cover offered along the marsh. This was going to be a long shot for us. But we had practiced and we were sure we would get a couple of ducks.

I parted the grass for another look. The ducks were as close as they were going to get. We needed to go just a little farther to make sure are line of fire was save. 

I motioned to Don, and we went a few more steps. Then, after a couple of deep breaths, we stood up and shouldered our shotguns.

The ducks lifted off the water the moment we stood up. We leveled our guns and fired. I would like to think that I aimed, but I have no visual memory of any aiming. Pointed if a better term 

I fired my two shots and the ducks were gone before I could reload. Don got off three shots, but the last one was wasted at fleeing ducks, already out of range.

But there were three ducks floating on the pond. Don and I looked at each other, realizing that we had to retrieve those ducks.

“Where is your dog?” Don asked.

“You mean Dex,” I replied. “He’s a cowdog. He wouldn’t know a duck from a stick of wood. Besides, he is probably hiding under the sink on the back porch. That is were he goes when any guns come out.”

“How are we going to get those ducks?” Don asked.

“I am going to wade out there and grab them,” I said as I handed my shotgun and wallet to Don. I pulled off my sweatshirt and laid it across the fence.

“That’s creek water now. It won’t be warm like it is in the summer,” Don said as I started out into the water. 

I quickly reached a depth the was over the top of my boots. The water filled my boots and nearly froze my feet. I continued on, reaching the first two ducks with the water about at the miccle of my thighs. The third duck was another ten yards away.

A few more steps and the water crept up past my belly button. I was chest deep when I stretched out and grabbed the duck by his head. I’m thinking that the duck hunt is over as I headed back to shore.

I dropped the ducks in front of Don and tore off my teeshirt. I was starting to shiver as I pulled my sweatshirt over my head.

Don picked up the large mallard drake. “I take this one,” Don said. “You can have the other two since you are the one that waded out to get them.”

“That’s fine,” I replied as I bent my knees to drain as much water out of my boots as possible. “But I think the duck hunt is over. I have got to get into some dry clothes. In fact, a hot bath might be in order.”

We headed back to house with water sloshing in my boots on every step.

“We need a boat,” Don said.

“I don’t have a boat, but maybe we could build a raft,” I replied. “Let’s give some thought to that. I think we have some old two-by-fours in the barn.”

“We can’t build a raft out of two-by-fours,” Don said. “We need some heavy lumber or logs,”

We walked along the old fence, quiet and in deep thought. I glanced up at the young timber on the hill. I shook my head, too hard. Besides, Dad would never allow us to cut down a tree for a raft.

“We could pick up some of those rail road ties they stack along the tracks up the road by Shulls place,” Don finally said.

“Yah! That would work well,” I said. “We could get some of the used ones. They just throw those away.”

So, on Saturday, after the cows were milked and all the calves were fed, I left the feed wagon hooked to the tractor. Don showed up with gloves in his pocket.

“What are you guys up to this morning?” Dad asked.

“We are going to build a raft for the pond,” Don replied. “Dave doesn’t want to try to train your cowdog how to retrieve ducks.”

That was all that was said. Don and I loaded up on the tractor and headed up the road to Shulls.

We backed the trailer up to the railroad siding to a tangled stacked of used railroad ties.

“These will work great,” I said as I turned over one of the ties on edge of the stack. “The down side is in pretty good shape.”

We loaded six ties onto the feed wagon. They were heavier that we expected, and both Don and I were a little tied by the time we pushed the last tie onto the wagon.

On the way back, we stopped at the river bank and picked out a couple of willow saplings to use for poles. Then we stopped at the barn for three two-by-fours and Dad’s coffee can full of nails and a hammer. Don picked up the hand saw as we were leaving.

We backed the feed wagon close to the edge of the pond and unloaded the railroad ties right at the water’s edge.

The rest of the job was easy. We lined up the ties and secured them them with the two-by-fours, one on each end and one in the middle. Don was busy sawing the ends of the two-by-fours off as I was finishing nailing the last board in place.

“I’ll put the tractor away and take care of the tools,” I said. “You can get this thing in the water and we’ll try it out.”

Don didn’t say anything as I drove tractor and wagon back to the barn. When I returned, expecting to jump on raft, Don was sitting on the edge of raft waiting for me.

“This thing is pretty heavy,” Don said. “I can’t budge it.”

We both tried to push it, to no avail. We could pry it an inch or two using the willow poles. We ninally figured out that we could move one corner a foot or two without a lot of effort. So going from one corner to the other, we walk the raft out onto the water.

And what a beauty. It floated high and dry. It hardly noticed when we climbed on. We poled out to the middle of the pond with ease. It was stable as the top of a table.

We poled back to the corner closest to the barn and ran it up on shoreline just enough to hold it in place. 

“With the rise of fall of the water level this time of year, I better come up with a rope to tie this to one of those trees,” I said.

“My Dad said we build a blind to set on this raft,” Don said. “He said that would make it easier to hunt ducks. We could wait for them in the middle of the pond.”

“Maybe we could even sneak up on them, if we went nice and slow,” I said.

We did fashion a small three sided blind on the raft. We hunted with this raft for a couple of years. But the Coquille River would flood three or four times a year, and with Catching Creek come from the left and the river covering the fields, and the pond, it only took on large flood and one poorly tied knot and the raft was off down the river to find a new home. 

One thing for sure, it was not going to sink. I don’t know, in couild have ended up in Japan or somewhere.

Photo Credit: Nafan Faizal on Pexels.

Post Script: Those railroad ties are probably the only thing that I stole in my life. Nobody questioned us, I really think we did the railroad of service in disposing of the old discarded ties. But it probably would have been better had we sought premission first.