DU Special Report: Pintails on the Brink
DONALDMJONES.COM
We could tell they were pintails. The birds flew on slender wings, and the drakes’ dark chocolate heads, extending far beyond their gleaming white chests and neck bars, seemed oddly disconnected from their bodies. And they all trailed those telltale wedge-shaped tails behind them. That sight never fails to jack the heart rate up a few beats.
Jimmy Robinson sang it out. “Oh, dang, boys,” he said. “Those are pintails.” The attitude shift in the pit was instant. Suddenly, everyone hunkered a little deeper in the blind. Hat brims dipped. No one moved a muscle other than to gingerly raise a whistle to lips and send out a few plaintive trills. Pintails on a beeline. Could we really be so lucky?
The answer to that question, on that day, at that moment, was no. The pintails did as pintails often do. They jetted over the decoys just out of shooting range, ignoring our whistles, oblivious to our pounding hearts and unspoken pleas of please, please, please, come on, please. One more pass and they might have done it. Ten yards closer and we could have given them a try. Instead, the birds crossed over the top of the blind as we all craned our necks to watch them give us the slip.
And that’s the way it is with pintails. Most of the time, they act like wild ducks.
DOUGSTEINKE.COM
Sticking to the pintail script kept those birds in the sky that Arkansas morning, but doing what they’ve always done is turni
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