First—and Last—Duck Hunt

Phil was the outdoorsman supreme. He fished, hunted, backpacked, went off-roading, and carried a heavy bag of cameras wherever he went. If it could be done outside in the Idaho wilderness, Phil was probably doing it.

We both worked for the Nampa, Idaho, Free Press, where Phil was chief photographer, darkroom head, and, by dint of persistence, outdoor editor.

I was a general assignment reporter covering Nampa, Canyon and Ada counties and the state legislature. My journalism degree had included photography and darkroom work, so photography and the outdoors gave us plenty of common ground.

I was an Eagle Scout with dozens of hikes behind me; Phil had honed his outdoor skills through the Sierra Club, back when it still had a hunting program modeled on the explorers of an earlier era.

Southwestern Idaho offered an abundance of wonderful things to do outdoors. The rivers were full of fish and fowl, and the forests abounded with game. We spent a lot of time together, both at work and outdoors. Naturally, it wasn't long before Phil decided I needed to add to my repertoire.

"You have to go hunting," he insisted one afternoon. "You can't live in big, beautiful Idaho and not learn how to hunt."

"Don't like guns," I said. "I accidentally shot my father in the stomach with a BB pistol when I was a kid. You can have all that; I'm through."

"Just once," Phil pleaded. "I'll never ask you again."

So the first thing the next morning, off we went to the Sunnyslope area south of Caldwell, where the Boise plateau slopes down to the Snake River. We stayed on the Canyon County side to the north, because the Owyhee County side to the south wasn't marshy enough for ducks.

Phil did have a hunting permit, but we were also good friends with the county sheriff. And I doubt he would have made a stink about "those two news boys" goofing around at sunrise.

And what a marvelous sunrise it was. Oranges, pinks, and purples cut through the dawn. Spots of dense fog clung further up the hill behind us, while patches of mist lightly rose from the cattails and lily pads.

Phil spotted a flock of ducks and staked out his position. It wasn't a duck blind, just a low spot where he could kneel and face the water with his shotgun. I squatted beside him.

"You'll need these," he whispered, handing me a pair of foam earplugs.

I watched a few more ducks land, thinking about how beautifully they fly and yet how incredibly gangly their landings are. Beside us, Phil's dog waited patiently. Phil loaded two shells.

A duck broke from the reeds, flapping its wings and leaving a trail of rough wake as it awkwardly lifted off. I couldn't help but think it wasn't entirely fair to take advantage of them in that vulnerable state of launch.

Nevertheless, Phil pulled the trigger. Just like he'd warned, the gun let out a massive boom that startled me even through the earplugs. The dog was instantly up and ready to fetch.

A miss. The duck grabbed air, its flightline smoothing out as it climbed rapidly away from us. The dog settled back down.

Another duck broke. Another shell blasted out, peppering the water with ineffective pellets. The dog settled again.

Another shell loaded. Another boom. Another duck flew away into the sunrise. Then another shell. Another miss.

"C'mon, daddy, get the duck! I wanna go! Lemme... lemme... I'm ready!" the dog's panting seemed to say.

Phil loaded his last two shells and missed again. Out of sheer frustration, he lowered the gun.

When the next duck broke the water, Phil raised his hand, pointed his index finger like a pistol, and shouted, "Bang!"

The duck instantly dropped into the water.

The dog eagerly raced through the tulles and dragged the dead duck back to us, dropping the bird right at Phil's boots.

Phil stood frozen, his index finger still extended in the air. I stared from his hand to the dead duck, then to his ashen face.

"You saw that," Phil whispered. His eyes were wide with disbelief.

"I saw it," I agreed.

"Michael, you can't kill a duck with a finger," he insisted.

I nodded my head.

"I..." he paused. "I said 'Bang.'"

"Yes. And here's the duck to prove it."

Muttering, Phil finally lowered his hand to pick up the bird. Its head lolled to one side of its limp body.

"I couldn't have killed it from fifty yards away with only a shout," he said.

"Come on. Let's walk down and see." I took his arm and started him moving.

Curious, we waded along the edge of the water to retrace the line of the duck's flight.

There it was: a high-tension electrical line strung across the river. It was thin enough to be nearly invisible against the morning light, and low enough that it didn't require any aircraft warning markers. It was just a long, uninsulated wire the duck had flown straight into.

The timing had been absurdly perfect. Point finger. Say bang. Watch the dog leap happily into the marsh.

The embarrassment poor Phil suffered was both humiliating and hysterical.

We continued to camp, fish, and go 4-wheeling off-road together for years—but he never asked me to go hunting with him again.

© 2026 Michael Heavener