By James Davis
It had been over one hundred years since these carefully crafted imposters had last lured hungry migrants to their demise. Precisely placed and set free from the confines of an old burlap sack, the blocks danced on the waves. Years of abandonment and neglect had not altered their ability to dip and dive in the relentless November chop. The tarred lines tightened, as the rusty cast iron horse collar anchors dug deeper into the inky black muck below. With each howling gust, the decoys rolled side to side and shifted back and forth working into the blow. The stool had come alive. Acting as sirens, seducing the visitors from the north.
The decoys first caught my eye as they sat collecting dust, holding bedroom doors open at the farmhouse next door. Retired years ago, they had been regulated to the sad life as door stops. The rest of the flock, long since forgotten, shared space in a mouse infested burlap sack in the corner of the barn. Paper-mache and later plastic decoys had taken their place and become the norm as they were lighter, cheaper, and easily mass produced. I reached down picking up the old piece of wood. Its solid cedar body had a balance and heft that I had not felt in a decoy before. My hands moved over its smooth body, I noticed the artists brush strokes, circular swirls that created the illusion of feathers. Though faded, one could make out a dark chestnut breast, grey plumage across its back, a dim yellow bill, and the telltale green head. A drake mallard. Rolling the carefully crafted block over, his lead keel and anchor eyelet had been removed years ago when he had been assigned to house duties. The decoys shape, its rounded bottom, meticulous paint job, and glass eyes gave it away as a Mason!
From the early 1900’s until 1924, Mason decoys were the most famous factory produced decoys in America. In 1896, Irishmen William James Mason officially founded the Mason Decoy Factory in Detroit, Michigan. The company would become one of the largest manufacturers of decoys in the world. His passion for detail is apparent in his work and their quality is well known throughout today’s market. Mason decoys, in original condition, have shown to not only hold their value over time but command a high price. In April of 2014, a 1905 Mason premier grade wood duck sold for $690,000.
Years ago, these very blocks of Michigan cedar, had been cured and air-dried insuring that they would not split and that the paint would not peel. Their heads, attached to a dowel, were glued into the bodies. The decoys were then finished and painted. It was noted that Mason himself was constantly observing waterfowl. This is evident in his realistic paint schemes and attention to detail. The fact that these dekes look as lifelike as they do and are still in working condition is owed to Mason and his carvers who took pride in their work to produce the best product possible.
The old farmer passed. After sorting through his meager belongings, his children hustled to box up and discard any remaining items of his life. That crisp October day as the birch’s golden leaves began to fall, I walked up the farmhouse and inquired about the duck door stops and the bag of decoys in the barn. The farmers daughter, whom I had met years ago, knew I shared her father’s passion for the sporting life and said she would love for me to have them. I offered money, mentioning that they were valuable, but she declined. I thanked her and promised to give them life.
The November beavers moon illuminated the sky. It is beams reflecting off the wave crests as we made our way across the doom and gloom towards the distant point. My eyes teared and cheeks burned. Pilot’s ears flapping, the steady wind from the north was relentless. With every dip and pull of my paddle, the water slapped at the bow of my old skiff. It is spray instantly freezing on my parka.
Nearing the point, I carefully stepped out into the knee-deep water. Using the craft for stability, I slowly opened the stiff burlap bag. Its sun faded Southern States Co-Op logo just barely visible. Delicately unwinding and admiring the first imposter, I could feel the tack of the tar used on his line. Between wind gusts, I caught the familiar smell of burlap. The kerosene-like oder filling my nostrils. Working through the bag, the flock laid at the bottom of the skiff patiently waiting to be released. Gazing into their glass eyes, they each had a story to tell. Some had errant pellet holes. My mind took me to late season bluebills screaming past at mock speeds, just inches over the spread. The gunner in the distance cursing as water sprayed yards behind the passing fighter jets. Others had bills that were marred by puppy teeth. Memories of legendary Chesapeake’s long since passed.
Leaning forward,
I placed the first imposter on the water, its rusty collar dropped to the bottom with a ker plunk. The cold sting of the icy water numbed my hands as I strategically placed each member of the raft. Spaced appropriately, each bird flew down wind coming to an abrupt stop, hitting the end of its line. A chance to dance again. To dip and dive. To tug on lines and feel alive!
As Pilot and I sat nestled deep in the surrounding cover, a huge green head roared overhead. Lured by the seductive sirens bobbing in the chop below, he turned into the wind. Gliding closer, the white undersides of his wings back peddled and his iridescent head craned from side to side. Working from left to right a pair of bright orange webs dropped down. The well-worn 870 was mounted and swung. Daylight was opened just ahead of his glaring yellow bill. W-h-a-m-m! Its lifeless body now floating amongst the imposters. I whispered …. “Pilot.” With a massive leap, the barrel-chested Chesapeake hit the surf. Watching him navigate the spread, my mind went back to the flock. The waters they had explored, the storms they had weathered, and the sights they had seen. No sooner than I had stowed the hearty migrant, a pair descended from the heavens. Enticed by the Masons performance, their landing gear appeared. Once again, death was waiting. The old corn shucker barked two times. Mesmerized by the dancing actors, two more plump mallards had met their fate. Looking down from above, William Mason was surely smiling.
As quickly as the skies had come alive, I now looked out across a barren lake. The winds calmed and the mid-day sun had risen high in the sky. The flock now sat motionless on the glass like surface. The ride was over. With the skiff in tow, I waded out and began to pull the stool. Their beady eyes reflecting off the water as I picked up and rewound each decoy in its figure eight pattern and slid the horse collars over their heads. Bagging them, I smiled. I had given them life and they had given me the greatest show on earth.greatest show on earth.