The Duck Pond

Once in high school—pre-driving age—a buddy and I were bored and decided to pack a bag with snacks and a CO₂ pellet gun and hike up into the mountains to shoot a duck. Someone had told us about the duck and that it loved to swim around out in the middle of the pond during the full moon, and that night, the moon was full. We both had our hunter-safety cards and a small-game license, but that didn’t really come into play because we were planning on hunting after dark. Pretty sure we weren’t supposed to hunt after dark, but minor details like that didn’t deter us—we were, after all, high schoolers, and not all rules applied.

My friend assured me that the gun was sighted in for accuracy and all he would need was one shot. We never discussed what we would do with the duck once it was dead—maybe retrieve it and eat it, I suppose. However, getting a dead duck that was floating in the middle of a pond at night would not have been an easy task. Some things just figure themselves out and aren’t worth the brainpower too early in an adventure.

Having everything we needed packed into a small backpack, we set off up the street from my friend’s house to a path that would lead us to the pond.

“How far?” I had asked.“About three miles,” was the answer.

Well, that didn’t seem too bad, seeing how we were both involved in track and field and were in tip-top shape.

The three miles up the hill in the dark seemed more like ten miles. A flashlight would have been helpful, but we didn’t think to bring one. Good thing the moon was full. Talking helped to pass the time, but as we got closer to the pond, we traveled in silence so that we didn’t alert the duck.

As we reached a spot in the trail where it started to descend, my friend motioned for me to stop with a hand gesture. We stood in silence, looking down a precipitous slope. The air was cool and motionless. We were looking down into a dark ravine. Then the pond revealed itself through the thick pines. The reflection of the moon on the water was the only evidence of its existence. Our hearts were beating loudly—I would say we could hear them, but that seems a little cliché—at least we could feel them.

Then I saw the duck. It was swimming across the glasslike surface, just inside the moon’s reflection. Did I really think the duck would be there? I don’t think I did. I was just here for a little adventure to relieve some boredom—and now a duck was going to die—kind of sad.

My friend quietly unzipped the backpack and brought out the CO₂ pistol. He paused before aiming the gun, then pointed to a dead tree above us. Silhouetted against the dim backdrop of the mountain range was a huge bird, which could only be an owl. The owl, too, had his eyes on the duck. My friend slowly brought the gun up to eye level, both arms extended straight out toward the duck. There was a short pause, then a loud pop that broke the silence of the night.

My friend had told me he only needed one shot, but the duck, apparently unharmed, rose from the water with wings churning and shot down the valley—it was gone. In tandem, the owl left its perch and shot past us in pursuit of the duck. The owl made no noise—it was like watching a movie with the sound turned off. As it passed, I could see its large white body was the size of a cat. I’ve always been thankful it was after the duck and not after us.

There was no time to feel sorry for our failed attempt to bring down a sitting duck, because out of nowhere, we were surrounded by bats. They were circling our heads and weaving in and out of the pine trees. I’m not sure how we managed to run back down the hill in the dark at full speed and not run into a tree or fall on our butts, but we did—and we continued to run until we were safely inside of my friend’s house, breathing intensely.

But at least the boredom was gone.