Teal Hunting In The Heart Of Texas

“LOAD UP FELLAS.” J.J.’s booming voice echoed through the dense tepid predawn air. “Oh, yeah…and ladies”, he remembered as he caught my eyes. I was looking, and feeling, a bit lost in the chaos. “Damn, not before the Advil kicks in,” mumbled someone next to me whose name I have yet to learn. “Where’s Michael?” J.J. squints as he scans through the shadows cast by the headlights of the six preloaded Can-Am UTVs neatly angled along a white picket fence as though sitting on a dealer’s lot. “Oh yeah, he’s definitely not getting up. He took Cory down with him too.” J.J. half chuckled, grabbing the frame of the side-by-side and sliding his 12-gauge onto the dew-covered seat. “Geezus, where’s Peter? He’s supposed to be leading a group.” J.D. tilted his head back, rolling his eyes and moaning. Quickly shaking off his frustration like this is old news. “You ready for this, Tess” he asked, pointing to our ride at the end of the line. “You’re with me.”

I crossed the yard through the rest of the lagging crew, wrestling with their waders, prodding one another about their late-night, liquid-soaked antics, attempting to convince one another, and maybe themselves, that every sudden move doesn’t hurt from the self-induced ill effects of just a few hours prior. However, as even I have experienced, any inkling of a hangover will soon drown under the mass flow of adrenaline that rushes through one’s entire being at the sound of wings tearing through the thick air. It’s teal season in Texas, baby!

DRIVE SOUTH

I came from Nebraska to Provident City, Texas, on an assignment. Don’t try to Google Map the “city;” you won’t find it. For that, you’ll need to dig into some archives circa early 1900s. This is a ghost town, because, when in Texas, right?

I’m here to photograph an annual teal hunt hosted by Heyday, formally known as Lifetime Decoys. When I was invited, I was warned a female had never attended this event. Was I comfortable with that? With dirt and rocks as my favorite childhood toys (something that admittedly spilled into adulthood), and as someone whose hunting is soaked into my earliest and fondest memories, I didn’t think twice. However, as a semi-introvert and an outsider to the group, I did have some trepidations.

Waterfowl hunting has always been a favorite of mine, mainly for the social component. But I was entering into well-established friendships. Was I going to be that little sister that no one wanted tagging along? Even though the majority of this group had occupations within the hunting industry, or even businesses of their own, this wasn’t a work trip. (Even still, there were probably just as many business deals as downed ducks and beers over the weekend.) This was simply what waterfowl hunting is at its heart: friendships.

I soon realized, this isn’t a good ‘ol boys club. This ‘club’ is united by a passion those who can’t see the stars at night will never understand. Or in this case, those that have never seen remnants of the brightest stars still shining despite the slivering red dawn; or heard quacks circling above, getting louder and louder, then a splash making waves in the once-still and black watering hole; or waited, white-knuckling that loaded gun, for what seems as the longest single minute of your life until shooting time arrives. We are waterfowlers. And forgive the cliché, but if you know, you know.

GIN, SMOKE, LIES

Those who originally flocked to Provident City did not know the lies they had blindly fallen for. It was 1909, there were no rice fields, this was no waterfowler’s paradise. Instead, homesteaders were promised “…Land of Fruits, Flowers and Sunshine” in this area originally touted as the ‘Goldenrod Prairie.’ Newspapers reported prosperous, fertile land lined with towering rows of fig and orange orchards, gleaming gardens producing all year long, resulting in tomatoes as big as lettuce heads and lettuce heads as big as pumpkins. Ten-foot-high corn stalks in July, shelling 70 bushels per acre and weather mimicking that of Eden.

Reporters had published first-hand testimonials from savvy pioneers and querying prospects who had been astute enough to forge to this Gulf Coast country. This land was up for the taking, and the Provident Land Company was there to sell it to fortune seekers, sight unseen, with gumption equivalent to that of California’s Forty-Niners.

Unsuspecting, these newspapers were owned and published by Provident Land Company of Kansas City themselves. And this land purportedly flowing of milk and honey was anything but that. Despite this, Provident City was off to a good start. Touting amenities ahead of its time.

---

The Provident City Hotel was built to woo prospects needing to see the land for themselves before buying. Some gluttoned guests were reportedly so swayed, they signed the dotted line without leaving the steps of the hotel. By 1910, 500 Midwest families had each purchased 5- to 10-acre plots and attended a groundbreaking for a promised railroad. The town boasted banks, a broom factory, a cannery, churches, a drugstore, general and grocery stores, a mortuary, a school, even a jeweler and a newly constructed post office. By 1914, reality had reared its head. Agreements for the railroad had vanished, WWI caused families to move back to urban centers or home for jobs, and many farms were abandoned or lost through nonpayment of taxes caused by the Great Depression. A prairie fire in 1917 destroyed much of the town. By 1953, the post office, the last remaining business that made Provident City a town, had closed. Today, all that stands of the once booming Provident City is the well-maintained Provident City Hotel, owned by R. H. Hancock Heirs, Inc.

A room on the lower level of the Provident City Hotel would be my home away from home for the weekend, hosted by one of those heirs to R. H. Hancock, Peter Andrews, founder and president of Heyday. And after meeting Peter, it’s easy to see that foresight, entrepreneurship, and maybe a little showmanship, run through the bloodlines.

BALLAD OF A SOUTHERN MAN

After years of failed attempts to farm their dream acres, the majority of landowners ended up in bankruptcy court, where R. H. Hancock purchased twenty-eight thousand acres at auction. Running a rice mill out of Louise, Texas, and being a Texan himself, Hancock saw the potential most didn’t. With an operation already in place, Hancock flooded the landscape with rice. When he did, an unexpected “If you build it, they will come” scene came to life. As the area’s habitat changed, so did the flyway, shuffling the ducks westward, and right over the remains of Provident City.

In the 1980s, the Hancock’s subleased the farms after the Cuban rice embargo, but the family retained hunting rights. Showing up to the hotel before light and pinning the day’s hunting spot on a map, family members would race for prime blinds. The property was divided into family units in the ‘90s, but still honors an annual opening-day Mass at the hotel and is a strong advocate of Ducks Unlimited, sponsoring around 35 projects. It’s obvious the love for duck hunting runs deep through the veins of the Hancock heirs.

Even with antics that could be ripped from a scene of The Big Lebowski, Peter, great-grandson of R. H. Hancock, is one of those extreme creatives who socially tries to hide his borderline genius. The kind when observed in a crowd from afar, you see them constantly thinking and inventing no matter the situation. However, as a creative myself, I can attest, that personality trait rarely comes with a sense of business. Which is why Peter surrounds himself with his business-savvy college friend, Dane Webb, CFO and co-owner of Heyday, and J.J. Gustafson, technically director of business development, but more like a wingman, who has a personality as large as his stature.

Peter invented Heyday out of frustration. Who wants to carry multiple loads of heavy decoys with knotting lines to and from your blind while shuffling in dark, waist-deep waters of the early hours, and maybe with some residual effects of the night before beginning to rear? A creative spark struck from a single remaining floating Croc shoe in a pond would be the foundation of his business building ultralight, durable decoys, that, as its original name suggested, are built to last a lifetime.

LOUD AND HEAVY

The decoys swung from the side of the Can-Am Defender, silhouetted by lights of the game-faced convoy following suit. A Turtlebox blared music as though it were a prelude to a rumble in Rocky, growing fainter and fainter along with the lights, as each group made way to their respective water-logged coves.

Muddy water parted as three side-by-sides found their path, sinking deeper and deeper amongst a flooded tree row, nestled next to rice fields that seemingly spread beyond the horizon. Even as water reached the bottom of the tailgates, the motors hummed, breaking the silence of the sleeping night. One group powered through the opening onto the next canopies while we stopped in the middle at blind with a 360-degree view. Silently, everyone knows their part and gets to work. Setting up the spread, I look around and it hits me. This is the same spot where a water moccasin and I shared a dry point a couple days prior while I came to help (honestly, watch) J.J. unclog a culvert. In fact, I had seen more snakes and shed skins this weekend than the last three years combined, because, when in Texas, right? I tense up, it’s pitch black, and so is a water moccasin. Shaking the feeling, I get back to work, pretending I have no fear like the rest of the guys. We shuffle into the blind, makeshift with hog wire wove through with camouflage in front and behind us. I sit on skinny wooden bench anchored into the ground. With water up to my thighs, I’m thankful I packed light. I use the new Heyday Carabiner J.J. gave me to hang a BOSS Moneybag full of shells on the wire and load up.

I hear the whistle of the wings before I spot the silhouettes of the incoming teal. Not quite shooting light, someone whispers: “Who brought calls?” We all look down at Peter. He shrugs. “Well, at least you have pants,” someone quietly quips. Stories of yesterday’s hunt circulated. In a hurry and not knowing where his waders were, Peter had walked to the blind in his shorts, wrapping gun cases around his legs as makeshift pants/camouflage and proceeded to hunt.

Guy Billups, President of Wildrose Kennels Texas, pulls out his calls while holding Bosque, a young, male, black Lab, and whistles the teal’s distinct sound. Shooting light hits as a flock comes swarming in from the front. They cheat to the right and circle back. “Take ‘em” yelled J.D. Blagg, partner and guide of FowlCo Outfitters. Teal rained all around us. Three fell within our shooting window, one landed 50 yards behind us, and one remaining duck made it to the trees to our left. Guy held on to Bosque. No time for retrieval, another flock was incoming. We all unload and tipped off the teal one by one.

A lull hit and Guy shouts a command. Bosque is a year-old puppy new to training, but watching her follow Guy’s commands, you wouldn’t know it. While out retrieving the teal from behind, waves of teal dove into the front. Shots echoed alternatively with the group set up next to us as both pellets and teal peppered the cove.

Towards the end the quick morning shoot, I stood to stretch my legs, shuffling the flooded debris in the water. In that moment I hear a high-pitched squeal and a hand grips my shoulder, pushing me down into the water. Apparently, I had not been the only one suppressing my fear of snakes. A thick twig had shifted and slithered between Michael’s legs, causing his imagination to conjure it into a water moccasin. Realizing my paralyzing fear of snakes paled in comparison to several others in the blind, I give Michael a jeering shove right back.

RED FIRE NIGHT

Our newly fledged friendships grew over drinks, conversations and our unapologetic love for 90’s country throughout the rest of the day until we traded our tequila sunrises for the Texas sunset.

We load into the row of UTVs, making our way through the parting cloud of dust kicked up by each side-by-side ahead of us and park on a high point of the Goldenrod Prairie, cast pink from the setting sun. A Red Dirt playlist accompanied the sound of the first arriving cranes, the next season opener in queue. Our chatter got louder and louder as the Yeti tumblers on the tailgates emptied to just ice, until there was no more light to even cast a silhouette. This is Texas.

The party continued back in the yard of the hotel. While playing cornhole, “Fancy” by Reba, comes on and I laugh. Those who know me well, or have at least been in hunt camp long enough, know this is my hunting song. Probably seared into my mind from its heyday, playing on the radio as I dressed to go on my first deer hunt with my dad, it’s the tune that naturally pops into my head and plays on repeat as I have death marched over varying terrain through several different countries. I look up and Peter is shimmying, singing every word on queue.

“This is his song,” Dane says. “Just wait until you see the outfit he has for karaoke.”