Boom, boom, boom. “What the . . . ?” The word that followed definitely wasn’t mother approved. It’s what I muttered when a gadwall (a kind of duck) jumped out of a slough so close I could count its tail feathers, and it quickly disappeared with all of them intact.

Aside from being frustrated, it was my final duck hunt of the season, and I was afraid it would end with the memory of that 0-3 whiff goading me until next fall.

A little while later, a drake wood duck flushed, and after I fired, it dropped like a stone.

Duck hunting can be funny that way. Your day can go from zero to hero within a few shots.

Duck hunting is a different experience than other kinds of bird hunting. I’ve climbed thousands of feet in steep, rugged chukar country and seen only a couple dozen birds.

I’ve walked all day in fields to flush a handful of pheasants and maybe squeeze off a few shots.

But it’s common to see dozens, if not hundreds of ducks as soon as I arrive at the Snake River.

Getting within shooting range and actually hitting a few is another matter.

We go to great lengths to accomplish those seemingly simple tasks. Some are effective and others comically futile.

My first duck hunt of the season was on a partially frozen pond. We waded to our bellies and broke sheet ice so we had a place to set decoys.

The whirring of duck wings and shadows dropping from the predawn sky alerted us there was open water at the other end of the pond.

We abandoned the decoys we had set and rushed over there. Suddenly, it was a race to get the rest of the decoys out before legal shooting time.

The clock ticked in our heads while ducks circled. We were still setting decoys when we realized shooting time had arrived.

We abandoned the decoys and grabbed our shotguns as ducks buzzed like bees around a new hive.

After the morning salvo, we had a bunch of ducks in the bag. Our decoy spread was sparse and haphazard, but the ducks still bombed them with kamikaze abandon.

It’s usually not like that.

Toward the end of the season, our jump-shooting barely registered as birdwatching. The ducks flushed so far away it was tough to tell what species they were, much less get a shot at them.

But even when duck hunting gets tough, it’s rarely boring.

My hunting buddy, Dave Heimer, joined the Snake River dive team by plunging completely underwater after tripping over a strand of barbed wire.

To his credit, he finished the hunt in a wet clothes in January temperatures.

The biggest scare of my season had nothing to do with hypothermia or drowning. We loaded our gear into my truck at the end of a New Year’s Eve hunt and headed back to Boise. We were just pulling into town when I got a sick feeling in my stomach.

“I don’t remember putting my shotgun in the truck,” I told Heimer.

“I didn’t load it,” he said.

I pulled off the freeway and scoured the truck and boat. No shotgun.

I spun the truck around, and when the statute of limitations is up, I might admit how fast I drove back to the boat ramp. My shotgun was there, leaning against a willow bush exactly where I had left it.

My New Year’s resolution was to never again leave the river without touching my shotgun to make sure it’s back in the truck.

The experiences weren’t limited to hunters and ducks. I got to see my lab, Dusty, continue to grow into a fine duck dog. It’s a joy to see her retrieve ducks all day, then curl up in her dog bed and fall into a sound, satisfied slumber.

By the end of the season, my stash of duck breasts in the freezer had grown large enough for a few excellent meals. Ducks have a bad reputation for table fare, but I’ve learned several ways to cook them that are delicious. A tasty duck dinner is a great way to revive hunting memories.

So here’s a tip of the camo hat to the end of duck hunting. The shotgun is cleaned, the decoys are stowed, and countdown to next season has officially begun.

Roger Phillips: 377-6215

Statesman outdoor writers Pete Zimowsky and Roger Phillips alternate columns on Sunday. Look for Zimo next week.