Standing thigh deep in the inky dark waters of a Mississippi River back channel I stretched my arms toward the heavens and felt the stars crushing down on me. You could reach out and almost touch them.

That was back in January, on New Year’s Eve. I was visiting friends in Mississippi and we’d been duck hunting on a no-man’s land island that was either in Louisiana or Mississippi. It hardly matters.

I think back on that night and cannot decide which word best describes the experience – ethereal or ephemeral. The moment lasted but a very short while and it was mystical, even spiritual.

I’m not sure why. I was seized by the moment I guess, but across my lips came a prayer. “Thank you for this day, thank you for this moment, thank you for my life,” I said out loud to a Lord who has always been a good listener.

I closed my eyes and tasted the night air, listened to the night sounds. Above me I heard the beat of wings. In my mind, I could see the birds silhouetted against the darkening sky. A trio, probably mallards.

The current was silent. Through the stand of willows behind me I could hear my hunting partners. And in the further distance I could hear the chug-chug-chug of a river rug pushing barges upstream in the main channel.

I opened my eyes and watched the velvet curtain part, and the light of the stars poured down on me.

A smile came with the memory of a line penned by an Irish poet named George Russell – “Our hearts were drunk by a beauty our eyes could never see.” Only this time, but for a moment, the velvet curtain had parted and my eyes could see.

In the starlight the remaining decoys bobbed in the water and I waded toward them. Above me another small flock whistled past, the air slicing through beating wings.

The hunt had been memorable. And, truth be told, we’d pushed the legal shooting limit. I guess I apologize for that. Behind me, low in the eastern sky, I could see the twinkling stars of Orion’s belt when the final mallard had been shot, its wings cupped and its legs reaching down for the water.

But had we not pushed the shooting time I wouldn’t have been standing in that channel bathed in starlight and feeling like the entire world was right and wonderful.

I slid the pirogue toward the decoys and methodically wrapped the cord around the keel and squeezed the lead weight around the plastic neck. The last decoy was the closest to the wide sand bar that separated the back channel from the main river. Kneeling on the sand it still felt warm.

The day had been bright and sunny. Hardly what you’d call ideal duck hunting weather. The temperatures had reached into the 60s in the afternoon. That was especially delightful at the time because back in then-home Minnesota the weather was about 55 degrees colder.

We chose to hunt along the river because the warm weather chases the ducks out of the flooded rice and soybean fields. Word was that when that happens there’s still ducks in the back channels of the big river. There weren’t many but there were enough.

I shot a gadwall – my first – then a pair of mallards. Missed a pair of wood ducks and as twilight approached assisted on another mallard. I was happy.

We’d put in about 10 miles down river and dragged the pirogue behind the boat on the trip upstream. The ride was wild and bumpy. An adventure unto itself. Now, hours later, we readied for the downstream trip. Despite the darkening sky there was no hurry. We stayed close to the shore and cruised along not much faster than the current.

We smoked cigars and drank Scot’s whiskey, toasting the ducks, the river, the night and each other.

Thursday night in Andalusia was the annual Ducks Unlimited banquet. It was my first Alabama DU event, but not my first DU event. I’ve been a sponsor of DU, one of the best conservation organizations in America, for many years. When folks ask me why I’m involved in DU, days on the water like this one is what comes to mind.