Hunting Trips: A day of duck hunting in Comacchio. Two friends, Francesco and Giorgio, go hunting in the marshes of Comacchio. An intense day, made up of thoughts, sensations and hits.
The friendship between two hunting friends who live hunting as a further opportunity to weld their friendship. The pessimism of one and the optimism of the other, in the middle of the swamp. On January 26, I had virtually closed my hunting season, after spending many days outdoors. I always like to pair up with someone on the hunt and, since none of my fellow adventurers offered me a hunting trip, I had decided to close the hunting season early.
A phone call, however, completely reversed my decision. Francesco calls me at home and tells me: "Giorgio, how about a day hunting for ducks?". Out of contentment, I remained silent for a few seconds, to the point that Francis exclaimed: “Can you hear me? Are you still there?". "Yes, yes, I'm here Franco, it's just that I don't feel well, can you repeat?".
He explained his initiative to me in detail: on Sunday, we would go to Comacchio to close the hunt. I accepted without delay. He is starting to think that January is not an ideal month for hunting in the swamp, because it is too early for the return of the game, while those who have held back after having escaped the shooting for the whole hunting season are on high alert. I immediately chased away these negative thoughts about the success of the day, thinking that it would still be nice to end the season with one of my closest hunting friends and in life. I couldn't refuse.
While I was thinking about all these things I did not realize that I still had the receiver in my hand, even though the conversation had already ended for a few minutes. My wife Flavia, seeing me in that strange position, asked me: “Giorgio all right? Have you received any bad news? ”. “No, no, on the contrary! Francesco called me, on Sunday we go hunting in the marshes of Comacchio ”, I replied. She smiled at me, she knew how much I liked such an idea. I consider myself lucky to have a wife like Flavia, who respects my passion for hunting, who occasionally keeps me away from home for a few hours. Other wives do not like their husbands to go hunting, but Flavia does not. He always tells me that in a couple one must respect the needs and passions of one of the two, otherwise certain desires are repressed which, sooner or later, lead to absurd quarrels. Flavia is keen to say, however, that certain choices must be respected, just the other party does not exaggerate with requests. How to blame her. Seeing me beaming with happiness, he tells me: "Then I have to get all your equipment out, since you already stored it in the attic."
There were a few days left before the fateful personal reopening of my hunting season. I counted the days, but at the end comes Saturday, the eve. After numerous phone calls between me and Francesco, on the organization of the day in Comacchio, on Saturday afternoon we set the times: “Wake up long before dawn, Giorgio. Many kilometers await us to get to the meeting point and, you know, I always like to arrive early in these situations ”. "That's fine with me, see you tomorrow," I replied.
Despite my contentment at the thought that my hunting season was not over, a thought constantly hovered in my head: January is not the best time. Fortunately Francesco is a very positive and optimistic person and going hunting in beautiful places in the company of a friend is an incentive to leave without delay. Sunday arrives. Francesco picks me up and we begin our journey towards Comacchio. From Ferrara, the city in which we live, up to Comacchio are about 50 km, you have to take the road towards Porto Garibaldi and, subsequently, the A13, the Ferrara-Porto Garibaldi motorway junction. Finally about 45 minutes by car, we arrive in Comacchio at 4.45 am. Waiting for us at the meeting point is our "boatman" who will have to take us to the post with his little boat. His name is Alfredo and at first glance he expresses a certain hardness of character, of those who have chosen a life and a job without paying attention to details. He is the classic person who seems to say to the world: “I live and do what I want to do”. Together with him is a beautiful example of the American Water Spaniel, one of the best breeds for hunting in the swamp. My name is Darko. He will be our auxiliary for the whole day. Despite his apparent grumpiness, he is friendly and helpful when introducing us. We climb aboard his boat, turn on the outboard motor and set off for the staging.
The boat moves silently and lightly on the water. I, silently at the bow, let myself be “caressed” by the cold wind. I don't hate the cold, on the contrary. You just need to know how to cover yourself well. At that moment my father's words come to mind: “In cold weather, it is enough that the extremities, head, feet and hands, are well covered and dry. Only in this way can low temperatures be tolerated ”. The thought of my father, who is no longer there, gives me a good feeling, because I tell myself that this is one of the many precious pieces of advice that my father left me as an inheritance. Advice that is invaluable to me. Sailing in the lagoon, I am amazed at how Alfredo is able to orient himself in those areas, having no point of reference, the darkness moreover. He, however, maneuvers the rudder without delay, transmitting security to us of the crew. After about half an hour of navigation we arrive at the place chosen for the expulsion. The stations are two sheds on the ground, located on an embankment that cuts the lagoon in two.
We get off the boat, take the rifles and cartridges, and start preparing. We start leaving the molds in the water. Alfredo, before leaving, tells us: “This is a radio, keep it yourselves as a precaution. It has an autonomy of many hours. If you need anything, call me, the cell phone doesn't take well here. Good luck!". Alfredo is a man of experience and knows that caution is never too much. Again that feeling returns that today we won't even unload the guns, but Francesco, as if he understood, tells me: "Of course it won't be easy today, but I'm sure we'll hit some shots well, I'm convinced".
My friend, as we enter our respective huts, entertains me with pleasant conversations and topics of various kinds: children, family, his hopes for the future… for the hunting day. This helps me find the optimism that is indispensable on the hunt. I think that in hunting there are no certainties, but with a good partner or a close-knit team you can overcome all difficulties. Suddenly the wind changes and this does not help us much, because it is probable that those hunters further out in the lagoon, in the points where there are the twin barrels, have more luck. Inside me I think: "I knew it, what a bad luck."
However, I remain calm and wait. Francesco reassures me and tells me that if others shoot a lot more than us, it doesn't mean that our game bag will be empty at the end of the day. At the first light of dawn, two ducks arrive and Francesco and I take up our rifles: they are two ducks flying in opposite directions from each other. The shots go off and the two ducks go down into the water. Darko leaves and brings back the two ducks one at a time. Francesco tells me: “And this is just the beginning, have faith !!”. A few minutes pass and a small flock of shovels passes over our heads. The Shoveler has a fast and regular flight, with sudden drops to the surface of the water and sudden rises. It is not an easy prey for me, but I decide I don't want to make a mistake and I fire. Francesco follows me and we shoot down three specimens, which are promptly brought back to shore by our auxiliary. From a distance you can hear the shots fired by hunters stationed in the barrels. They are almost repeated, a sign that there is a greater concentration of game in those parts. Francesco and I look at each other. At this point I tell him: “Oh, here we need to recover. At the small port we have to show up with the game bag loaded with prey ”. Time passes and the advantage accumulated from distant locations seems to be getting bigger and bigger. We based our assumptions on the number of shots fired, making a rough estimate of the prey they were catching.
A mallard appears out of nowhere high in the sky. Instead of falling on our molds, it passes wide and points decisively towards the other stations, but at a certain point it thinks about it and heads towards our position. Francesco lets me shoot and I fire. He falls down and Darko leaves. At this point I think: Germans and shovellers have passed; to complete the game bag the gadgets would be needed. It is the least common among the ducks hunted, however it is increasing in number. Gadwall dives to look for food, thus avoiding competition with species that occupy the same ecological niche. I don't even have time to finish the thought that a Gadwall flutters in front of us. I say to Francesco: "This is yours, go!"
there are no hits, but they don't hit. It was too far away and had too irregular a flight. Francesco smiles and says to me: “The next one is mine”. I am always amazed by that man's optimism. It almost makes me angry. In the end, however, I think it is a fair and correct lifestyle. On the other hand, being pessimistic certainly does not help to live better. A flock of mallards arrives and they begin to fly over our stake out of reach of our rifles and, after having described a semicircle, they settle far away, out of the molds. We crouch in our respective "holes", holding our breath, ready to fire. The ducks notice the molds and make their way to them. As if pulled by an invisible thread, the Germans begin to swim quickly towards us. They stop at an ideal distance for the shot. As is done with a good wine, to savor every single scent and flavor, I sip with joy the intoxicating moments that precede the shot. There is nothing in the world that can distract the hunter's attention in these moments. These are unique and unrepeatable every time. I fix these sensations in my mind, as if I wanted to create a drawer in my memory to remember that precise moment. I believe that Francesco was doing the same thing. We fire and the shots hit. Get a laugh at both of you. We were lucky with the first two: the first shots had in fact stopped two teals and the third, doubtful, seeing the companions standing on the water did not decide to escape. I quickly "enchanted" her and managed to stop her with another lucky blow. Francesco congratulates me on the technique used and tells me: “This treble is your merit”. For a moment he used a manner of king that in football, as an Interista as he is, is often used to indicate the victory of the championship, the champions league and the club world cup. I, a Milan fan since birth, grant him this poetic license. Reluctantly we decide it's time to go back. With the radio we call Alfredo, who confirms that he is about to leave with his boat to pick us up. best friend, both in life and in hunting. In the distance we hear the sound of Alfredo's boat engine, who, from a distance, exclaims: "Guys !!" waving a hand. We take our equipment, get on the boat and go back to the dock. During the return Alfredo asks us how it went. He does it with discretion, with caution. He knows perfectly well that the mood of the hunters who return with the game bag half empty is not the best. We show him the prey and he compliments us. We arrive at the small pier, greet Alfredo and Darko, arrange the car and leave to go home.
During the return trip I thank Francesco for his availability. I was about to thank him for his always positive and sunny attitude, but he interrupts me by saying: “Thanks for what? We are friends and we go hunting together. If in hunting there are no certainties in the results, in our friendship I can say I have many certainties ”. I arrive home and greet Francesco, with whom we make an appointment for next week for a dinner with our families. Flavia, at the door, sees me and asks me: "How did it go?".
And I: “Now that I see you, I can say that the day was perfect”.