Anderson: Duck camp stays aloft on wings and memories

When Kevin Schleif was a kid, on the nights before the duck opener, he was sleepless in Owatonna.

His favorite place in the world was the duck camp his dad and a buddy had leased for a song years earlier. The waterfowling outpost on Buffalo Lake in southern Minnesota wasn't fancy, just a couple of shacks with no indoor plumbing. But it commanded the heart and mind of the young boy like nothing he had ever known.

"Going to duck camp was the biggest thing in the world for me, and I couldn't wait for opening day," Schleif said. "That and MEA Weekend, when we would be at the camp for four days, were the greatest."

This was in the 1970s, when duck camps still ringed Minnesota's primary waterfowl migration lakes — Leech, Winnie, Christina, Swan and Heron — and dotted many of its shallow lakes and larger wetlands in the southern and western part of the state.

For young waterfowlers, the attraction of these outposts often had less to do with bagging ducks than being part of a gang whose membership was by invitation only, and whose continued good graces depended on adherence to an unspoken code. You watched. You learned. You were safe. And if the flight was on and the wind was right, in the still darkness of early morning for the first time you'd tremble at the sound of wings whistling over decoys, and learn then the true meaning of anticipation.

To Minnesota's great loss, some of these camps have closed, a few perhaps because of changing recreational interests or the graying out of members.

But the state's dramatically altered landscape is the reason many have shuttered. Clean, shallow waters flush with wild rice, sago pondweed and wild celery were once abundant in the state. But most have either been drained or are choked with carp and invasive hybrid cattails.

As those habitats have gone, so, too, have ducks.

"There are many reasons why Minnesota duck camps shut down over the years, but the most common, I think, were the changes in water levels and water quality due to ditching and draining," said Steve Knutson, author of "Minnesota Duck Camps: 160 Years of History and Tradition.''

Yet Minnesota duck hunters — the 70,000 or so that remain, down from a peak of more than twice that number — are a stubborn bunch.

In part fueled by memories of the state's good old days of duck hunting and in part drawn to an autumnal milieu of intergenerational bonding, muddy boots and stinky dogs, these waterfowlers still gather to celebrate a valued tradition — and will again Saturday, Sept. 21, when the 2024 version of Minnesota duck hunting begins one-half hour before sunrise.

Schleif's dad, Ron, and a friend, Leo Rudolph, both from Owatonna, wanted a duck-hunting camp of their own when, 50 years ago, they partnered up to lease (and subsequently buy) a shack — later, two — on Buffalo Lake in Waseca County.

Schleif's older brothers, Brad and Doug, were invited to the camp first. Kevin followed at age 10.

"I had to use a broomstick for a gun until I was older and could carry a gun safely," said Kevin, who is 61 now.

Like many Minnesota waterfowling camps, the Buffalo Lake outfit has been kept semi-primitive by design. It's wired for electricity. But there's no indoor plumbing, and water for drinking and cooking has to be hauled from a nearby farmhouse.

Yet Schleif, his brothers and the getaway's other owners and guests say the camp's quality of life rivals that of the rich and famous.

On fall mornings, eggs and bacon sometimes sizzle on an outdoor grill, greeting hunters before they clamber into blinds and chamber rounds of chilled 6s. And come evenings, dinners might feature the same pork chops that years ago won Ron Schleif second place at the Steele County Fair.

"We still don't know who won first, or how it could happen," Kevin said.

With luck, on a few mornings this fall, mallards will again wheel atop hunters' decoys at the Buffalo Lake camp, as will smatterings of blue-winged teal, wigeon and gadwall, with a few pintails mixed in.

Seeing these and other birds is still a thrill for Schleif, his brothers and other owners of the Buffalo Lake camp. But more important has been the passing down of duck hunting traditions, including a conservation ethic, to their sons and daughters, nieces and nephews, and other young people.

That effort is important because last year Minnesota licensed about 1,500 fewer duck hunters between the ages of 18 and 25 than it did 10 years earlier. Unless that trend is reversed, duck hunting in the state will continue to decline, given that older hunters are graying out of what can be a physically demanding pastime.

"We're always trying to bring more people into duck hunting," Schleif said. "Not just to appreciate the fall migration, but the spring migration, too, which is beautiful. That's one reason I'm a big supporter of Ducks Unlimited. The work they do for ducks is one thing. But their goal is clean water. My biggest concern for the future is clean water."

Such are the thoughts of the modern duck hunter, just now, before returning to camp for another season.

Living no longer in Owatonna, but in the Twin Cities, Schleif will be sleepless there in the run-up to the opener.

"Duck hunting was once big in Minnesota, now it's not as big," he said. "But we're not giving up."