Daddy's Hunting Coat

The frigid green water lapped over the gunnel of our aluminum jon boat as each passing wave traversed beneath the hull. The Cumberland was aggravated, jostled by the combination of strong North winds and the wakes thrown from a multitude of vessels just like ours. There was no moon in sight and the darkness of early morning joined together with the depths of Old Hickory Lake to form a void occupied only by the tossing waves and the desperate souls afloat among them. We were within the void, searching buoy by buoy for the sign that we had arrived at our meek and underestimated destination.

As we neared the U-shaped island, just down river from Cairo Bend I was yet again reminded that I had left my gloves in the truck. The river showed no remorse and doused my hands with a fresh layer of icy water. Through watering eyes, I saw the island first and did my best to point my numb fingers towards the reflector on the back side of the island. Dad made a slight correction to the starboard side and idled towards the bank.

We would leave the boat here and make our way to the middle of the “U”, that is where our hidden gem awaited us. Neglected by most, but treasured by us, especially my father, this humble duck blind is the site of more memories than the heart can hold. Within the shallow muddy water, there must have been some hidden magnet that pulls gadwalls in against their will. More than a time or two, we have hunted this blind and went home empty handed. We have also had hunts where we bagged a variety of ducks from this location, but if all else failed you could count on the gadwalls to succumb to the allure of the mud and a dozen decoys.

We started to unload the boat and make the haul towards the blind within the island. It normally takes at least two trips. First, I grabbed my blind bag and shotgun and walked through the darkness before reappearing at the boat to make my second trip. I then slung a bag of decoys across my shoulder to sprinkle among the mud and buck brush. Dad was in the blind already and rehearsing our daily routine of unpacking for the morning hunt. While battling the deep mud and shallow water I heard my dad from the blind, “ Don’t throw those way out in front, tuck them up close to the bank.” Dad doesn’t like to hunt with lots of decoys. I on the other hand would carry our whole collection each morning if space and time allowed for it. Dad’s go to bag of decoys consists mostly of mallards. A mix of drakes and hens, but oddly enough each plastic duck bears the name of a different maker. Some were bought, some were found floating in the river, all were effective and proven.

As much as I didn’t like to admit it, Dad was right in saying this slough within the island does not require a lot of decoys. Place no more than a dozen along the edge of the inner bank and that is sufficient. We have tried every decoy placement strategy imaginable for this location and surely enough, less is usually more. Once the last hen mallard had been placed I made my way back to the blind. Dad was sitting on his favorite stool we had left there at the start of the season. My legs, slightly worn from the mud and cold water, wandered in the darkness of the blind to find my own stool. I sat down and settled in, but at that same moment Dad sent me on another mission. He said, “Hey, go get my coat out of the boat. I forgot to grab it earlier.” Funny how dads seem to remember and assign tasks as soon as you get comfortable. I got up and walked once more across the island to retrieve his forgotten coat. When I arrived at the bank of the river, I noticed the wind still howling and waves still rolling across the void, but a faint orange glow appeared across the horizon. The void would soon be overtaken and subjected to a few short hours of obedience to the light before returning again.

I reached down and lifted dad's coat off the floor of the boat and let out a breath once my back straightened. The coat bore a layer of ice from the boat ride in, which added to its already substantial heft. As a kid I remembered barely being able to lift this coat. It was dad's signature look and he hardly made a hunt without it. The waxed canvas sleeves were rigid and worn. The pockets held their stitches as strong as the day they were sewn. The cream colored tag on the inside bolstered dark green letters that read, “FILSON”. Any old timer knows the value of those letters. Built to last and made for conditions such as this morning’s, Filson is a coveted brand, forgotten by the hunters of my generation. Newer brands have nicer camo patterns, abundance of gadgets, and are made with lightweight materials meant to be more comfortable. It’s not uncommon for new age duck hunters to buy multiple coats over the course of a few seasons. Whether it's due to them wearing out or going out of style, there is no lack of money being put towards coat after coat after coat.

I folded dad’s Filson and laid it across my shoulder as I returned to fulfill his request. I entered the blind, handed dad his coat, and watched him wrap it around his shoulders as the dark green canvas formed to his shape. As the sun rose and the ducks flew, I would take passing glances at dad in his coat. Sometimes you just know things are as they should be and nowhere was that more evident than dad in that duck blind, wearing that canvas coat. Many times I wondered if I could wear that coat with the same sense of belonging. I have bought other coats resembling dad’s Filson. Waxed cotton is not the same as waxed canvas. As my pockets tore and sleeves ripped, dad’s Filson still stayed the same.

I am grateful that my heavenly Father placed me within a hunting family. I am grateful He cultivated my love for the outdoors and the things of old. He gave me a man to lead me and teach me how to care for and appreciate the wonders of creation. I don’t know if he knows it or not, but dad also taught me that the things that matter most in life don’t come cheap. Filson coats will protect and insulate even after years of affliction, just like the Holy Spirit continues to protect, nurture, and bear fruit within us. Christ keeps me and holds me and though a day will come where even Filson’s waxed canvas will tear, Christ’s love for me will never. He changes my heart daily and calls me to more of him. So, I will look to Jesus and long for his holiness. I want to wear the righteousness of Christ and become like my heavenly Father.

We returned to that blind and many more over the course of the season. Everywhere we went that canvas coat went too. Every morning it would be there, standing strong like the man who wore it. No number of duck seasons seem to weather it or the man within it. When I see dad in that coat, I see a man who is curious about the world around him. I see a man who wants truth and justice. I see his desire to be closer to God and I hope his desire never fades. I would bury my dad in that coat if I didn’t want it so bad myself. Perhaps, one day I will wrap it around my own shoulders as my son or daughter longs for it just as I did. I hope they will see a man wearing it who loves the Lord and wants to know Him more as well.

There is a lot to be learned by the things that grab our eyes' attention. Whether it be duck decoys, aluminum boats, or dark green waters. Dig deeper than the surface. Find the things of God in the small wonders around you. There you can find great depth afterall. I have found depth in the void of early mornings, the numbness of cold fingers, the spread of mallard decoys, the stickiness of Old Hickory mud, and especially daddy’s hunting coat.