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Jesse's Hunting > Hunting Articles > Hunting Articles Archives > Hunting Mendota Refuge
Hunting Mendota Refuge
Phil Loughlin - JHO ProStaff
- SF Bay Area, CA
January 26, 2005
I’m awakened by the rumble of a diesel engine, so loud it seems to be rattling right beside my head. I raise my head from the pillow, briefly disoriented, and look at the clock. 3:00am. Headlights briefly pierce the darkness of my camper as the truck rolls by. I drop back on the bunk, in hopes of getting a little more sleep before my alarm goes off.
As my eyes begin to close, more sounds drive me back to wakefulness… the crunch of gravel under booted feet, quietly spoken words, and then a burst of laughter. Here and there a truck starts up, the owner running the engine to heat a frigid cab. A generator roars to life in the “tent city” area, where many hunters have parked their camping trailers. A retriever barks, probably protesting all this early morning disturbance.
It’s morning in the “sweat line” at Mendota Wildlife Refuge, and although the gates won’t open for another hour and a half, hunters are up and about. Some, with reservations in hand, are just now pulling into the “ressie” line. Others are simply early-risers, boiling coffee and preparing gear. The noise escalates, and by 3:30 I decide that sleep is no longer an option.
I roll over and flip on the light. I rise, put on the coffeepot, and prepare a couple of packets of oatmeal.
Waiting for the water to boil, I reflect on how luxurious my settings are. This year, I added a Four-Wheel Campers slide-in to my truck. With a queen-sized bed over the cab, 16,000 BTU furnace, and a galley, this is like staying at the Hilton, compared to how I used to camp. Before turning in last night, I watched some videos on my portable DVD player as I sipped a drink on the couch. The only amenity lacking is indoor plumbing, but the cold walk to the rent-a-john seems a good trade over having a tank of waste sloshing around in the truck.
Of course, out there in the line, several guys are sleeping in the front seats of their vehicles.
Mendota Check Station
Mendota is located about two and a half hours south of the Bay Area, and about three or four hours north of the LA. Hunters come from both directions to hunt here, on the largest of the CA waterfowl refuges (cap. appx. 700 hunters). |
At around 4:30, I hear more engines starting, and the sound of doors slamming and vehicles rolling forward. The gates usually open around two hours before shooting time, but this morning it looks like they’re getting an early start. The guys with reservations, “ressies”, go in first. There aren’t many people in line, considering that the refuge has a capacity of almost 700 hunters, and the reservation line goes quickly. Once they’re through, there’s a half-hour wait before the sweat line gets to go in.
This is my signal to start make the camper ready for moving. I wash up the breakfast dishes, lower the pop-up, and turn off the heat. I take my coffee up to the cab, and crank the Cummins diesel, adding my own racket to the fray. I see the light in the truck ahead of me come on, and grin at my role as alarm clock for the other campers.
Finally, we’re rolling. Up ahead in the line, someone apparently overslept, and the line of trucks swings out around the darkened vehicle. He’ll be bummed when he wakes up and finds that he’s no longer at the front of the line. Oh well…
At the check station window, I hand over my $12.50 and get my day pass, then head off on the foggy dirt road to the parking lot. Only two trucks are in the lot. As I get out, I see one guy rushing to get his gear loaded onto a mountain bike, and then go scrambling off into the fog. Several guys hurry to reach their favorite spots, but I take it slow and easy. My “hot spot” isn’t really all that hot. It’s also a pretty long walk. As a result, it’s seldom very crowded. The birds use the pond, but at a slower pace. 
The Tent City
Mendota is one of a few WRs that allows hunters to leave their campers in a lot for the entire season. By mid-December, the "tent city" looks more like an RV park. |
I prefer consistency to the ridiculous race to get into the better areas. Many of these guys take this stuff way too seriously, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before someone gets hurt. I’ve seen bicyclists practically run over foot-bound hunters in the scurry to reach some mallard hole. One of the longer-lasting memories I’ll carry with me is of some guy trying to run past me carrying three huge bags of decoys. Huffing and puffing as he went by, I can only wonder if he really thought he was having fun.
Besides, no matter how fast you get out there, some slower person can still come in and set up right beside you. More than one fistfight has erupted over such encroachments, and I think it’s actually a pretty good sign of hunters’ restraint that no one has been shot in these heated exchanges.
Courtesy on the refuges is, sadly, a dying concept.
Courtesy on this day is not an issue, though, as I arrive at the pond to find it completely unoccupied. I flash my light to see if anyone is out there, but today there are no flashlights signaling through the fog. Of course, the thick fog makes it difficult to see the lights, but I’m pretty sure I’m alone.
The fog also obscures the landmarks by which I usually find a hunting spot, so I’m forced to rely on directional memory. That memory is challenged right off the mark, as I see that they’ve cut a new ditch along the edge of the pond. I ease down into the water, hoping it’s not too deep. My old waders have a leaky seam right in the crotch… a most uncomfortable place for a leak, especially when the water is as cold as it is this morning. Happily, I find that the water is only about halfway up my shins.
My first step, though, highlights the error of my assumption. Just off the bank of the ditch, the bottom suddenly falls away under my probing foot. I scramble to get back onto solid ground, but off-balance beneath my load of decoys I find myself slipping into the unknown depths. My feet gain no purchase on the greasy mud, and I’m slipping down, over the edge. In panicked desperation, I reach back and plunge my arm and left side into the frigid water trying to grab something to stop my descent. Even as I do, my feet find solid bottom only a few more inches down.
The water is nearly freezing, and I can feel the pins-and-needles sensation shooting through my soaking limb. I curse my panic and bad luck. I could hike back to the truck for dry clothes, but I decide to stay and hunt. When I put my coat on, the body heat should keep me warm enough. The worst is that my gloves are soaked through, though. In this cold and fog, they won’t dry anytime soon.
The fog thickens as I move out onto the pond. Water and mist join into a solid horizon, only yards ahead of me. Somewhere out there is a tiny piece of mud and brush where I’d planned to hunt. Within a few steps, I’m disoriented and having serious doubts that I’ll find the spot. I continue to slog ahead, maintaining what I think is the general direction.
Finally, I spot a dark shape looming out of the pond ahead. As I draw nearer, I realize that it’s just a clump of tules. I want to find a spot with some dry ground where Lucky can get out of the water. I keep moving, hoping to find a spot before daybreak. My hands are achingly cold, and my arm is clammy. The two layers of shirts are wicking the water toward my skin, and cold rivulets are trickling down into my glove.
Another 100 yards of plodding, and at last I see a raised hump of mud. Nearby is a clump of tules where I can stand. I put Lucky on the hill and get the decoys set. Usually in the late season, I only put out a half-dozen or so. However, since the season is really just now starting to kick in, I decide to put out a dozen mallards, a half-dozen pintail, and a few specklebelly floaters. I toss my lucky teal out next to the clump of grass and make myself comfortable in the natural blind.
At this point, I’m glad there is no one else on the pond. In this fog, I could set up right beside another hunter and never even know it until the shooting starts. I set my headlamp on flash, to warn other hunters on the off chance that they could see it. The bright LED light cuts the fog pretty well, but judging distance in this mess is a trick. I keep my eyes and ears tuned for encroaching hunters.
Legal shoot time, one-half hour before sunrise, is a little before 7:00, but with the dense fog blotting out the rising sun there’s not enough light to even see shadows until a quarter after. The whistle of wings and the calls of passing birds get my heart rate up, but in the soupy fog I can’t see a thing. I hear fusillades from other areas, but I can’t imagine what they’re shooting at.
After about two hours, the fog has finally lifted enough that I can spot birds moving through it. At this point, though, my hands are so stiff and sore that I can barely work the safety on the old Savage side-by-side. I remove the still wet gloves, and shove my hands into the pockets of my hunting coat. This helps, but several teal dive into my decoys, only to depart before I can get my hands out and raise the shotgun. Each time I put the gun down to warm my hands, another flight of ducks scream across the blocks.
A mallard pair starts working, appearing and disappearing in the wafting fog as they circle my spread. I crouch down and bring the gun to ready-arms. One more pass, and they’ll commit. I watch in anticipation as they swing out, then turn and cup their wings. They begin to drift in, right into the hole I left in the midst of my decoy spread. I ease the shotgun to my shoulder and get ready to rise up and make my shot when several shots suddenly ring out from an adjacent pond. The ducks flare and scramble for altitude.
I’m cursing my luck when I hear the whistle of teal. I crouch and look to see five birds bearing in on my dekes. I wait until I can clearly see the eyes of the lead bird, then bring up the shotgun and let fly. The lead bird folds and drops into the water. I send Lucky, and put my first bird of the day into the bag.
A little later, another bunch of teal hurtles out of the fog. I turn too quickly, and miss two quick shots. Lucky gives me “the look”, and lays back down on the mud hill.
As the day progresses toward noon, my shooting finally improves. I drop three "spoonies, and a mallard drake. Two birds away from my limit, a group of mallards swing down over the decoys. I pick out the first drake and drop him with a splash. I level my remaining charge at a second drake, but my shooting streak ends and the shot goes astray.
I decide that six birds is enough, and Lucky and I make the long trudge back to the parking lot. Dry clothes, a hot cup of cocoa, and a nap are a welcome end to a great day on the refuge.
A good day's bag
Six birds is a little better than my average hunt at Mendota, but when the winter storms start to push the birds down, the hunting can get hot, fast! |
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