REYDEL — It doesn’t matter who you invite to the party. It’s who shows up that’s important.

Ford Overton and Dorsey Jackson of Little Rock sent Christmas invitations to all the mallards sojourning in southeast Arkansas to visit Circle S Hunting Club on Monday.

The reception committee also included Jackson’s sonin-law Nat Lea, vice president and general manager of the Arkansas Democrat-Gazette. We convened Sunday evening to make preparations, which included a delicious gumbo topped off by pecan pie. We also enjoyed some fellowship with George Dunklin, owner of nearby Five Oaks Lodge and a former member of the Arkansas Game and Fish Commission.

Monday morning began with great expectations, and with good reason: Hunters at Circle S have had a tremendous season, with mallards comprising a great portion of the year’s take. Overton, who also serves on the Game and Fish Commission, checked the weather forecast and selected a blind in Pecan Bayou that would make the best use of a light wind and clear sky.

As we gathered our gear, I started to step into my waders.

“You won’t need those unless you just want to wear them,” Overton said. “You won’t even get your feet wet.”

“How’s that work?” I asked.

“You just step off the boat into the blind,” he replied.

Those precious predawn moments were tranquil, with only “locater” quacks of hen mallards breaking the silence. It was so different from the previous evening, when a howling north wind spit cold drizzle across the gray landscape. I spent a few hours in a deer stand near Pecan Bayou on Sunday and watched waves of mallards and wood ducks drop into the tupelo slough. A cacophony of hail calls sounded like being on the far end of the midway in downtown Stuttgart during the World’s Championship Duck Calling Contest.

With so many ducks in the vicinity, Monday’s hunt promised to be something special.

It was, but for unforeseen reasons. The mallards had other obligations apparently, because they gave their invitations to their fellow travelers, the gadwalls. Either that, or they stood us up and the gaddies decided to crash the party.

Either way, gadwalls saved the day, as they often do.

After a short boat ride across the bayou, the blind’s silhouette loomed against the brightening sky. It’s actually a covered boat dock with a partially covered deck built on to the side, complete with benches and gun rests. Jackson guided the boat into the “garage,” and we stepped out onto the deck. Overton stationed me on the right end, which he said would give me the best shots at ducks banking in the wind.

As always happens, a small flight of mallards lit in the decoys about five minutes before shooting time. They swam around for a couple of minutes and flew out about a minute before shooting time. Overton checked his watch and announced the hunt was on. At that moment, a barrage of gunfire erupted for distant fields to signal a true shotgun start.

To our surprise, ducks trickled in, two and three at a time. As Overton predicted, they banked over the decoys and passed by my side of the blind. I held fire because there always seemed to be ducks working above them, and I didn’t want to ruin it. After about the fourth time, I sensed a little tension in the blind.

“You got to shoot!” Overton said under his breath.

“Ford, who calls the shot?” I asked.

“Nobody,” Overton replied. “If a duck comes in, shoot it.”

That was music to my ears, but my shooting eye was way out of tune with my ear. My shots only slowed ducks, while Jackson, Lea and Overton picked them off. During a lull, I took a mental survey of the hole’s dimensions and compared them to the heights of the trees that ring it. No wonder. The shots were all farther than they looked. I was shooting way behind all the birds.

The other guys didn’t miss much of anything except the northern scaups at which they refused to shoot. In less diplomatic terms, Overton explained that scaups are unworthy of even an ounce of steel shot.

Bella, Overton’s diminuitive retriever, got them all with a dignified, understated style. Nothing fancy, nothing spectacular, she just did it.

Finally, a high gadwall set its wings and plunged toward the spread. It dropped below treetop level and banked over the far right side of the hole. I gave it a good 8-foot lead, fired once and crumpled it. It happened again, and then again. They all fell stone dead from perfect head shots.

I used 3-inch Remington Sportsman shells with 1 1/2 ounces of No. 2 steel and a stock modified Invector Plus tube. The published velocity of the ammo is 1,450 feet per second. Lea used the same ammo and choke, except from a Remington 870. Overton used a Winchester Super X3 with a Patternmaster extended tube. Remington Sportsman is some of the cheapest ammo you can buy, but it works very well if you lead the birds properly.

Later in the morning the gadwalls got scarce, but northern shovelers, also noted party crashers, filled the void. Little by little, one and two birds at a time, we each shot our limit by about 8 a.m.

“We had us a pretty darned good little shoot,” Overton proclaimed.

Nothing in hunting compares to lighting big flocks of mallards and limiting out in 15 minutes, but it’s also fun extending a morning pass shooting singles, doubles and triples. While the mallard drake is the undisputed king of the South, a gadwall drake is a mighty handsome bird in his own right.

For that matter, so is a drake spoonbill.

Obviously the mallards thought they were too good for our company, but we were happy to have their buddies. Yes, even the spoonbills.

Sports, Pages 30 on 12/23/2012