Minnesota Nice: A Guy, His Girl, & My Dog
“Shot any ducks lately?” This iMessage comes across in banners and for no good reason I get hotter than the soft side of a Cheddar Bay Biscuit. If I answer the question truthfully, I know the next text will be him asking to join me. If I lie, I would have to make small talk with this acquaintance of mine about a stalled migration, or some other bullshit of which I candidly have no working knowledge or data-driven proof. So, I selected option three: do nothing. Perfectly content with my normal group of duck-enthused locals, I left Collin’s text on ‘read’ for a number of days – weeks even.
While I cannot pinpoint the exact time and I am uncertain of the root cause; at some point over the last 10 years I have seemingly made the conscious decision that I have enough fucking friends. Not only do I not want to ‘grab a beer with you,’ I most certainly do not want to ‘wake up early, crawl into a hole with a loaded gun and make mallard noises while you pet my dog’ with you. And thus, for reasons unbeknownst to me – in my eyes, you are my mortal fucking enemy right up until the point you are not. This practice of mine is unfortunately not limited to hunting groups. It expands into my social life and even the workplace. Though I am not proud of it, I do feel that it is important to note that at this point I also genuinely have no interest in changing. Therefore, if you are reading this and you are someone that I have personally spent time with; congrats! You have beaten my cancerous mindset. Conversely, if you are reading this and I have not spent time with you, well, now you know why… it’s because I unreservedly hate your fucking guts. Or at least the idea of them.
You see, Collin was simply a standard victim of this maniacal sentiment. Luckily for him, however, the equal-opportunity hate in my heart and mind is quickly outweighed by the fact that I am generally also a huge fucking pussy. I have hunted alone for years. Thus, during times when my normal group is unable to join I am generally comfortable with the solitude of the wilderness, and the darkness either before sunrise or just after sunset. There is always however, the “what if something goes wrong?” question sitting in the back of my mind as I approach each and every solo-adventure upon an icy river. I mean, death is one thing – we’re all headed that way eventually; but could you imagine the embarrassing headline if my cell phone and subsequent search history were the only things recovered? While I am eager to take a deeper-dive into these hypothetical news articles, it is more material for the purposes of this post to simply say that fear coupled with others’ scheduling conflicts eventually “won” the proverbial war in my head, and I texted Collin back. Boy am I glad I did.
Collin came to Kansas in a midwestern rage with the goal of flying planes and drinking beers on Mass Street. He has become pretty successful at both and if it weren’t for his God-awful accent and unbashful love for ice fishing, I would consider him a successfully Converted-Kansan like myself. Unfortunately, he is and always will be a walking Jucy Lucy, with a can-do Minnesota Nice attitude, and front-back blue plates bolted onto a ’94 GMC. Short of beating the living Golden Light out of this kid, it appears that the Minnesota in him is stuck tighter than the electric starter on his piece of shit 40 HP Evinrude. . . And that’s just fine by me. Because Collin absolutely loves smacking green heads over open water.
This was the first season that I have spent hunting with Collin, and one of the most astounding aspects about my 2023-2024 season was Collin’s commitment to fowling. It takes me all of 11 minutes to get from my driveway to the sandy banks of the Kansas River. For that reason, three sometimes four days a week I tend to knockout quick first-light sessions before heading into the office. Collin, fighting-through a 45-minute commute and a myriad of GI issues (spurred by his relentless consumption of Topeka-famous Taco Casa), rarely missed one of these 30-minute duckfests. He’d show up, trap about 300 farts in his neoprene waders, shoot birds, and leave to go fly planes. All of this while maintaining his weird Minnesota smirk that just screams, “I’ve done ‘mouth stuff’ to a walleye in an ice castle.” The guy would even bring his damn girlfriend (definitely a beard) with him sometimes!
Although I spent a lot of time throughout this post bagging on that cheese curd, I can honestly say that answering Collin’s text has turned out to be one of the most rewarding experiences in my hunting timeline. Having another consistent gun and half-decent shot in the blind has immensely helped to develop Weller’s skills and comfort on the open water. Something for which I am sure Weller too is thankful. And being able to connect personally with someone of a very different walk of life has helped to give me more perspective on what it’s like to uphold Midwestern values. While I’m not ‘there’ yet, maybe a few more seasons with ol’ Coll will help to soften my edges. Ultimately, I can attest that there truly is nothing like hammering birds with new buds for 60 days straight to help resolve the pure disdain I have for other human beings. Collin, welcome to the ‘normal’ group.