02/06/2025
đź“– The Day Waseca Tried to Kill Us
Some hunts are easy.
This was not one of those hunts.
It started with a lie.
The forecast said 13 degrees, light snow, perfect breeze.
Duck weather so good I walked out of my house before my coffee even finished brewing.
We loaded up—half in my Tundra, half in Terry’s Silverado.
The Trucks
Now, my Tundra isn’t just a truck. It’s a rolling advertisement for questionable life choices.
It’s covered in stickers, packed with more gear than a Cabela’s clearance rack, and topped with a camper shell that could survive a nuclear blast and still check in on Facebook afterward.
Terry’s Silverado?
Listen, that truck is a miracle on four bald tires.
The odometer stopped working two presidents ago. The exhaust pipe sounds like a grizzly bear with asthma. And if you open the glove box, you have a 50/50 shot of finding either a registration from 2004 or a live raccoon.
Some people own trucks.
Terry’s truck belongs to the ages.
Todd—Terry’s twin brother, who somehow always has a Busch Light in one hand and a cigarette in the other when he’s not holding a shotgun—leans into my window before we pull out.
“Truck’s still runnin’, huh?” he says, nodding toward Terry’s Silverado.
Terry lights a smoke, exhales slow.
“Barely.”
Todd just grins.
“Wouldn’t be a hunt if it wasn’t.”
The Ice Decides to Fight Back
We set up on the edge of a cornfield, right up against a slough that had just enough open water to make it worth the effort.
The conditions were perfect.
Light snow started falling—just a dusting—and a gentle breeze rippled the decoys. Ducks were flying, birds were dropping, and Jack and Nolan were stacking them faster than the rest of us could reload.
Everything was too perfect.
And that’s when we heard it.
Ice Isn’t Supposed to Sound Like That
Now, frozen lakes and sloughs make noises.
Little pops. Groans. No big deal.
This?
This sounded like a semi-truck downshifting into hell.
BOOM.
Not a pop. Not a groan. A full-blown, ground-shaking explosion of ice.
We all froze mid-reload.
Terry—who has spent more time in near-disasters than a tornado chaser—just squints at the ice.
“Hmm.”
“Hmm” IS NOT A NORMAL REACTION TO A LAKE EXPLODING, TERRY.
Then—BOOM.
The entire slough shifted like a tectonic plate.
The open water? Gone.
A wall of ice—jagged, cracked, and moving like a bulldozer from hell—rose up and surged forward, steam rolling through our spread.
Decoys vanished in an instant—some sucked under the ice, others launched into the cattails like a shotgun blast. The ice swallowed our entire landing zone like it was never there.
The blind shook. The whole marsh felt like it was breathing.
And then—CRACK.
A section of the ice gave way under the front of the blind, dropping part of the frame into the shifting slush.
Russ grabbed the blind wall.
“Oh hell no. Nope. Nope.”
JoJo just sighed, loading another shell.
“I told y’all this was gonna happen.”
Todd, watching the carnage unfold, took a slow drag off his cigarette and nodded.
“Well. That’s inconvenient.”
And then—the snow hit.
The Blizzard From Hell
If the ice shift was bad, this was worse.
What had started as a light snow turned into absolute, blinding chaos.
Snowflakes the size of silver dollars came in sideways, turning the world into a swirling whiteout. The temperature dropped like a rock. The wind wasn’t just gusting—it was howling, punching through our layers like they weren’t even there.
Nolan, wiping snow out of his eyes, muttered,
“This is some Day After Tomorrow-type bullsh*t.”
Jack nodded. “If we see Jake Gyllenhaal, I’m out.”
Terry, barely fazed, just pulled his hood up tighter.
“Quit cryin’. Ducks still gotta eat.”
And just like that, we got back to work.
The Chili Incident
Now, we’re scrambling.
We get reset, get back to hunting, and somehow—through sheer willpower and an aggressive refusal to acknowledge danger—we start dropping birds again.
And then—Rob ruins everything.
Because, of course, this is the moment he decides to drop his thermos.
And you already know what happens next.
The chili—**piping hot, thick as concrete, bright red like a crime scene—**EXPLODES.
But not just onto the ice.
No.
Direct hit.
Rob takes a full-blown, molten chili shrapnel blast to the face.
There was a moment of absolute silence.
Then:
“OH GOD, IT’S IN MY EYES!”
He flings off his gloves, waving his arms like a man fighting off a swarm of invisible bees.
Meanwhile, the rest of us?
We’re dying.
Russ is doubled over. Jack is crying from laughter.
JoJo just sighs. “Well. Now he can’t hide for the rest of the day.”
Because she’s right.
Rob, whose face is now painted bright red with chili grease, looks like he’s about to be drafted as the next mascot for the Minnesota Wild.
Todd, watching the scene unfold, just shakes his head.
“Camouflage is overrated anyway.”
The Final Disaster
We’re wrapping up, feeling like maybe, just maybe, we made it through this one.
And then—
We realize the trucks are gone.
Not stolen. Not moved.
Just buried under a snow drift so big it looks like we drove straight into an avalanche.
I turn to Terry.
Terry, without breaking eye contact, lights another cigarette.
Todd surveys the damage, shakes his head, and reaches into the cooler.
“Well, boys… looks like it’s time for a Busch Light.”
Terry exhales.
“Well, boys… looks like we’re diggin’.”
The Aftermath
By the time we make it back to town, we look like a group of survivors being evacuated from a disaster zone.
We drip half the marsh onto the floor of the diner as we collapse into a booth, exhausted, starving, and half-frozen.
JoJo, still casually eating pancakes like she didn’t just watch us almost die, finally looks up.
“So,” she says. “Tomorrow?”
Todd, cracking open his second Busch Light, smirks.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
Silence.
Terry, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, nods.
