Within 30 minutes, the skies turned from a neutral grey to a pinkish-purple and then to midnight black. From my tripod seat I could tell the bottom was going to fall out of the sky any minute, but my timing was off.
Every duck hunter in Mississippi, and most duck hunters in the nation, believe that if they’ve lived good, sportsmen-like lives and have close relationships with God, they’ll get permission to hunt at Beaver Dam before they die.
Each year I am pelted with a variety of questions about public water in Mississippi. The questions come from duck hunters wanting to know how far they can boat into flooded timber, fishermen wanting to know if certain lakes are public and landowners wanting to know where their property starts and where the public water stops. All are good questions.
The surroundings were surreal. A small shack sat hard against a dirt road adjacent to a huge grain field that had been harvested and left to lie until spring farming operations began anew. A cold north wind battered the mud and stubble, and toyed with a single light bulb that dangled from a cord under the tiny porch of that shack. The bulb cast eerie shadows at varying angles as it swayed randomly with each gust.
Mississippi Sportsman contributor Cliff Covington used heavy hunting pressure to his advantage to drop this trophy buck.