A Peabody Experience
As a central Kentucky boy, the only place you can manage to witness over a hundred ducks is at the conservation center or a public park. Turning myself into a pond pounding birdbrain was more due to the experiences my friends and I shared than the thrill of filling our bag limits. We still laugh and the thought of reaching our limit. Then came Peabody.
Peabody was—and remains today—an outdoorsman’s dream. My buddy and I were tipped off of a land far away that held hundreds of ponds, marshes, creeks, and in them, hundreds of bass. Yes—BASS! Say no more. Next thing I knew we were getting lost in this foreign land they call Peabody WMA. The roads were gravel or dirt, not one sign, not one human!
As skeptical as we felt driving around all of these ponds we become mesmerized in the beauty of the place. Some ponds were crystal clear. Others remained swamp-like with lily pads, duckweeds, and cattails all around. Some lakes held a deep blue color, like glacier run-off from Denali. And the one thing they had in common? BASS.
In a two-day span, we caught over eighty bass each. It was largemouth heaven and we reaped all of the rewards. Needless to say, our newly discovered honey hole—or should I say honey holes—was a blessing to find. Since that first trip we’ve made it an annual thing, however, the story isn’t over.
One cold, duckless November morning I sparked the thought that Peabody could hold just as many ducks as it did bass. Honk! Honk! The truck was loaded down, the hotel booked, weather below 0 (literally) and we were off to honey hole land. I could go on and on telling you what transpired that first hunting trip but sometimes it is best to let imagination take flight. As any pond pounding, duck slaying, field finagler knows ducks can be as frustrating as stepping in a pile of dog sh*t on your way to a date. Then…on occasion, everything comes together, your setup is perfect, the birds work your spread just right, and when that happens waterfowl hunting is pure heaven.
Every year we make two trips to Peabody. One trip is for summertime fun. We drink beer, swim, and rip lip after lip off the kayak—say that three times faster! The second trip is for the ducks. It’s usually frostbite advisory cold (yes, literally), we drink bourbon for the warmth, hold our duck calls up to our frozen icicle beards and try to relive those perfect experiences of euphoria, frustration, anger, confusion, and happiness. You may call it crazy, call us stupid birdbrained scattergun thumpers, but try for yourself. Try the Peabody experience.