In the second-floor classroom of Mr. Patchin's science class at Armijo Union High School in northern California, I always chose a seat right next to the window. The reason wasn't because I had a clear view of the blackboard, or because I had a clear view of Mr. Patchin, either. If I had paid more attention to either one, I would have gotten far better grades.

What I did have was an excellent view of the great marsh that began a mile from town. It held my attention endlessly. I could make out the low, waving brown tulle line and cattails, plus the diamond sparkle of water, all backdropped by the Protrero Hills. The 54,000-acre Suisun Marsh spread from the edge of town all the way to rough, open waters of Suisun and Grizzly Bays, miles away. It was, and still is, the largest estuary marsh of its kind in the western Untied States. I haunted it first with a single-shot, 12-gauge shotgun strapped over the handlebars of my American Flyer, and later when I grew old enough to actually own a car and more sophisticated weaponry.

My crow's nest view also gave me one other thing even more priceless, the opportunity to watch the first high, waving vees of migrating ducks and geese making their fall journey's into the marsh by the hundreds of thousands. The largest numbers of birds were graceful pintails, for this estuary marsh had been their ancient wintering grounds for as long as water birds made epic journeys south each fall.

I could distinguish the 'pins' instantly from all other ducks. They did not have the dark, blocky bodies of mallards or the twisting flight of teal and wigeon. Instead, these graceful birds came in big flocks flying in perfect formation to glide round and round over open water until convinced it was safe before finally settling in. I never tired of watching them, although Mr. Patchin thought it a major distraction. My grades showed his displeasure.

Now here's the odd thing about pintails: Although they are classified as puddle ducks, right along with mallards, gadwalls, teal and wigeon, I contest they are nothing of the sort. You can float a half a dozen mallard or wigeon decoys in some tiny splash or pothole and experience great gunning. And you might also pull in teal or gadwalls. But you won't get any kind of action from pintails. They can call pintails puddle ducks if they like, but I've never seen one sitting in a puddle of any kind, nor do I ever expect to.

Unlike most other puddle ducks, pintails prefer open water over sloughs and other small bodies of water.

Why? Because pintails are open-water birds, and always have been. The open water is where you can get your licks in at them if you have done your homework. I began mine in that second-story classroom.

Choosing Water
The smartest move any would-be pintail hunter can make is to keep his eyes and mind open to exactly where the swordtail bird is working. It's the very first order of business.

Open water might all look the same to you and me, but that clearly is not the case to these shy, careful birds. What was a great gathering place for them yesterday can be completely abandoned today. They can be fickle to a fault. Pintails are often drawn to one spot, in great numbers, simply by seeing their brethren who have chosen it first. Therefore if behooves the day hunter to pause a few minutes when he reaches likely water and pay attention to exactly where the birds are curving down before floating a single decoy.

Pintails often choose very unusual water for a puddle duck. I've had excellent gunning success hunting them on open sheet water flooded by nothing more than recent, heavy rains just inches deep. What was rice stubble and cattle grazing pastures one day becomes a real hotspot for birds feeding the next because insect and plant seeds suddenly floated to the surface. In such cases, feeding opportunities become the main draw.