Field Notes from the Trenches of the Tidal Marsh

Where Tides Turn, Dawn Breaks, and Bonds Are Forged in Mud and Mist

An eight-and-a-half-foot tidal swing is a helluva thing to witness. Especially when your experience with watercraft is limited to the old hand-me-down Old Town canoe your cousin gave you, the same one you used to paddle across the small ponds and lakes that dot the Connecticut countryside, chasing wood ducks and mallards, instead of paddling out a few minutes before sunrise to the same familiar spot you’ve hunted for years, now you’re sitting in the bow of a green and grey camo’d duck boat. 

This boat is being navigated through the Great Marsh of Newburyport, Massachusetts, in the darkness before dawn by an experienced captain. One who knows the Great Marsh like the back of his hand and is used to the sensation of it all.  In those early, black hours, your senses work overtime, tasting the cold salt air and smelling the distinctive stench of the marsh as it drains into the sea.

Stars glimmer overhead as a passenger jet, outlined by green and red lights, hums toward Logan International. The drone of its engines mixes with the low growl of the duck boat’s motor, adding to the sensory overload. You struggle to get your bearings as the small boat weaves through the maze-like canals of the marsh. It’s a lot to process excitement, anticipation, and the unfamiliar all rolled into one.

A loud thud from the bow hitting the muddy bank snaps me out of the trance. Instinct kicks in that ingrained need to move quickly from years of training, and I’m climbing up the slick, heavy mud of the bank. That’s when the scale of it all becomes obvious. The Great Marsh, nearly 20,000 acres of tidal grasslands, winding creeks, and mudflats, stretches endlessly around us. These channels, remnants of 1800s farmland drainage, twist and branch into a labyrinth made even more dramatic by tidal swings that can reach up to ten feet. The result resembles trenches straight out of The Somme during World War I. For the few of us who had served or were still serving, the comparison wasn’t lost as we trudged through the muck toward our setup spot.

Our “blind” was in one of those trenches left behind by the outgoing tide, brushing ourselves in camo netting and marsh grasses, we were all set to hunt as the first light crept into the sky behind us. Then came the waiting for the birds, and for the day to start. And with that waiting came something even better: conversation.

We’d only met the night before, gathered at an Airbnb near the dunes for our Military Community Waterfowl Camp, a program meant to bring veterans together through hunting and conservation. Now, ankle-deep in mud, watching over our decoy spread, we got through the awkward introductions fast. The jokes started. The quiet advice about calling and shooting angles followed. Before long, the first flock dropped into the spread right as legal light arrived.

The sun rose on a clear, unseasonably mild morning, perfect weather. Gunfire echoed across the Great Marsh as our group and others found success, the crisp air filled with the sound of wings and laughter. As every spent shell clattered to the decks of the duck boats or to the bottom of our little trench, strangers became something closer. You could feel it happening, that slow shift from strangers to folks who would become fast friends. 

By the time we packed up, gray clouds were rolling in. When we opened the door to the Airbnb just a block and a few dunes from the Atlantic, it felt like we’d stepped into a freezer. The temperature had dropped nearly thirty degrees, and a chorus of expletives filled the air. We all knew what that meant: tomorrow was going to be one of those days. The forecast called for rain, freezing temperatures, and heavy winds. Classic New England winter. Miserable for most folks, perfect for waterfowlers. It takes a certain kind of person to go out in weather like that.

But our crew was built for it.

Submariners, infantrymen, sailors, all used to being uncomfortable, all drawn to it in some way. This time, though, no one was making us be there. We chose it.

Mallards, geese, black ducks, long-tails, they were all flying that morning, cutting through sleet and wind. And so were we, grinning through chattering teeth, soaked to the bone, refusing to quit. Somewhere between the rain hammering our jackets and the laughter echoing over the water, something clicked. 

Friendships formed — the kind that can only be earned through shared misery and the pursuit of something you all understand, even if most people don’t. By the end of that stormy January weekend, the Great Marsh had done what it always does. It tested us, humbled us, and somehow brought us closer together.

***

About the Author

Born and raised in New England, Cody Fongemie grew up surrounded by history and adventure. His love for the outdoors led him to become an avid hunter, fly fisherman, and writer focused on history and wilderness pursuits. After studying in South Carolina, he enlisted in the Air Force, where he continues to serve. In addition to his service, he is dedicated to actively connecting the military community with the outdoors through non-profit initiatives. Based in Connecticut with his wife, Carlei, and their dog, Winnie, Cody writes for Mule Deer Foundation Magazine, DeerCast, and various outdoor organizations.