As a college-aged waterfowler in the Southern Plains trying to master the fine art of splitting time between the duck blind and college classes each autumn, I had for my playground peanut fields and nearby ponds and small lakes.

On some days -- especially when stiff northerly breezes blew and ushered in arctic air -- the mallard shooting in my own little corner of wingshooting paradise was nothing short of  . . . well -- Stuttgart, Ark.!

When hunting water, early-morning hunts would consist of the first light buzz of teal or divers along with clockwork like visits of gadwalls searching for a place to sit down for a spell. That quick action was followed by a pronounced lull, however -- one that would make guests to my hunting hotspots fidget more than a little as the sun rose higher on the horizon.

"Wait; be patient," I would say with more wisdom than my driver's license showed I was entitled to.

And sure enough, more times than not, waves of greenheads would begin pouring in at about 9 a.m. as they sought to slake their thirst after a couple of hours of feeding in nearby fields. And as my late, great Lab Molly brought those plump birds to hand, their crops would all be filled to the brim with lumpy peanuts.

Thanks to such easy pickings back in the 1980s, a dozen or so mallard decoys were all that was necessary. I happened to stumble across a muddy peanut field one damp and chilly afternoon as I checked one pond and then another for those glorious greenheads.

Imagine my surprise when a glance into a peanut field between two ponds revealed a couple of dozen Canada geese happily munching away. Putting on a crawl that would make a Western spot-and-stalk bowhunter proud, I inched my way through the mud intent on claiming the first goose in my brief waterfowling career.

After nearly a half-hour of this mudbath tango, one of the wise old ganders waddled up onto a small rise and spied my prone form kissing the mud just outside of shotgun range. It didn't take long for the goose to sound the alarm, and within seconds the entire mass of loud-mouthed geese were flying over a nearby tree line before disappearing down onto the water body that I had been en route to!

Another half-hour of sneaking ensued before I crested the earthen dam of that small lake to find nearly 30 Canadas seeking refuge from the north wind -- only 15 yards away from me! One shot resulted in one big peanut-fed Canada kicking, and 29 other big geese flying noisily over my head.

What a rush -- a goose hunter was born!

Over the years that followed, I milked all that I could out of peanut field duck and goose hunting, including some memorable dry-land hunts where mallards were landing at our feet while Canadas worked noisily overhead.

But that was then and this is now. However, now is a time when peanut field waterfowling is just as productive as always, albeit much more difficult to find these days.