The Gentle Art of Duck Decoys: A Collector’s Tale
It started with a dusty wooden mallard.
I found it in the corner of my grandfather’s old barn, nestled between rusted fish hooks and a cracked thermos. At first, I thought it was just another forgotten relic from a bygone hunting trip. But as I lifted the decoy into the light, I realized there was something special about it—the hand-carved detail in the feathers, the wear on the paint from years of use, the initials “C.H.” carved faintly into the base. That was the beginning. That’s when I became a duck decoy collector.
Back then, I didn’t know a canvasback from a redhead. I couldn’t tell a Mason Factory bird from a Ward Brothers masterpiece. All I knew was that this wooden duck had a story. And I wanted to learn it.
The Hidden World Beneath the Feathers
You don’t just wake up one day and decide to collect duck decoys. It sneaks up on you, like mist on a still pond. For me, it began with curiosity. I started asking questions—first to my dad, then to older locals at bait shops and flea markets. It didn’t take long to realize I’d stumbled into a rich American folk art tradition.
Duck decoys were originally made as tools—functional objects meant to lure real ducks within range of a shotgun. But somewhere along the way, they became something more. Carvers began to sign their names. They added intricate details to the plumage, glass eyes that shimmered in the sun, postures that mimicked real waterfowl so perfectly you’d swear they could swim.
Soon, I was scouring estate sales and online auctions, flipping through catalogs from decoy shows in Maryland and Michigan. Each time I brought a new bird home, I felt like I was preserving a small piece of history.
From Marsh to Mantel
One of my first big finds came from a roadside antique store off Route 17 in Virginia. The shopkeeper, a wiry man with tobacco-stained fingers, pointed me toward a weathered bluebill perched on a shelf next to a box of ceramic ashtrays.
“That one’s been here a while,” he said. “Took it in from a local’s estate. He used to hunt out near Back Bay.”
It was rough around the edges—paint chipped, a small crack in the bill—but something about the bird’s stance made me pause. I flipped it over and saw a faint pencil signature: “Gibian '42.”
I paid $60 for it. Weeks later, I learned that James Gibian was a respected carver whose decoys often fetched hundreds. But even before I knew its value, I loved that bird. It had character. It had stories soaked into the wood grain.
That’s what collecting duck decoys is really about—stories.
The Brotherhood of Decoy Collectors
There’s a tight-knit community of decoy collectors across the country. I found them in hotel conference rooms and lodge basements, gathering for annual swap meets and shows. I’d walk through aisles lined with birds—dozens, hundreds—laid out like soldiers, each with a little tag tucked beneath: “Turner – Circa 1920” or “Unknown Chesapeake Bay Carver.”
These events weren’t just about buying or selling. They were about sharing lore. Seasoned collectors would bend your ear with tales of finding rare birds in attics or backwoods auctions. Sometimes the best stories had nothing to do with the decoy itself, but with the hunter who used it, the river it floated on, or the blind it waited in for hours at a time.
One older gentleman told me about a rig of decoys he inherited from his uncle—a man who hunted with his Chesapeake Bay retriever in the 1950s. “Those birds saw more sunrises than most people ever will,” he said, eyes misting just a little.
From Craft to Art
The more I collected, the more I came to appreciate the artistry of decoy carving. The earliest examples, from the 1800s, were blocky and utilitarian, made with simple tools and painted with whatever house paint was on hand. But over time, carvers developed regional styles. A black duck carved in Long Island looked different from one made in Michigan. Southern decoys often had a lower profile, designed for open water, while Northern birds sat taller, built for marshes and tidal creeks.
The Ward Brothers—Steve and Lem—are legends in the field. Their decoys blur the line between function and fine art. I once stood in front of a pair of their canvasbacks in a museum, awed by the lifelike curvature of the neck, the subtle fade in the paintwork. Some collectors hunt for these birds for decades before finding one they can afford.
And yet, for every thousand-dollar museum piece, there are just as many backyard carvers whose work is equally soulful, if not as well-known.
A Personal Legacy
I’ve lost count of how many decoys I now own—somewhere north of a hundred. I’ve got shelves lined with pintails, scoters, and goldeneyes. Some are pristine, others are beat up and patched with glue. But each one carries a memory: the trip I took to Maine to buy a merganser from an old tugboat captain, or the day I found a dusty hen mallard at a church rummage sale for five bucks.
Sometimes friends ask me if I hunt.
I don’t. Not with a shotgun, anyway. But in a way, I’m always hunting. Hunting for stories, for history, for connection. Duck decoy collecting is like that. It slows you down. Makes you pay attention. It connects you to a time when people carved birds not for galleries, but for the quiet thrill of a cold dawn on still water.
The Next Chapter
Last winter, I gave my nephew his first decoy—a simple black duck I carved myself. Nothing fancy, just pine and paint and a bit of twine. But when I handed it to him, I saw that same spark I’d felt in my grandfather’s barn.
He ran his fingers over the feathers, turned it in his hands, and asked, “Who made this?”
“I did,” I said. “And now it’s yours.”
Maybe he’ll grow up and forget it. Or maybe, one day, he’ll find it in his garage, dust it off, and feel the pull of something timeless.
That’s the magic of duck decoys. They're not just wood and paint. They're memory, tradition, and artistry—floating reminders that even the quietest objects can carry the loudest stories.
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