Roasted Bluebills with Sriracha Plum Sauce

A bold, tangy sauce makes a delicious glaze for whole-roasted diver ducks

I obtained these bluebills on my very first guided hunt. A buddy of mine had a hunting partner drop out of a planned guided diver duck hunt on the Ontario side of the St. Lawrence River. He called me up and asked if I wanted to replace the guy who’d bailed for a discounted fee, and I thought, “Hey, why not?”

I’d been duck hunting a fair amount that season, though mostly in little flooded areas, ponds, and puddles, where a really good day of hunting meant two or three ducks. I didn’t have the access, wherewithal, or decoys to do a good diver hunt. Since my freezer was a little short on duck, this seemed like a good opportunity. That is, until my 2:45 am wakeup—ugh… the bane of most serious duck hunters. Coffee served to perk me up, though the hollow pit in my stomach (something I feel every time I wake up too early) was quickly promising to turn into acid reflux (also something I feel every time I wake up too early). 

After an hour’s drive, I arrived at the guide’s place, an old farmhouse and barn festooned with waterfowl taxidermy, turkey fans, camo gear, and decoys. My buddy pulled in shortly after, but no one seemed to be following him in. The guide popped out of the house, still pulling on his overalls, his breath steaming in the dark and frigid air. 

“Think it’s gonna snow boys? I think so! Other guys didn’t show up, so it’s just me and you fellas! You boys warm? You ready? You boys have lots of shells?” The constant litany was lost to hearing as he disappeared behind the barn, though I could still hear his country-flecked accented muttering from where I was standing. 

Apparently the other four strangers had also bailed, leaving just my buddy and me for a private hunt! 

“…get the boat pulled around and hooked up,” the young guide with curly hair tucked under a camo toque said as he came back from around the barn, evidently having never stopped talking, “then we’ll be on our way. Looks like you two have a private guide today, though less lads in the boat means less shots fired means less ducks, and I like to see dead ducks in the bottom of the boat,” he continued as he climbed into a truck and expertly backed it up to a waiting trailer hitch. 

“You boys jump into one of your trucks and follow me to the launch,” he said through the open truck window as he wheeled around and headed down the long driveway. My buddy and I looked at each other and then scrambled to throw all of his gear into my truck. I peeled out, trying to keep track of the quickly receding tail lights of the guide’s truck and boat trailer. 

Struggling to keep up on the icy roads, we sped to the launch where he backed in with alacrity. We tried to help with the boat, but mostly got in the way of his practiced hands as he pushed off from the partially-submerged trailer and tied up to the pier. We threw all of the guns, ammo, gear, and decoys into the boat and jumped in as he talked our ears off; his voice loud in the quiet stillness of the very early morning. 

He yanked on the pull cord to start the engine, and suddenly his constant discourse went silent. Then just one word, spoken quietly, but with feeling. We looked back and saw that he had yanked the pull cord right out of the engine. He looked at the ripped cord in his hand disconsolately and said, “I always keep an extra. Always. Except for today.” 

He looked up into the sky, let out a big breath, then said, “We can still save this day, boys. Let’s get back to the farm as fast as we possibly can.”

We packed the boat back up and loaded it onto the trailer (no easy feat in the icy water with no engine), then headed back towards the farm. I thought he’d been driving fast the first time; this time he was racing back, and I had my eyes on my speedometer as I followed, hoping that it was still too early for traffic police to be out on patrol. 

He ripped back down the farm driveway, spraying gravel as he spun the trailer around and backed it into the barn. “Quick, boys, quick! We can still save the day!” he called, releasing the trailer from the hitch. 

We threw a small tin boat into the box of his truck and split the decoys between our two vehicles, then we were once more flying out of his driveway, heading to who-knows-where. I noticed that we were heading in the opposite direction of the St. Lawrence and into the hillier lake country north of the river. We turned down a narrow backcountry road and made our way to a little dock on the edge of a medium-sized lake, picturesque in the false dawn. 

Flinging the boat into the water and affixing an ancient two-stroke motor onto the transom, he motioned for us to huck all of our gear into the boat, then climb on top of everything. It felt sketchy, and I wasn’t too sure about hunting this little lake when we were supposed to be on the big river, but my mood instantly picked up when I heard what seemed like a thousand ducks whistle over the boat. 

He parked us on a likely piece of shoreline, then hurriedly whipped the decoys into the water in front of us, somehow still arranging them in what looked like strategic positioning. He hid the boat, then came puffing up the shoreline as the sun broke over the horizon. We definitely weren’t early, but we’d still made it just before sunrise. 

He slumped down against a tree, wiping his forehead, “Jeeze, boys, that was a close one! I told you I’d save the day, though, didn’t I?” 

We did have a great day on that lake, quickly limiting out before 9 am, all bluebills (scaups). I even shot three birds in one pass—the first time I’d ever done so. 

I decided to keep a couple of the ducks whole (and plucked, of course!) and roast them, lacquered in a combination of three different flavors I love with duck: plums, sriracha, and Chinese five-spice. Delicious!