I'm by no means an experienced marsh hen hunter . . . I've only tried for the salt marsh fowl a handful of times.
There can be some work required for this briny mix of dove and quail hunting. Especially trying to push the skiff through the spartina grass when the tide hasn't risen quite enough . . . especially with a not-quite-long-enough push pole. You, like me, may be huffing and puffing.
But when you spy a rail-bird through the grass, when you see that long distinctive bill, when you see that dark brown, slinking through the flooded grass, low, low like a nutria or a rat, those hunting instincts that lay dormant in many of us start to stir.
This really is hunting, though the shooting isn't all that difficult. Your eyes straining, looking for the small bird, the bird just trying to evade your detection. He, the bird, won't jump up and flush easily. You've almost got to push right on top of him.
It's a team effort too, part of what makes this salt marsh venture so great. One pushing, the other two, holding shotguns at the ready (though one may need to help push here and there), and all, with eyes sharp, inspecting every contrast in the flooded grass, every movement.
It's a tide game . . . and the clock's ticking. Once that tide starts to drop out, you won't have long.