EVERY time I cross the bridge over the Sundays River my eyes automatically gaze northward towards the area anglers call the koppie, and old memories come flooding back. You see it was on those distant river banks that I shot my very first duck. On that rainy day in 1960, three of us had permission to hunt on a farm that ran from the river up over the escarpment and beyond. We were still rank amateur hunters, though we had shot some guineafowl, francolin and quail. So there we were, three soaking wet young fellows, keen as mustard, plodding through the dripping bush hoping to get a shot at… heck, anything.
In the late afternoon, while my friends chatted with the farmer, I took my old Greener 12-bore double down to the river to check out some old
