I met Art Hawkins twice, but feel that I’ve known him all my life because of his impact on my view of waterfowl management.

Our first encounter occurred in 1967 when I was a student at the Delta Waterfowl Research Station in Manitoba. Hawkins, Walt Crissey and Johnny Lynch were taking a break during the annual aerial survey of breeding ducks. One evening we gathered together and got into a conversation the like of which I suspect is very rare these days. Those of use who were students learned that an era was coming to an end. These men had grave reservations about the future.

The three field biologists, who had pioneered waterfowl management and tempered scientific theory with personal experience, were being replaced in the decision-making hierarchy by more theoretically-based scientists. They feared that decisions about duck management would now be made by people who rarely left their desks. Hawkins, Crissey and Lynch were conservation-minded biologists who espoused the philosophy of Aldo Leopold, a man who had an immense influence on Hawkins. They believed that the best interests of ducks had to come first, certainly before the selfish interests of hunters. That night when I went to bed my head was spinning, not so much from what I’d drunk but from what I’d heard about the system that in my naiveté I believed was beyond criticism. That brief, chance meeting with Art Hawkins and his friends left a lasting impression on me and helped define the way I came to view waterfowl management.

I was moving toward a university career but did not want to lose touch with the experience-based field work that characterized these men and so strongly appealed to me. During my remaining 3 years at Delta, I did everything I could to learn more about what I had heard in that conversation. As the years passed, I periodically heard about Hawkins and his accomplishments as a U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service biologist. He had been the Mississippi Flyway representative from 1954 to 1972 and while he was no longer active with the service after 1983, he never really retired. He always kept current and informed about what was happening in his profession. I was also familiar with his many management articles and conservation writing. I knew, too, about his conservation activities during his retirement – his environmental activism that saw him take on developers while tirelessly promoting his conservation philosophy at the local, state and wider levels. Art was an inveterate letter writer who kept conservation issues always before the public. He wrote to everyone – friends, newspaper editors, politicians, anyone who might support a good cause. Art was the recipient of many conservation awards, but his satisfaction was in the achievements that led to these awards, not the accolade itself.

He lived his philosophy, too, and this was manifest from the way he managed his 50-acre property. It was evident in his participation in the Wood Duck Society, Earth Day events and in the many other ways he promoted the conservation ethic in his adopted state of Minnesota and elsewhere. Everywhere in Art’s life one could see the hand of the man he proudly deferred to and respected as the master – his mentor Aldo Leopold, the father of American wildlife management.

In 1984, Art co-authored with three colleagues and friends a book that chronicled the early history of waterfowl management. Flyways – Pioneering Waterfowl Management in North America is compelling reading. It tells the story of the men who got the system up and running. It is a story of commitment, dedication and passion, but it’s also about taking responsibility for making the system work. Waterfowl management was an integral part of their emotional and intellectual lives. They cared passionately about every aspect of it and they soared with its successes and felt the pain of its failures. Read Flyways if you want to know the gratitude we owe to Hawkins and his fellow pioneers.

It was only a couple of years ago that Art and I reconnected. We had become involved with the Minnesota Concerned Duck Hunters Panel, a group of experienced hunters and activists who were worried that hunters might be killing too many ducks. Harvey Nelson, another waterfowl management pioneer and co-author of Flyways, had given Art a book that I’d written. Art, now 90, sent me a long, hand-written letter in response to some of the observations I’d made in the book. I was thrilled that he’d made contact and responded with a phone call. This began a series of letters and phone calls between Art in Minnesota and me in Nova Scotia.

Art invited me to visit and last March I did so. During my weekend with him, I got to know Art the family man – husband, father, grandfather. Betty, Amy and Piper welcomed me into their homes and lives and I soon felt like I’d known them for years. It was clear to see that Art’s loving family was a wonderful base of support for him. I’m sure their hospitality was a big reason why there was a steady stream of people visiting the Hawkins residence.

Arts mental acuity and logical, critical thinking was remarkable for a man of any age, but it was his open-minded attitude and willingness to discuss that so impressed me. We talked about the theory and practice of waterfowl management for hours. When we disagreed, there was never evidence of arrogance, guile or annoyance, only respect for another man’s perspective. He wrote the following inscription in a copy of Flyways, which I’d taken to Minnesota with me: “...what a weekend. The first geese arrived and we had a go at solving the duck situation.” This summed up the visit and I left with plans to work with him on an article for Madduck.

Only a month before my visit, Art’s close friend and colleague, Frank Bellrose, had died at the age of 88. The two men had met in 1935 when they worked for the Illinois Natural History Survey. They did many things but it was their seminal work on wood ducks that was especially dear to them. Both held the “woodie” close to their hearts. Art’s tribute to Frank, which he wrote for Madduck, was filled with insights into how the early pioneers viewed their privileged position. They took personal responsibility for our flocks and the fledgling profession of waterfowl management. Hawkins tribute was a testament to the affection these two close friends had for one another, and it’s an example of how they cooperated to accomplish their professional goals.

Art loved being part of the waterfowl management system, and he was proud of his involvement in it. He believed and had faith in it. He was committed to it to the end, and never wavered in his belief that good science had to be the underpinning of how both duck populations and the hunting community are managed. But he wasn’t uncritical and expressed concerns both of us shared that harkened back to our first meeting four decades earlier. These concerns were the focus of an article we co-authored for Madduck. I believe that his vast experience and common sense approach to wildlife issues lent credibility to our position. But Art was a humble and respectful man who knew that any possibility of change requires dialogue and not confrontation. He insisted that this be the tenor of our article. We made plans to collaborate and write more articles.

Art was an inspiration to everyone who knew him. Ever the field biologist – the observer, recorder and thinker, he never lost the sense of awe and wonder about nature that he had as a boy. He thrilled to the sight of waterfowl returning to the breeding grounds to renew the enduring cycle of life. Even as a very old man, he still had an infectious curiosity and enthusiasm for nature. Art died peacefully earlier this year while walking, binoculars around his neck and notepad in hand, with his inseparable companion Koko by his side. His notes and earlier conversation with his granddaughter – a very special moment for Piper and Grandpa – reveal that he’d been watching mallards, newly arrived on spring migration. His passing leaves a void but his memory and legacy will live on. I feel privileged to have known him.