By the time artist David Personius was growing up in the 1950s, carved wooden bird decoys were largely a thing of the past—collector’s items for folk art aficionados like his dad. European settlers, inspired by Native Americans creating avian replicas out of natural materials to attract live birds, picked up the practice of carving fake fowl. Those decoys became a vital tool for commercial hunting in the 1800s, a trade that slashed migratory bird populations and helped drive the Passenger Pigeon to extinction before the practice was banned. Eventually, the invention of plastic decoys for sport hunting in the 20th century made the handmade versions obsolete. But folk artists like Personius have kept the tradition alive.
Personius carved his first few decoys for personal use when he went duck hunting with his dad. He turned the hobby into a career after graduating from college in the 1980s, and spent a decade selling meticulously crafted shorebirds at art fairs and waterfowl shows across the country. “I feel fortunate that I was at it long enough and had enough experience and talent to create my own little style,” he says. Unfortunately, it was also a hard way to pay the bills—so Personius set his carving tools aside to work in publishing, then in horticulture. He finally returned to the craft 14 years ago, now living in Fairbanks, Alaska.
Every decoy starts as a hunk of wood—occasionally more than one, as with this Bar-tailed Godwit, a long-legged wader with ruddy-chested breeding plumage. First Personius sketches the outline of the bird to use as a pattern and traces that onto the wood. Using a band saw, he cuts away the excess chunks and then carves the detailed shape with a utility knife. Finally, he smooths out the surfaces with rasps and sandpaper before joining the pieces together; a screw lends the godwit’s fragile neck some extra strength.
“I just come up with an illusion—my impression of what that bird might look like if you’re looking at it through binoculars.”
Then Personius heads to the kitchen—his ad hoc painting studio—for the final touches. Although he studied woodwork, sculpture, and ceramics, everything he’s learned about paint and color has been self-taught, and he’s developed his own method over the years. He begins by laying down texture with gesso, which painters often use to prime their canvases. Then he layers color on top with acrylics, stippling the paint to create the appearance of plumage. “I’m not trying to paint feathers,” he says. “I just come up with an illusion—my impression of what that bird might look like if you’re looking at it through binoculars.” Finally, Personius adds glass eyes, along with a bill and legs made of custom-wrought iron from a local blacksmith. For the Bar-tailed Godwit, Personius also added wing tips that he cut and hammered out of copper aged in ammonia.
Most of the decoys Personius carves are shorebirds that rely on the Arctic habitat for their breeding grounds. That includes Bar-tailed Godwits: After nesting on the Alaskan tundra, the birds gorge themselves on crustaceans and clams around Bristol Bay. “They get absolutely, grotesquely huge,” Personius says. “Their internal organs shrink, their body swells with fat, they can barely get off the ground.” Even more remarkable is what happens next.
When scientists began putting satellite trackers on Bar-tailed Godwits two decades ago, they discovered these birds travel from Alaska to New Zealand in one non-stop flight—a distance of more than 6,000 miles. “When they come down in New Zealand, they’re just a skeleton,” Personius says. Come spring, they fly to China’s Yellow Sea to fatten up again before beginning the long journey back to Alaska.
Bar-tailed Godwits are not globally threatened today. But as with all migratory birds, they’re vulnerable to disturbances on their breeding and overwintering grounds—and everywhere in between. Although decoys were originally created to kill birds, Personius hopes his modern versions can inspire action to protect them: “I’ve been carving and talking about the feats of the Bar-tailed Godwit as a way to make people more aware of the plight of migratory birds,” Personius says.
This piece originally ran in the Winter 2024 issue. To receive our print magazine, become a member by making a donation today.
