Covey has proven to be an indefatigable waterfowl retriever.

I was crouched down in heavy dwarf birch on the shores of Tahneta Lake west of Glenallen, Alaska, with Covey and my daughters, Michelle and Theresa, one very cold, crisp September morning two years ago waiting for ducks to appear from the fog. We had left our decoys out the night before and the temperature plummeted to 20 degrees in the night. When we arrived back at our makeshift blind the next morning, the decoys were very, very still.

I didn’t measure the ice thickness that morning, but half the lake was frozen and I could not break the ice by pushing ahead in my waders. I had to raise my boots above the ice surface and then come down on top to break through. The spread still looked great in the fog and the ice was crystal clear so we sat down to see what might develop. Out of nowhere swans began to circle our decoy spread, gliding over our heads like 747s approaching SEATAC runway #1.

Over and over they circled our mallard and bluebill spread at head height. Covey fidgeted and whined and their vocalizations echoed across the taiga, giving new meaning to the term “code-talkers.” They finally made the safe decision and elected not to sit down on the hard ice. It would have been a real show otherwise.

A little later, we watched a land otter further out in the lake working its way toward our decoys along the ice edge. It was a real curious fellow and it kept diving under the clear ice trying to get to the decoys. They must have looked realistic, or perhaps the fog was disorienting him. Either way, it had our attention until a single hen shoveler appeared out of nowhere. It decoyed easily and I dropped it with one shot. It landed on the ice and slid a little ways through the dekes, leaving a feather or two stuck in the ice on its way.

I told Covey to fetch, and without hesitation he bolted out of the blind. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. He had never retrieved a duck through thick ice before and he was still young. He pounded through the first few feet struggling to get on top. He was wearing his camo neoprene vest, but I was still worried about the real possibility of cutting himself on the ice. Initially, he was able to touch bottom and push off with his hind legs and was able to leap high on top and break down the ice with his body weight. I grimaced as I watched him labor with each foot he gained.

He was getting close to the bird but I could see he was tiring fast. As the water got deeper he wasn’t able to use his weight as well and it became increasingly difficult. With about 15 feet to go, I broke it off and whistled him back. He reluctantly turned and swam his way back through the broken ice. He shook and came alongside me in the blind dripping wet and shivering. Then a movement caught my eye.

I glanced to my left and saw another hunter with a big black Lab walking in our direction along the shoreline. He had been watching us from the lake end as the fog had just started to break up and allow some breaks in visibility. As I sat there and pondered what had just happened and what my next move was going to be, the hunter hollered at me.

“Do you want me to bring my Lab over?”

It was a kind and appropriate gesture.

“I appreciate it, thank you, but we got it.”

My pride spoke before wisdom could mitigate the situation. I wasn’t about to have another hunter and his Lab get my duck. Seconds, maybe minutes went by while I let Covey catch his breath. He was still whining and seemed eager and ready, so I gave him the command. “Fetch it up!”