Blue skies and sunny days preferred, but not required.

We've all heard the same tired old sermons: Be prepared, say the family and friends; tell someone where you're going; don't go out alone. And admittedly, I've preached them myself--with the requisite air of a sage, of course. But let's be honest: When opportunity knocks, we answer on occasion with a hasty bolt for the big outside, never mind the finer points of planning.

We fling the door open and go--lest it should swing the other way, dooming us to the vagaries of unpaid overtime, or household chores. And in any event, the last of those eye-rollers (don't go out alone) runs directly counter to the paramount goal of many a nature-bound wanderer: namely, the pursuit of a little uncomplicated, uninterrupted peace and quiet.

In the company of none but our own thoughts, and (if we're lucky) a good dog who understands completely, the mind awakens to ancient rhythms, and the spirit comes alive. This, in a nutshell, is why I hunt, and why I'm often happy to go alone. You can drag your buddies down these contemplative paths if you want to, but that tends to crowd the way.

There are exceptions, though. So with the promise of a ducky day and the dawn of a new year, Trek and I struck for the mountains with a couple of exceptional friends. Billy (the two-legged one) was one of the usual suspects: a hard working engineer, tri-athlete, and fellow native of the Sonoran desert. And riding behind in first class, with the other knot-head in the cab of my truck, was his trusty sidekick: a seven-year veteran of the uplands named Tucker, with a nose like desire itself and a canine athleticism to match the drive of his partner in crime.

To ask a couple of German shorthaired pointers along on a duck hunt is to ask a lot. Possessed of a high-spirited nature that borders on the wild-eyed obsessive, they're not known for their patience--particularly where the confines of a damp, chilly blind may be involved. (In fact, the same can usually be said of their owners.) Nevertheless, Trek and I had developed a taste for waterfowl over the years, and of course, we had been boasting--as men and their dogs so often do. We were anxious, therefore, to show off and have a little fun.

It was a chance discovery from the season before: an isolated meadow, sunk amidst the tall pines in the veritable middle of nowhere--a sparsely covered, unlikely spot, rarely visited by serious duck hunters, nor even by the likes of us. It had paid handsome dividends on my last visit, however, and we had the place to ourselves when we finally rolled in, late by the official chart, but still with plenty of time for some jump shooting.

This pearl in the woods before us was frozen over, and dusted with snow--not a particular surprise, as most of the morning had already been spent making similar discoveries. But when I slipped out of the truck for a better look, my eyes traced the path of something sleek cutting for a hidden pocket around the bend.

Tucker fluffed up his pillow as Trek got the nod. This appeared to be a one-dog show.

On that day, at that hour, however unlikely it may have been, the far corner of that pond was stacked three to five layers high with every duck in the northern half of the state. Had we anticipated this, we might have approached with more care. But we didn't. So as we breeched the low rise at the middle, with eyes peeled for the usual single or a pair, we were baffled by an explosion of feathers and webbed feet that defied all expectation.