The trail turned right and again left and at a fork in the road, another marker that read, blind 25, oh glorious number 25, to the right. Ohhh, I could taste grilled duck for tonight's dinner.

I proceeded down the trail where I could see sunlight glistening on the water. The trees became sparse and weeds and soft ground more abundant. There were a few tired trees in the water accompanied by a few stumps in a small bay with low grasses breaking the water's surface. I walked to the edge and surveyed a most beautiful vista. There were cattails off to my right and two hunters in a stand of dead trees to my far left with two more hunters across the pond. In the middle of this view, about 30 yards out was a stake with a plaque that read "25". I had found the illusive blind number 25 and I was ready to hunt! Unfortunately, in my exuberance to locate the blind, I had left my gear in the minivan.

I was again confronted with yet another decision. Do I stay and enjoy the scenery for a while and then call it a day, or head back for my gear and return to the blind for the purpose intended?

"I came, I saw, I failed? No way, not me!"

The thought of hiking another three quarters of a mile with gear and a barrel of perspiration isn't going to end this adventure. The walk back seemed shorter and my pace quickened as I came within site of the parking area. I gave the ditch a few choice words as I crossed back over. Once I reached the minivan, I loaded my gear onto my shoulders and in the voice of Bluto of Animal House fame, my brain shouted, "Let's do i-i-i-t."

Once again, I headed down that road and across that infamous ditch. I paused for an occasional drink of water and to adjust the straps on my aching shoulders. My pace began to slow, stopping several more times to rest parts of my body that hadn't been called into service since my children were little. Once I reached the blind, my shoulders were pleading for mercy as I let the bags slide to the ground. I now understood why those two fellows had a cart.

Once rested, I picked up my bag of decoys and trusty walking stick and proceeded into the pond. One by one I placed the decoys in a configuration that would signal every avian passerby, that this was the ideal spot to set down. Now, my decoys didn't flap their wings or bob up and down or sing a rendition of "I'm All Quacked Up Over You," but they looked good. And why shouldn't they? They were the latest and greatest edition of plastic decoys authored by world-renowned carver, Pat Godin.

I returned to shore and looked over my rig. It looked pretty good to me, similar to the layouts suggested in several of the "How to Hunt Ducks" books. I took my place under the branch of a tree from which I hung a piece of camouflage net to help obscure my position. I assumed a comfortable position on my stool, uncased my Remington, checked the safety, and loaded three shells into the 870 Wingmaster. Yes, sir...the hunt was on! I'm not sure what time I finished setting up, but I do know it was a beautiful morning.

Things were a bit quiet on the marsh. I could hear shots in the direction of the blind my friend had selected, but the gun was silent at blind number 25. Then, suddenly, in the distance I spotted two ducks. I drew the duck call to my lips for my waterfowling rendition of Hail to the Chief. Like two Democrats at a Republican rally, they promptly beat it out of there.

The sun continued its ascension and I settled back into my campstool with a couple of granola bars. While consuming my morning meal, a young whitetail emerged from the woods along side of me to drink from the pond before disappearing back into the timber.

There was still no action on our marsh as more shots rang out in the distance. An osprey landed on the one remaining branch of a dead tree on the edge of the cattails. I guess he didn't think much of the hunting either. The next time I looked in his direction, he was gone.

With a lull in the action, I reached for my cell phone to give my wife a call. I wanted to let her know I was safe and thank her for encouraging me to pursue this life long interest. As long as I took out the garbage and left her the credit card, she was good with it. Well, guess what? Apparently there aren't any transmitting towers within range of the refuge. Thus, my wife never received a call. Not to worry, she probably thought I forgot to call anyway, which she would say was par for the course.