With few ducks in the area, the honker call became a critical tool.

It was a fast-paced morning from the get-go. After abrupt, motel parking lot introductions to our hunting partners, Mark Voght and Ben Parmater, we hit the dusty trail in hot pursuit of our leader, Dan Neumann. The half hour rat race under starlit skies through the gently rolling Manitoban countryside ended in an expansive, just-tilled barley field.

With relatively little conversation, and even less time to waste, we got right down to business, hustling decoys and stubbling blinds. It was easy to see we'd all been to the dance before. Veterans of the goose wars every one, each of us did his job.

Only with the rig set and the trucks on their way out of the field, did young Ben and I at least, have time to catch our breath. But only as predawn's first neon glow began to slice the prairie free from the night sky did we realize something was missing. A common occurrence on most prairie hunts, the spine-tingling sound of at least a few unseen, whistling duck wings… those of hungry, early risers, ever-eager to greet the day, and often willing to bomb the set in a deck-scraping, up-close-and-personal rush… was nowhere to be heard. Soon taking its place however, was the unusually early, but oh-so-sweet sound of goose music. Apparently anxious birds on the distant roost began to gabble, their vocalizations… chatter enhanced no doubt by the still, clear air… growing ever louder.

It was a single goose that foretold of things to come. We couldn't see it, as the rhythmically-honking bird first found our field, then, after a couple wide passes, our set. Finally, but eerily materializing out of the inky blackness, the loner lit confidently in our landing pocket, not 10 yards from where Ben and I calmly, but suddenly silent, stood. It was more than my aging yellow dog, Tanner, could stand. Spinning his wheels in the soft, plowed ground; he charged the hapless bird, sending it on its startled way just as the rest of our crew finished their hike back to our setup.

Hunkering down into our blinds only minutes before shooting time, the first flight of geese, as if they were on the payroll, began to wing our way from the west. Then, without so much as a precautionary swing, they were on us! A flock of lessers, 40 or 50 strong, hanging on backpedaling wings, their black feet out, ruddering the air and searching for what they apparently felt was their piece of the prairie. The shot was called. Guns spoke. Geese tumbled. Retrieves… mere pickups really… were made. The hunt was on!

But there was no time to admire our work. The sky had come alive with the marvelous sight and near-overwhelming sounds of geese… dark geese of every shape and size, ranging from the bomber-sized local honkers, on down to the diminutive, cackler-class "squeakers"… all stringing our way. Though slightly more cautious in the day's gathering light, almost all of the birds were ready to work the freshening breeze, determined to feed where they happily had for the better part of a week.

The gunning was classic, in-your-face easy, and in the span of just four decoying flocks, and less than an hour, our work was done. Sitting back to enjoy the show while it lasted, I couldn't help but notice young Ben. There was simply no wiping that grin from his face. While it had been a great one for all of us, the short, fast… almost too fast… hunt had no doubt been the first of its kind for him. And he was soaking it all in, obviously loving every minute of it.