High Ground greencaps.

With the stars fast-fading in the clear night sky, I followed big Rick Krohn through a maze of Bigfoot Canada decoys toward Tug's pit, a massive, bi-level, underground affair of heavy-duty steel construction that comfortably shoots up to seven hunters, and which is named after Rick's oft-decorated, but retired champion retriever. On our heels were Jack Strassweg with his athletic, young black Lab, Gus, and Clifford Romain, with Rick's current black dog, another top-level hunt-tester named Cody.

As we approached the hole, being kept ice free by a series of electric-powered agitators, ducks began to boil off the water. It was something we expected after having watched several hundred mallards, along with a sprinkling of blacks, gadwall, and wigeon had put on for us as we watched from the distance late the previous afternoon. But when Rick waved his arms and let out a couple coyote-like barks, our world exploded into a furry of blurred wings. It was anybody's guess as to how many birds took to the air in rolling waves.

With the dogs situated in their own pit-type boxes, we hustled into the blind, pushed open the shooting doors, and just stood there taking in the spectacle. This was well worth the price of admission alone. Most of the ducks departed toward the sanctuary of the Sloughs Wildlife Management Area to the northeast. But hundreds circled back, wheeling and banking, reluctant to leave the bounty of the flooded, but ice-tight cornfield that edged the open water 45 yards in front of us.

It was shooting time, but none of my three new acquaintances so much as reached for their gun, much less loaded them. They suggested I might. But even with singles, pairs, and a few small flocks working up close and personal, I was reluctant. As their guest I wanted to gun with these guys. And besides, given the scene we'd just witnessed, no one, obviously, felt a sense of urgency. To a man, we were content to just let the hunt unfold.

But the brilliant sunrise flipped a switch, abruptly shutting the floodgate on the duck flight. With high skies, and only the slightest drift of an occasional shifting breeze, it was a beautiful January day in Kentucky to be sure. Though I kept my thoughts to myself, I began to wonder about the hunt.

As if he read my mind, Jack offered reassuringly, "Not to worry. Some of our best shooting occurs between the hours of 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. The birds have likely fed all night, and given the bluebird weather, most of them will be content to sit out the day on the refuge. But there's always a few that get hungry early, anxious to return to the table we've set for them. Until then," he suggested, "how 'bout we jump into the Ranger and take a little tour of the place."

While I would come to learn that The Three Amigos (Jack, Rick, and Clifford; High Ground's original founders) are passionate about their waterfowling, it's nothing compared to the fire I saw in Jack's eyes as he spoke of Highground's past, present, and future. Each stop on our route featured a blind or pit. And whether it was Kate's, The Cathedral, Arkansas, Romain's, or Coon's slough, there was a story to go with the naming of each one. Though cliché, it's only accurate to explain that High Ground is a true labor of love for these guys.

A couple gun blasts from Tug's, the day's first, ended our sojourn. Back to the hunt it was.