It didn't take long that first morning to realize that our guide, Sean Mann, was the man with a plan. After a long day's air travel and a too-short night's rest we rolled out of our vehicles a bit on the groggy side, only to be greeted by an address not unlike a drill sergeant's.

"Ok guys. Grab all your personal gear and stack it right here next to the trailer," commanded our leader. "I'm going to show you how I want the decoys set." And in short order our group was fast at work plugging silhouettes in teams of two.

It's amazing how well you can get to know someone when sharing the task of setting a decoy spread, and the time I spent with Guy Sagi was no exception. Learning that this was Guy's first waterfowl hunt, I enjoyed fielding his basic questions. Queries like, "These two dimensional pieces of paperboard will really fool the birds?" were, to say the least, entertaining.

We deployed the spread in a broad X-shaped pattern that Sean explained would allow us to easily adapt to the vagaries of wind shifts. Then we stuffed the stubble straps on low profile layout blinds with scraps of pea vines until they passed muster.

With daylight breaking through the low, gray scud, came the command, "Let's saddleup!" We clamored into our hides just as the morning's first flight of mallards materialized out of the blackness of the western sky, strafing us in a low pass. As the bird's wings tore at the thick, damp air, Torb, hunting partner Mountie Mizer's black Lab, sprung up from his prone position with a look that said, "What the heck was that?!" This dry land game was new to him.

"So here's the deal guys," started Sean's final pre-shoot instruction. "I want you to stay as low and still as possible. I'll call the shot with a simple 'Now!' If we're clear, lock and load."

Sean Mann at work in a layout blind.

All was quiet for a few minutes as the world around our heavily frosted pea field gradually came into focus. Then, off in the distance, the day's first goose noises could be heard filtering across the rolling countryside. Once he got a visual, Sean began flagging. When he felt he had the flock's attention he broke into a calling sequence unlike any I'd ever heard: a sound every bit a flock of happy honkers inviting the newcomers to breakfast. As the band of two-dozen birds turned and swung our way a group of unexpected guests complicated things; a twisting, whirling cloud of mallards blew over the nearest hill and dove into the traffic pattern.

Ducks or geese, geese or ducks, what's he going to call, I wondered as my trigger finger lightly found the gun's safety. Our choices represented a minor dilemma…though a pleasant one we'd have to deal with throughout the course of our three-day hunt. Though some ducks landed, and the rest backpedaled right in our face, Sean gambled and held out for the geese.

Not totally committed, as is often the case with the smaller, warier, arctic-nesting races of Canadas, Sean called the shot on what he judged to be their last swing at 20 to 25 yards. When the smoke cleared we had six of the diminutive cacklers on the ground. The shooting could have been better, but the dust was off the bottle. And so was Torb, one obviously happy dog on his first ever prairie goose retrieves.

The next three hours passed in a whirlwind of activity. Ducks and geese were giving us a look, eyeing the field peas. And if there was any doubt that we weren't set up on the X where they had fed the night before, Sean's goose or duck calls usually convinced them otherwise.

If there was one problem, though certainly minor, it was with the geese. Given that they were coming in five or six different sizes, ranging from the mallard-sized cacklers to the locally raised giants, depth and distance perception was an issue. Sean's experience prevailed however, and we quickly learned to trust his call, knowing the birds would be within range. When I mentioned to Sean later that I had trouble dealing with the various-sized geese he replied with a grin, "That's the Alberta Changeup for you. Get used to it!"

After the hunt I quizzed Sean Mann about his shot calling.

"Seems to me that knowing when to call it, if not the most difficult, must be the most agonizing part of your job?"

"For sure," he agreed. "Not only do I have to study the birds and judge which are most likely to finish, I have to make the call, as often as possible, so that everyone gets some shooting. It's the 'no calls' that are toughest on me though. It's my job to finish these birds. To have them in the gunner's face, locked up, feet out and totally committed. When I have them swinging close but can't turn them back on final…as you witnessed a few times today…all I can do is apologize for an opportunity lost."

Torb on his first prairie retrieve.

"That's really all part of the game…your game…isn't it?" I asked.

"Well it is, and I hope that's what my hunters understand."

Trying to squeeze the most out of this tightly-scheduled adventure we opted to hunt on our own, in the same spread, that afternoon. The result, other than just a few birds brought to hand, was an even greater appreciation for Sean's job.

Geese came in low, a hundred mallards scooped hard, and yet we were all nearly paralyzed. No one would call the shot! No one wanted to screw up. And we vowed, after loosening up with a barley-based beverage or two later that evening, it would never happen again.

"We've got a quarter section of snows lined up for you guys in the morning," Sean's young apprentice Rob Reynolds, said. "How's that sound?" Noticing the look of disappointment on some of our faces, Rob was quick to add, "Oh yeah, and there's a bunch of darks and mallards with 'em too!" Suddenly all was well with everyone.

The northern lights were dancing under a blanket of stars as we got to the field that morning. "Good Lord is that beautiful!" Guy exclaimed as he stepped from the truck. A nearly lifelong resident of Arizona, he'd never seen the Aurora before and he was quick to add, "No matter what happens next, my day is already made."