I guess it's inevitable, travel being what it is, that today no good place is quite safe from the masses. But somehow, once you've discovered something, some faraway, wonderful wonderland, you don't want anyone else to discover it. Take Montana, for example. I attended the University there more than 30 years ago and no one wanted to visit the place. Today, you'd think the foothills and river valleys were made of gold, and places where we hunted winter mallards all have housing developments with quaint names and security gates. It's hard to look at the changes, and it's oh so true that the world has gotten smaller...

I'm flying to Alberta and I'll be in camp in less than a day. The plane has its share of hunters from the Lower 48, a few more than I've seen before, and mine isn't the only dog in the cargo hold. I'd like to think this is our place, Buddy's and mine, but the truth is, we're just more of the rank and file that have found that to experience hunting as it once might have been, with unaffected birds, good access to fields and a pace that doesn't make every missed opportunity feel like the end of the world, you sometimes have to travel far; quite far. Yes, we're all the same, these waterfowlers and me, except some of them have come even farther than I have.

I meet the group I'm joining when I arrive at camp; a father and grown son, hardcore fowlers from Utah, who have brought the eight-year-old grandson to watch, and another hunter from Hawaii who has more experience with upland than waterfowl and is vibrating to get a chance at famed Alberta dark geese.

Weather Or Not
Weather in the low 40s greets us the first day in camp, an afternoon high, and there will be frost in the morning, but this is about the coolest it's been up in High Prairie, an appropriate name in my estimation, considering that I do most of my hunting on prairies a thousand miles to the southeast. This is about as high as the prairies go, where the last vestiges of agriculture meet the vast bush, the boreal forest stretching north to the tundra.

We're hoping for a changeover, a spat of icy temps that pushes in new birds, but our first day will be our coldest, and not nearly cold enough to usher birds out of the north. Before we've even left the warmth of the kitchen, Clint the guide warns us that concealment will be critical in the field because the geese are "worn out." I ponder this, wondering if Clint's "worn out" is the same as our "worn out" farther south.

Once we arrive at the field entrance we see that the generous farmer has left us some swaths of vines for cover, just another testament to good landowner relations. We've set just over a hundred full bodied geese in a v-shaped pattern and all the blinds have been "grassed" up when Clint gives us the standard pre-dawn, first-day instructions: Shoot your side; don't shoot over your compadres; keep your faces covered by the top flap of the blind. "You don't have to put that door flap up so high that it covers your eyes," Clint offers. "Watching the birds work is the fun you came here for." Truer words were never spoken. We definitely came for the show.

Brad, from Hawaii is the only hunter who hasn't experienced a layout blind. And when Clint's speech is done Brad turns to me on his right and asks if we will sit up to shoot. I affirm, and Brad confesses that he thought there might be some chance we'd be expected to shoot while laying down. It's starting to get light now, and I advise that he might want to practice throwing the flap over and sitting up and shouldering his gun, at least a few times. He's cradling an over/under that's probably his best chukar gun.