Wyoming's dark-goose season closed on Feb. 9, and my partner, Dennis, and I thought it was appropriate to commemorate the event with one last hunt. Dennis said he'd drive, so I met him at 4:30 a.m., which gave us a few extra minutes to figure out how we were going to get a pick-up load of decoys in the back of a Suburban and still have room for Sky, the Lab. On the fourth attempt, Dennis put his shoulder to the back door and leaned into it like a blocking sled. The latch made an equivocal snick, but the door stayed shut.

"Good enough," he pronounced. "Let's go."

It was a familiar drive: 60 miles north on U.S. 85 out of Cheyenne, Wyo., down off the Goshen Rim into the Platte River drainage, then 15 miles of gravel road to the marsh.

I've had some adventures on that road. It crosses the highest part of the High Plains, more than a mile above sea level, a part of the world that bears a striking resemblance to the Arctic tundra, especially during the winter. I've seen drifts that covered the delineator posts, winds more than 80 miles an hour and ground blizzards that blotted out everything beyond the hood of my truck, when the horizontal snow beating on the windshield made it seem like I was driving 60 mph when the speedometer showed five.

I've watched a couple of cars follow a semi right into the ditch because the drivers couldn't find the road. I've made it home in four-wheel drive, low-range, chains on in back, pushing snow with the bumper and thanking the angels who watch over waterfowlers and other fools traveling the plains in the teeth of the storm.

As we cruised through the blackness, I smiled ruefully, because even in February, no snow covered the highway or the wheat fields on either side. Every 10 minutes or so, a patch of white loomed in the ditch, a relict drift from the one snowfall we'd had, hardened to concrete by the wind and a procession of chinooks and cold fronts.

We got to the marsh about 6 a.m., loaded the decoys on a toboggan and headed toward the windward side. Dennis paused.

"Listen."

The small talk of a bunch of mallards rose out of the dark. Up ahead, I could make out the muted conversation of a small bunch of geese just waking up. It struck me as strange that the birds were roosting on this shallow wetland, which I was sure had been frozen solid for weeks.

Another 100 yards brought us onto one of the dikes. The overcast was lightening in the east, and I could see the mirror reflection through the bulrush -- open water. I thought of the shells and full-body decoys we had with us.

I'd brought some floaters, too, thinking I'd cut a hole in the ice for them. Now we'd have to go around to the north side and set up on the flats where we could combine the dry-land decoys with the floaters. Open water on February 9.