It's like Jeff Van Zeeland, part of the gang that gets together for an annual Canadian prairie waterfowl hunt, says: "Each trip is a lot like Christmas. We know there are presents under the tree, but we have no clue what they are until we unwrap them."

Such was the case for Tom Van Handel and I on an early October morning. With all the anticipation of overgrown kids, we began tearing away at the ribbons and fancy wrapping paper of a trip that held all the promise of a shiny new gift.

"Welcome to the 240,000-plus acres of Lake Dauphin, boys," our grinning guide, Russell McKay, announced, as our skiff slowed to an idle in the mouth of the Valley River. Then, after sticking his nose in the wind like on old buck, and studying the wave action through squinting eyes, he cracked the throttle and soon had us blasting along a serpentine trail of bulrushes. It was a solid 10-minute run before he slowed and deposited us, our gear and dogs -- my yellow Lab, Tanner, and Tom's black, Red -- on a sandbar heavy with cattails.

After deploying a dozen canvasback blocks, and the same number of mallard decoys in separate groups, Russ motored down the shore to hide the boat. As we settled into the natural cover, pre-dawn's first light, a fluorescent band of orange and yellow, began to flame atop the lake's white-capped chop. With the canopy of stars dimming and the eastern sky turning a lighter shade of blue, strings of divers, their wings just a blur in the oncoming light, traded up and down the shore. And the puddlers, mostly mallards, but with a sprinkling of pintails, wigeon and teal, materialized in black silhouette overhead.

When Russ rejoined us, he noted that several species of ducks had come and gone without us even attempting a shot, so he quipped, "Why, after driving two days to shoot ducks...aren't you?"

Morning's first light over a block of decoys.

"We're just enjoying the show," came Tom's quick but not totally honest reply. We simply got caught flat-footed with empty guns. And with that, our first ducks of the gunning season went unharmed.

But soon after we got down to duck-shooting business. Taking the birds as they came, we volleyed steel on divers and puddlers alike. And while we didn't shoot well early on, every barrage still produced retrieving work for both Tanner and Red. Once in the swing of things, the shoot went too quickly. In the end, our combined 16-bird bag included no less than five species of divers and puddle ducks -- a classic big-water hunt.

Thrilled with the positive start, Tom and I were optimistic about the rest of the hunting trip.

Russell's plan for day two was to hunt potholes -- openings, really -- in expansive reed beds that separated Lake Dauphin's hard shore from its open water. We set up in a place that looked every bit the Sheboygan Marsh of my youth. After chucking the blocks into the water, we simply ran the boat into a thick stand of tullies and sat back and waited for the morning, and the ducks, to come.