Settin' up on Lake Dauphin.

But few did, prompting Russ to suggest we pull the mobile rig from the small hole we were in, and move to a larger open-water pocket. There, in the lee of a rush-infested point, we reset the blocks and once again rammed the boat into the thick, natural cover.

Even though the weather was an obstacle, with high skies, light breezes and temperatures climbing into the 70s, we put together a good mixed bag of mallards and pintails, redheads and wigeon, ringnecks and a single bull canvasback. Though the shooting wasn't fast and furious, the work of Tanner and Red, as they marked long falls and handled birds that dropped into the thick cover unseen, made the day memorable.

As time went on, Tom and I had developed a comfort level with the skills and knowledge of our guide, but the sheer size of Lake Dauphin, and its relatively unpopulated, uncharted marshy shores, still proved daunting, and in need of definite respect. And just to prove that point, the lake up and bit us the next day.

Underwater obstructions can wreak havoc on a motor.

During an early-morning high-speed run along one of the lake's shorelines, a rock, unseen due to the year's abnormally high water, wiped out our lower unit. After paddling to shore I was "voted" to go look for help, and took off on a 3 1/2-mile wader-clad hike. Halfway through the help-seeking mission, Tanner and I finally strolled into a goose spread laid out by a couple of lads from Tennessee. After explaining my situation, they promptly produced a cell phone. I called our outfitter back at camp. He showed up with a trailer, and we had things back in order in time for an afternoon hunt.

Feeling bad about the mishap, Russell asked if we might be interested in towing a boat up to Lake Winnipegosis the next day. We'd launch at Duck Bay and motor out eight miles to hunt Russell's "home turf." Since the whole point of the trip was to explore Manitoba's big-water hunting options, we jumped at the chance.

GUNNING LAKE WINNIPEGOSIS
It was another bluebird morning as we cruised north out of Duck Bay. Deftly running through reed-lined channels and around a series of islands big and small, we were soon approaching a tiny, shoal-type island Russell wanted to hunt. There we set the "canvass" blocks, as Russ called them, in a deep-water channel that opened to what he simply referred to as the bay, but which to me appeared every bit as expansive as one of our Great Lakes. We spread the mallard decoys close to shore on the shallow, lee side of the island, just around the corner from the divers.

It didn't take long for me to realize this was the prettiest, wildest place I'd ever hunted waterfowl. Tawny-colored, marsh-lined shores giving way to full-blown Canadian bush framed the postcard setting of flat water and deep azure skies. But the birds, in contrast to Russell's bold prediction, were downright scarce. Save for a few goldeneyes and persistent buffleheads, there just wasn't anything moving.