Tanner and Red awaiting instructions.

But Russell remained optimistic. In fact, he could only smile confidently as he explained and motioned. "This is how the birds will play the game here, boys. The mallards, and maybe some teal, will come from that big marsh to the west. They'll come in singles, pairs and small flocks. The divers, mostly redheads, but probably a few cans too, will come from the big water to the north. And when they come, they'll come by the busloads."

"Busloads?" I asked.

"Our school buses hold 23 kids," Russ replied. "There'll be about that many redheads in a flock," Russ continued, and then added, "Just be ready, there are plenty busloads out there."

The better part of two hours went by without a single sighting. I was beginning to have my doubts, when the slightest of breezes began to stir. Minutes later a roar came from the open water to the north, a deafening noise that was not unlike a jetliner on its takeoff roll. The noise was so out of the ordinary in our otherwise placid setting that it set the hair on the back of my neck on end.

I looked at Russell. "Yes sir," he said. "They'll be here soon!"

It was the strangest thing I ever saw. With only a light chop lapping at our scrawny little island, the big water was getting uncomfortable for the birds. Soon the midday sky over the ocean-sized expanse to the northwest was etched with strings of divers -- mostly redheads, we'd soon find out -- winging their way south to the more protected waters of the lower bay.

Our hunting group was the only thing in their path.

Tanner with a mouthful of Winnipegosis redhead.

Then, just as our guide had predicted, here they came, busload after busload. With the wind on their tails, more flocks than not banked hard to strafe our decoys. The shooting was as fast and furious as we'd let it be. The only lulls in the action were self-imposed, as we took the time to enjoy some terrific retrieving work.

The gunning was over nearly as fast as it had begun. Not because the birds had quit working -- they were still shredding air and attacking our position as we reloaded -- but because our bags were filled too quickly.

We lingered for a while, simply enjoying the spectacle, watching the aerobatic flight of the redheads. Their numbers were so great I could only guess they pushed five figures. It was a hunt. It was a show. It was an experience I'll never forget.

After spending one more day on Winnipegosis and another on Lake Dauphin, our adventure had come to an end. Our quest to find simple, no frills, big-water duck hunting, the type that would be a true throwback to the wonderful world of wildfowl, had been fulfilled.