Ok, so, I LOVE duck hunting...I dig driving down some lost old dirt road at 3 a.m. with a cup of strong coffee while the BBC World Service on NPR is on the radio, and the very thought of pulling up to some overgrown landing on a little used swamp or bog of a body of water with my loyal dog Lucy in tow excites me even as I type this. The sounds of wings whistling overhead while mallards call and ringbills burl on distant darkened rice beds as drops of freezing rain pelt my parka have come to haunt my dreams, and I actually make a couple trips every year purely for the reason that they insure the maximum amount of Canoeing in the Dark.  The rush of adrenalin that comes from accidentally cornering a family of territorial otters in a bend on a river or scaring a large moose from it's pre-dawn breakfast is really the only drug I'd ever need.  Please don't misconstrue my enthusiasm about this activity as any sort of psychotic love of blood or killing, either.  Harvesting ducks is but a small part of a very complex and colorful equation, and far FAR more ducks pass safely over my decoys than actually end up in the game bag.  Adding even more enjoyment to my favorite activity (yes, if pressed I'd give up the public performance of music LONG before I shelved my decoys) is the fact that BOTH my young sons have become willing accomplices to this annual undertaking. Today is a "big day" in the scheme our duck season, for this morning we hauled 10 or more large bags of duck decoys from the storage shed to the garage where they will be sorted, inspected, and repainted as needed.  My garage will also be an "unparkable mess" of blocks, boating gear, bits of wild rice, and assorted happy debris literally until the lakes freeze over in mid to late November. "Get ready, boys...here they come..."