At 5:30 the mercury read 26 and a 2 mph south wind barely tickled the marsh grass. Catttail heads wore a thick coat of frost and our breath formed clouds of steam as we talked in the blind.

Muche and I smiled at Pep's raw enthusiasm. It was her first duck hunt and, all things considered, she was being a very good girl. We had gathered Nov. 11 for our annual Armistice Day waterfowl hunt.