TheBakersfieldCalifornian.com

The 4:30 a.m. alarm announces another duck day on tap and one cannot imagine how much time is wasted getting into warm hunting clothes. Finally, truck engine warming, defroster defrosting, friends greet, shaking hands in a time-honored ritual before loading guns, decoys and gear into the vehicle's bed. Coffee never tastes quite as good as that sipped during the hour-long drive to the marsh, and the excitement of the coming hunt plucks at our senses. Even the dogs shiver, not necessarily from the cold, but from happily fulfilling their own destinies of training and instinct.

Winter has arrived -- finally -- and along with the season, the ducks have also shown up -- late for sure -- but better that than never. Too many duck-less days under our belts this year have only steeled our anticipation of what awaits us at the end of our own golden brick road.

Today's pre-holidays hunt, a duck hunter's perfect Christmas gift still lying under the tree, brings visions of unwrapping a successful foray into the outdoors. We are hungry for waterfowl action and, later, the enchanting validation of prime duck roasted to perfection, eaten with friendly banter and washed down with aged wine.

We are blessed today, driving almost all the way to the blind's location; after dumping our gear, the walk from our chosen parking area takes only minutes. The small pond we have scouted, now thinly coated with a plate of ice, almost glows from a distance as we trek toward it in the dim predawn light. Once there and wading carefully in the foot-deep water, we break individual holes through the surface, placing the decoys one by one in time-argued configurations guaranteed to fool even the smartest of wild ducks.

Settling into the brush, we are early. Shooting hour looms 20 minutes away, plenty of time for one more cup of steaming coffee from our thermos. Sipping the soothing liquid, we hear a band of coyotes strike up a wailing song-fest in the distance. A wading night heron squawks a warning to its neighbors while a barn owl screeches overhead. Coots and gallinules interrupt the fading dark with their loud cackling and cajoling and a dozen common snipes settle in near our blocks to probe the mud with their long beaks.

We are cold, not uncomfortably so, but happy and hopeful just to be here sharing the experience of listening to the heartbeat of the new day while the rest of the city-world slumbers. Conversing during that quiet time between absolute dark and the grayness of shooting time, we are one with God, Mother Nature and the rest of the duck hunting universe.

Finally, the time has arrived to prepare for the first flights sure to show within minutes of legal shooting time. Cramming shells into our shotguns and silently scanning the gray sky, we speak quietly of loads, chokes, shot size and speed. While a long "V" of cormorants roller-coaster high across the eastern light, our preparations are complete.

Duck hunters do not like to use the word slaughter because the word seemingly condones an inappropriate action toward the birds all sportsmen have strived so hard to deliver from the edge of extinction, but the word, in this instance, seems to fit. Within an hour, we have our limits with very few shots and seldom does a duck hunt end so quickly and on such a great note.

Yes, waterfowl shooting is about guns, waders, calls, guns, shells, decoys, mud and blinds, but duck hunting should never be solely about the killing. More importantly, duck hunting should be about the magic of sharing the outdoors with the people you are with, about passions, obsessions and love for the birds and nature. It is about friendship and a continuing camaraderie with those who also love the good -- and sometimes uncomfortable bad -- of the sport.

Later in the day, we exchange presents -- a time-honored tradition started many years ago by hunting friends no longer with us -- professors of the sport, if you will; the ones who taught us what we think we know today. The gifts are not children's toys, but often hunting equipment each knows the other will use and cherish, then pass down to his children when old age prevents either of us from casting afield.

And, as always, after the birds are cleaned and equipment stowed, there is the yearly toast, to family, friends and those already departed, saluting their own unselfish gifts to not only us, but to all sportsmen everywhere. It is the duck hunter's creed to give more than he will ever receive, and to honor those who have given their absolute best to their cherished sport. Perhaps we can all learn a bit from their wisdom.