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The fringe of this specific beaver pond appeared solid sufficient, however I had slogged far enough to find out that wasn’t the case. The earlier day, a group of mallards were feeding on the far end of the hellish mire, and the choice was made to return with a pair dozen decoys. Behind me, my black lab was having a harder time than I was, the mud was clutching at her stomach and legs, and the sharp ends of gnawed-off sticks protruded via the loamy sludge. Up ahead the mallards quacked and whistled tauntingly. Despite the temptation, I determined to
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