A Fowl Day.

There is a unique excitement that comes with pursuing waterfowl that seems different from any other hunting endeavor. You pray for grey, gloomy days, cold temperatures and no leaks in the waders. Shooting three and a half inch shells is the standard, and the necessity. Masterminding a spread the night before is tactical, and it usually keeps you up past your bedtime. You watch the weather, looking for low pressure systems that will bring birds speeding ahead on eastern winds. And as you fall asleep, you hear the distant cries of big canadas. You see the silouhettes on the horizon. They're locked up on the deeks, and so the dream goes.



Hunting fowl is a tradition burned deep into the stocks of many American guns. It grows in the fields and floats down each local river when the weather turns frigid. It is an addiction that flies high, turns low and oak-leafs down onto the mind of all waterfowl hunters. It is the bug.



Man and dog and wild open skies with birds in the distance. It's the local boys getting ready to fly. You're tucked away on the tip of a familiar island. Maybe this morning we can fool them one more time.