One of my strongest memories in fowling is the day that Nathan and I hunted together on Mitchell's Bay in Ontario. When either of us mentions it we call it "the day the swans came" still to this day.
There's always a few there, early in the season just the feral mute type, then the real wild swans begin to trickle in as the season comes along. This day we left the dock with a light early snow falling. About the time Nate cut the engine I could hear them, as the light came up I could see them, flying over in flock after flock after flock.
Apparently some early hard weather to the north had moved them all en masse and we were seeing the full migration. It was middle of the week, we'd only gone out because we knew the early snow might have some ducks moving. Hardly anyone else on the lake, just one of those times.
This flight continued till nearly noon when the snow finally laid off and the sun came out. By this time the open water looked like a new huge white island had formed over the course of the morning, covered literally with a blanket of swans.
You know what's funny, I don't even remember if we shot any ducks that day.
Destry
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I was as virtuously given as a gentleman need to be; virtuous enough; swore little; diced not above seven times a week; went to a bawdy-house once in a quarter--of an hour; paid money that I borrowed, three of four times; lived well and in good compass: and now I live out of all order, out of all compass. Falstaff - Henry IV
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