At a time when populations of Canada geese were in severe decline, snow goose numbers went through the roof, offering hunters on the Eastern Shore an new opportunity.

A thousand snow geese loafed in a bean field a quarter-mile away. The flock had lifted off a small pond at first light, but instead of traveling off to a distant field, the birds settled down within sight of the pit blind Ken Schrader planned to hunt. Things were looking grim, and Schrader, a long-time guide on Maryland's Eastern Shore, wasn't sure what to do. Move in now and the entire flock might spook, and the prospect of a productive hunt might pick up and fly away with it. Wait and the birds could start filtering back to the pond while we only stood and watched.

"Get your gear. Let's go," said Schrader.

With that, seven of us piled into the back of a pickup and eased out to the edge of the pond. Schrader hastily set a dozen stuffed snow geese along the edge of the pond and ordered us into the blind. The blanket of white stayed on the ground.

Twenty years ago, snow geese were little more than a curiosity on the Eastern Shore. A few people hunted them, but most waterfowlers on the Delmarva Peninsula focused their efforts on the abundant population of ducks and Canada geese, the undisputed king of Eastern Shore waterfowl hunting.

The snow geese spent most of their time in and around the major national wildlife refuges of the region, only venturing out to feed in grain fields on rare occasions. Schrader says he and his friends never passed a chance to take home a snow goose, but back then, every bird they downed was just an incidental bonus during a day of Canada goose hunting.

Then in 1995 the unthinkable happened. The population of Atlantic Flyway migratory Canada geese--the very backbone of the Eastern Shore's winter economy--collapsed. The U.S. Fish & Wildlife Service shut down the season, and just like that dozens of guides were out of business. A few, however, adapted to the booming population of snows and adjusted their methods. Schrader was one of them.

"At the time, few people knew how to hunt snows because they never seemed to stay in one place. They were very unpredictable. But over time, the geese started spending more time in grain fields, and now a lot of them never go to the refuges at all. They spend the night on a roost pond on a farm and feed in surrounding fields and then come back to the roost pond later in the morning to drink," he says.

That's exactly what our group was hoping the thousand birds in front of us would do. The snows, however, had other plans. Instead of filtering back in small groups, they lifted off as one in a deafening roar and lined back to the pond we were guarding. Dozens upon dozens settled down on the water until Schrader finally gave the order: "Take 'em!" When the smoke and feathers cleared, we'd taken more than 20 birds.

"A lot of times, they'll break up and some will come back," explained Schrader. A few of us were anxious to climb out of the pit and gather our geese but our guide had other plans. "Let's sit tight for a while and see what happens."

Pairs, singles and small groups soon floated back to our pond. Many didn't leave, but by 11 a.m. the action was over. It was a typical day of snow goose hunting, Eastern Shore style.