Notes from a dove hunting trip
We arrived at the rent house late in the afternoon with about a billon butterflies stuck on the grill. We killed more bugs on the road that night than DDT ever thought about. There are so many butterflies in the air that it looks like an orange snow flurry.
The Hunting Club high-fives at the sight of two grills on the house's front-yard patio. Bubba slaps together fajitas on the grill, and we eat everything except for the dishes, all washed down with plenty of Big People Yuck.
Someone left a chainsaw running in my room that night, and I found out it was brother-in-law Robbie. He and Doc competitively snored all night long. I wound up finishing the night on the love seat, burrowed in like an armadillo. Waking up at 4 in the morning to the smell of coffee and bacon saved me from further abuse.
Met the guide in the dark parking lot of the Circle C at 6:15 in the morning. Camouflaged hunters in the parking lot reeking of testosterone and DEET. Chewing and spitting, we gather around soft spoken Greg Nelson of Uvalde Hunting Services (830-591-2473) to get our hunting assignments.
"We'll leave in 10 minutes," he said. "Follow that white-topped Bronco and Joey." Bald-headed Joey the Barber waves at our group.
Back at the Tahoe, Bubba comes out of the early-morning darkness with wide eyes. "Anyone have a cell phone?"
"What happened?" I asked.
"Nothing. Anyone have a cell phone?"
I looked over his shoulder at the Tahoe. Eight of us stood together around Willie's truck.
"Did you lock the keys in the truck?" Doc asked
"Don't worry about it," Bubba said. "Just don't let the guide leave right now."
"Are you paid up on your On-Star subscription?" I asked aloud but received no response.
Mumbled conversation into the cell phone with passwords, a comment of "no, no cats", "please hurry" and lots and lots of personal information.
I wander over and check the back hatch that is locked. Then I try to open the passenger door on the driver's side. Locked.
Slamming doors on trucks sound like shots across the parking lot. Engines start and lines form to follow different guides to the fields. Bubba scans the rapidly emptying lot from his 6-foot-6 height with more panicked looks. "No children and no cats," he repeats. "Good."
A satellite far overhead processes information, confirms there are no cats or children in the vehicle, then blinked and shifted its focus. The Tahoe's doors unlocked.
We dive into the Tahoe and find the right rear passenger window is down. All that excitement for nothing.
Bubba receives a huge ration of abuse, but he doesn't care. We're in.
We follow Joey the Bald Barber to the field and get our assigned locations. We scatter as shotguns begin popping in the dim light. Some folks want blood more than the experience. You can't find the birds in the tall, unlit grass.
One by one, dove flit past. We don't shoot, because it isn't time. We may be a lot of things, but we're not amateurs.
Then the sun peeks over the mesquites, and the world explodes into dove, feathers, pops, laughter and the clack of fresh shells punched into hot breeches. We've taken positions against a barbed wire fence, but as the morning progresses, we move toward a shallow draw where the birds are flying.
A yearling doe stands in the middle of a field and stamps her feet at Doc. When he isn't shooting at dove, he talks to her like she's a puppy. She steps closer, and Doc calls more encouragement.
Fifty yards away, Jerry Wayne hammers at two incoming birds, and the yearling dances away toward a tank and relative quiet.
New Wally is deadly, but he spends most of his time kicking the tall grass to find his downed birds.
A pickup cuts across the pasture. A flash of annoyance, and then I realize it's not a lost hunter cutting through our shooting lanes but the game warden. We're legal, so I just hunker down and wait for another bird. From a distance, I see the wardens de-truck. One goes directly to the cooler and checks the contents. The other visits with Woodrow for a while, then they leave.
I wander back over to get a bottle of water and see Bubba standing there with his eyes glazed. One of them was a little female warden with handcuffs and a gun. She had gotten Bubba's attention.
An hour later I smell charcoal smoke. Bubba and Woodrow have crafted a fire pit on the rocky ground between the two vehicles and are pan-frying hamburgers while we finish the hunt. We wander back to the trucks to clean birds and find a hamburger spread to rival Fuddruckers.
Full, we finally wander back to the house and long, long afternoon naps.
Dove hunting is about the experience, and we want all we're supposed to get.
Reavis Wortham's e-mail address is r.wortham@tx.rr.com.
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