Autumn Mournings

By John W. Nix

During the summer in Texas, the sun is just an ominous ball of heat. Everyday the big shiny sphere of gas makes the days hotter and hotter, until September 1, the real first day of the year.

This pseudo New Year's Day or the opening day of dove season in Texas is when the days start to revolve around the rising and setting of the sun instead of just the intensity of the sun itself.

Yes, it is still wise to seek the shelter of a good air conditioner and a football game during the heat of the day, but at the beginning and end most thoughts turn to fast, grey wings crossing against the now beautiful (and not so seemingly hot) setting sun.

Having smelled the powder from a #8 game load, agonizing over the monotonous minutes of the dull summer has melted into a feverish search for water, feed and sunflowers. The swim trunks, sandals and casual lacadazical attitude have given way to camo coveralls, hunting boots and scanning eyes peering from under a camo cap.

Nestling in the thick sunflowers, amongst the bugs, the bees, the knats and the spiders, watching the horizon and searching for a grey dot that is not a dragonfly nor a mosquito is a welcomed wait. To a non-dove hunter this may sound uncomfortable, but for me it is how I settle into the "new year" and smile at the upcoming season.

Dove hunting is more than chasing after fuzzy feathered things, though. It is the re-enforcement of traditions. The smell of the gun cleaning kit, the dogs going crazy when you bring out the camo and the answering machine filling up with messages like, "John, they were coming in like crazy. I couldn't keep off with a flyswatter!. Call me..." or "...We didn't even fire a shot. But, we had a good time so we're going back tomorrow, do you want to go..." are the traditions that mark the coming of the fun season.

Granted everyone likes to hear the messages enthused with good news like the first one, but I really like listening to latter type also. They remind of the many reasons dove hunting is so fun.

Just as the geese and mallards start their migrations with the cold weather, so do the hunters begin their annual fellowship, good times and cementing of life-long friendships with the passing of the first of September.

These friendships are accented and colored by the heart-pounding action that a couple of passing dove provide, but they are rooted in the in the experience of sharing the great outdoors. It is really not the number of birds that make a good hunting trip, but rather the number of laughs, the number of memories and the experiences that are indelibly burned on one's mind that truly create the great trips.

The First Excursion

Jess McLarry, Pete Waters and I sat under the shade of the only clump of trees near a water tank on the top of the small hill that was a grain field.

We sat in the shade talking with our eyes glued to the horizon in all directions waiting for that first bird to fly. Four thirty turned into five and five into six as we continued to rant and rave about spectacular shots from last year and places that should be great this year. We continually searched in vain for wings, but our conversation kept us entertained enough so every ten minutes or so one of us would pipe up... "Even with nothing flying, this sure beats working!"

When the sun started sinking low, we noticed a grey dart shoot by overhead at about mach 2. His wingman did a slight dip and roll as we all jumped and made half-hearted, vain attempts to reach our guns idling resting in the bed of the pick-up.

That being our wakeup call, Jess was ready when the next flight came shooting across the horizon. I whispered at Jess a subtle but quick, "Here he comes. Get ready–take him around the tree."

Luckily, there wasn't time to think and Jess instinctively raised the gun, found a bead and pulled the trigger.
One shot, one bird- the only thing Jess forgot to instinctively do is mark where the bird fell. Finding a speckled grey bird in a grey-dirt plowed crop field is much more challenging than it sounds. The small shadows cast by the clods of dirt make you see feathers at every step.

Also, being the first bird of the season, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. This caused all three of to think that the bird had traveled much farther in his escape than Jess's reaction time had actually allowed.

At one point Jess was walking about 100 yards away mumbling, "I know that bird dropped right here, somewhere!"
After giving up looking myself, I was headed back to the truck and found the bird no more than 35 feet from where Jess shot. Just a friendly reminder– always mark your birds and go straight to them, unless you happen to have your dog with you.

The Second Excursion

One bird is usually not enough to bring a group of hunters back to a field, but Pete and I couldn't stand sitting around watching football all weekend, so Sunday afternoon we were back at the same tank.

We had a report that the birds were flying along a creek and tank more to the east of our land. Since we had permission from the landowner, we headed straight for the other tank.

My eyes kept getting wider and wider as the bright yellow corner of the field started coming into focus. This tank was perfect.

It was a little dry, so there was a ring of exposed dirt gradually giving way to the remaining water. The pond was also surrounded by tall, vibrantly green & yellow sunflowers. After the long walk across the sparse wheat field to the pond, which backed up against a treeline, the lush green sunflowers and the shade were an oasis to us thirsty hunters.

The dove looked upon the pond in the same manner. The first pond was covered with thick vegetation making difficult for the small dove to find a place to drink water. Dove prefer the openness of an uglier cattle stock tank. This tank was also at the junction of two tree lines and a creek.

We had times it perfectly, just as we caught our breath and got settled a dove veered over the treeline and headed for the pond. Pete gave me a kind of "heads up" look, so I turned and started to raise the shotgun.

Dove fly very fast. If you have one second to see a bird, usually you have only one more to shoot.


I caught the bird out of the corner of my left eye. Pointing the gun with my left hand, the right hand automatically brought the stock into place and I fired.

After one shot, we didn't get skunked. The birds kept coming in–some from the trees and some straight out of the field. Since this was the first time my shotgun had been out since duck season, my shooting average quickly dropped. Those speedy little dove are quick!

It felt good to find a spot to enjoy the beginning of the new season. The memories "split seconds in time" of the dove passing by, the beautiful sunset and the time well spent with friends are the reasons there will be a third excursion and a fourth and the reasons that each year thousands of Texans, like me, will enjoy the start of the new season.