A Late Season Dove Hunt

In October 1998, when I suggested a late–season, dove hunt, no one in the Saturday morning skeet group seemed particularly interested. I suspected that since most had not been born and raised in the South, they might not consider dove as legitimate game. Most Yankees don’t.

Eyes light up and breathing quickens, however, at the mention of hunting quail, pheasant, grouse, woodcock, prairie chicken, or duck and geese. Doves elicit a yawn.

In my opinion, doves are one of the finest, if not the finest, game bird in the U.S. This warm–blooded, egg–laying, two–legged vertebrate is the acrobatic king of the avian world. Combine this agility with blazing speed and keen eyesight, and you have a formidable challenge. I’ve seen champion clay–target shooters reduced to quivering frustration.

Doves are birds of streamlined contours with an elongated tail and a small, dainty neck and head. The wings are graceful, flat, long and pointed. They make a whistling sound in full flight or in turns.

What I like best about doves is their uninhibited sense of freedom. Although not a flocking bird, doves do tend to collect in favorable areas with food, water and a roost nearby. But let the temperature drop slightly or rain threaten and they will move from ten to 200 miles in a day. And doves are not finicky. They’ll eat every seed from corn to ragweed, peanuts to sorghum to milkweed, mullet and grasses. Any little puddle of water will do for a drink.

Hunting doves requires advance scouting to locate feeding and roosting areas. Sometimes they concentrate and remain in the same location for a few days. Other times they feed and move on quickly. So, doves are not as predictable as some other game birds.

About 1:00 p.m. on Monday January 4, 1999, our group began assembling in the parking lot of the Days Inn in Falfurrias, Texas. Present were Jim Phifer, Harry Wells, Hank Wunderlick, Eric Nelson, Mike Jordan, Bob Chromoster, Fred Brashier and me. Our guide, Henry Ingleking, arrived and provided directions to Tom Marsalona and Chris Bruce who were en route. Later, Dick Duval and his son, Ed, called for directions.

We convoyed through Falfurrias in one Ford Expedition, three Ford Explores, one Chevy Suburban and a Volvo station wagon. No vehicle had more than two aboard. It was enough to make a politically correct, liberal, SUV–hater ill.

The first hunting field proved unproductive with few birds. Since the weather was cold, the wind blowing and the sky overcast, I worried that I had asked my friends to drive 275 miles (one–way) for nothing. I wanted everyone to have an opportunity to bag a daily limit of fifteen birds.

About 3:45 p.m., Henry told us to saddle up. We were shifting to another area. Five or so miles later we arrived at a field that I had hunted many times in the past. It is an 80-acre plot surrounded by large trees with a water seep down one end. This plot is in the middle of a two thousand-acre grain field. In other words, it is ideal habitat for doves.

Driving up, I was not disappointed. Doves were flashing back and forth over the hunting area. Piling out of our vehicles, we hurried to position ourselves in the flight patterns. Usually, doves approach from the same direction in a narrow corridor; if they are shot at, they spread out and seek other approaches.

As soon as the guns barked, the birds took evasive action. They would kick their rudders hard right and left zigzagging in a crazy pattern. Some would sweep in and skim the ground before sideslipping to a landing. High flying doves being fired at would juke and jive, fold their wings and drop as if hit only to pull out at the last instant and scamper off on the deck laughing.

There was a constant ripple of gunfire as twelve shotguns hammered through the afternoon hours. Our two black Labrador retrievers belonging to Mike Jordan and Dick Duval worked hard finding and collecting downed birds. Eager to please with boundless energy and loveable natures, Labs make ideal hunting companions.

By 5:20 p.m. most everyone had limited out. We gathered by the cars to clean our birds. As we were standing about, a whole squadron of twenty or so birds whistled close overhead as if to taunt us. The temptation to grab our guns and have another go was almost too much.

By 6:00 p.m. we had finished breasting out the birds and icing them down. I counted out my fired hulls. I had 52 for an average of just over three shells per kill. That’s about as good as I can do in an open field under windy conditions. I expect everyone did as well or better.

We returned to the motel to clean up. Afterwards, we had dinner at the Oasis in Premont. Everyone seemed to enjoy himself filling up on chicken–fried steaks, Mexican dinners, long necks and tall tales of shots made and missed. Later, it was back to the motel to watch the national collegiate football championship between Tennessee and Florida State—a perfect end to a perfect day.

The Tuesday morning hunt was mediocre and I became apprehensive about the afternoon hunt. I thought it would be difficult to equal Monday’s success. I couldn’t have been more wrong. By 1:45 p.m., Henry had arranged us in a line extending across a large field that I had never hunted before. Parallel to our line of shooters and across the road about 150 yards distant was a large, plowed pea field. This spot had it all.
Within minutes of getting on station, gunfire crackled up and down the line. Doves flew over me high and low. They came from several directions and by twos and twenties. This was a dove hunter’s dream. The barrels on my 12 gauge AYA side by side grew too hot to touch. I hadn’t seen anything like this since a 1985 hunt at Sugar Lake in Mexico.

By 4:00 p.m., everyone had limited out. We met at the vehicles to relax and clean our birds. About 5:00 p.m., Eric and Hank, Dick and Ed Duval, Mike Jordan and Bob Chromoster departed. They were going to their duck lease near Rock Port for a Wednesday duck/goose hunt. The rest of us decided to return to Houston. We were tired but our spirits were sky high.

Fred and I departed the next morning. I reflected upon our hunt and how friends take on special significance after retirement. We need fellowship and shared memories. What better way to achieve them than bird hunting with good friends.

Now, for those interested in the more technical aspects of shooting doves, I offer the following and I don’t claim any special knowledge:

Of course, safe gun handling at all times is mandatory; but on a field with swirling doves, make it your top priority to know where every shooter is at all times. Never, never, never shoot at a low flying bird! A gun elevation angle of less than 40º is dangerous. Putting out an eye or peppering someone with shot is unforgivable.

Camouflage clothing helps; but staying motionless until executing the shot is essential. No one has much success with speedy and shifty doves that have spotted movement.

Use whatever gun you’re most familiar with, be it a 12, 16, 20 or even 28 gauge. Number 7½ or number 6 shot are preferred for late–season, windy conditions in an open field.

I use the swing through or come–from–behind method on most shots. It helps me stay on the correct line of flight. On long shots, I’ll experiment with the pull–away method.

I usually miss using the maintained lead of skeet. But if you find you’re missing too much, chances are you are being too deliberate. Forget everything, calm down and focus hard on the dove’s eye. Shoot as soon as the gun butt touches your cheek and shoulder.