Texas Christmas: Dove opener
I am late to hunting. Some may call it “adult onsetting.” Though my grandfather hunted and kept hunting dogs, I was never able to join him and learn the importance, the reverence, and the skill of harvesting my meat. It wasn’t that I was not allowed, but rather, I could not join during most key seasons due to our proximity. I loved hearing his stories, and he now loves to listen to mine. He loves to hear that I am accessing public land, which he watched come and go, then come back some during his lifetime. My next story to share with him is about Texas Christmas. The Dove opener and downright party of friends, family, and strangers alike. This was my first year to enjoy this spectacle; I assure you, it will not be my last.
Imagine 50 Texans, Louisiana folks, and a few northerners from Wisconsin and Minnesota all surrounding a field waiting for the birds. You hear laughs, smell cigars, and it’s so hot you taste the heat. Yes, Texas heat has a flavor. It tastes like a dry rub with a bit of sweet heat at the end if you know the right recipe. What is hard to describe is the electricity in the air. The excitement of the day, the month, the season. As soon as I pulled up and was greeted by the other hunters, I knew this would be like no other hunting party I was ever privileged to join. The energy was contagious. Old friends smiled and bantered over hunting stories while new friends listened on, eager for their turn to share a few jabs at the expense of someone else's misses in the field. By the end of the day, I would be a part hero, part butt of jokes myself.
Picture walking into a field that is set up for a party, but you realize that the drinks, stage, and smoker are all for later. Some cowboy hats, some cowboy boots, and some of the finest shooters I’ve ever seen, all sharing a space full of excitement. We were going to hunt; then we’d sing, dance, and be merry like only Texans can. That was as much of the plan as I could gather visually just by pulling up. I remember thinking to myself, “If this is hunting, what have I been doing wrong? This is the proper way to do it.” Yes, everything is bigger in Texas, and this is bigger as well. I had yet to even load shells in my shotgun, and I was already having fun. I was already beginning to understand why Dove opener was a family pastime, a connection of cultures, and a day to spend in the fields. I was about to learn more about wing shooting over three days than I had learned over the last year. Though I will only discuss two days, I was about to learn what clays couldn’t teach, what pen-raised birds couldn’t do, and just how fast wild birds can be. The Doves were about to provide me with a new education on wing shooting. Let’s dive in.
Day 1 (evening)
Pulling into the fields in hill country doesn’t feel like the Texas I always imagined. I was about an hour outside of Austin in one of the prettiest places I have ever been. When I think of Texas, I always see a desert landscape from the old westerns I would watch with my father. This place is different. It isn’t flat; it's green, and the rolling hills make for the most amazing sunsets. You may hear coyotes, turkeys, or bump deer cresting a hill. I am greeted by old friends and introduced to those I hoped to call new ones. I’d be lying if I told you I was feeling confident about my shooting, given the company I was in. Watching the arsenal of fine shotguns being put together over truck beds let me know I was no longer in the bush leagues. These shooters were serious and lifers at this sport. This pastime is a generational event, and it was indeed my first rodeo. I initially felt out of place. I was finally sorted out and dropped off on location to sit and wait for the doves to fly during the evening. There was one problem: I didn’t fire one shot. I only aimed three times but opted that the shot was not ethical, given my skill level. I didn’t shoot much, not because I didn’t want to, but because there were just no birds. This was not the folklore I was told. The sun should be blotted out by birds, and my bag filled shortly after we were cleared to fire. I left with all my shells that day. I spent the day listening to sparse shots and getting to know my fellow blind partners. To be honest, this was really what this style of hunting is about. I gathered so many stories and so many laughs from those around me. It was an amazing social experiment of the people who come from so many walks of life gathered around a common sport. A common love. What we didn’t have in birds was made up by the amazing Texas hospitality and party. I’ve truly never met a more welcoming crew. I must say that I am extremely awkward around people when I am first introduced, but this crew took me in as a novice, made me feel welcomed, and imparted as much knowledge as they could over a delicious meal, strong drinks, and live music to help prepare me for the next day.
Day 2 (evening)
On day two, I decided to move fields and drive down early to watch the birds fly. I hoped to better understand their flight paths and speeds before being faced with a shot. My theory was that this would make me a better shot and give me an advantage once the field went live. I was alone for a good portion of the afternoon, which gave me some time to think about my journey. The thing that I was focused on was harvesting a dove with my father-in-law’s gun that I inherited after his death. While he was alive, we always talked about making time to hunt together. I’d listen to his stories and knowledge, only to absorb it and never apply it in the field with him. I was always too busy with work, kids, sports, and faith. I never made time to sit in a blind or walk a field with him, watching him do the thing he seemed to love the most: shoot. The gun is a Stoeger STF 3000 over/under. It is not the finest shotgun, but it swings easily and shoots true. I have several shotguns that I left because I wanted this hunt to honor my father. I walked the fields alone, talking to him, repeating his jokes, and thinking how much joy he would have had sitting with me, enjoying a beer. The first shot would be for him, the first dove to continue his legacy, and my return home to provide a meal I harvested myself as we talked about.
Finally, the field opened, and other hunters began to show up as I was placed and given my safety briefing. I had a great location with the bird's flight paths swinging over my left shoulder. It's a hard shot for me, but one I felt was manageable and one that should give me plenty of opportunities. I set up, cracked a beer, and waited. “Cleared to shoot,” I heard someone yell over the field. Shells loaded, gun ready. My nerves began to tingle with anticipation. The first dove that flew over, I completely missed. Shooting well behind them as they flew on to the next group and were quickly downed by a family of three sitting down the line from me, the solo shooter. Shooting alone was a much different experience from the day before. It made me heady and an overthinker when the birds started flying. The second volley came in, three birds, I missed the first and clipped the second. The birds continued to fly down the line and were also downed by a group not too far away. I had the first shot, the advantage, but I couldn’t seem to capitalize on my luck.
“Breathe Ash,” that's what Dad would say, and then he would insert some witty joke about me sucking that would take the pressure off and ease my mind. At this point, a cameraman was dropped off to talk with me about why I was dove hunting and what it was like as a first-timer. During our quick session and Q&A, he was positioned perfectly to see the birds swinging in from my left. “On your left,” he said. I swung the gun and found the solo bird flying over the trees. “Breathe, lead….further….further…. Pull, don’t squeeze.” The gun went off, and the bird fell from the sky. It felt like everything was in slow motion. Once the bird landed, everything sped back up. I spun to the cameraman, and he said, “It was a pleasure to get your first dove on camera, given your father's story.” I almost cried. In true journalist form, he is recording and asks, “Ash, tell me what that meant, and tell me about the gun.” Our previous conversation was more of an icebreaker, but now we were working through a story. A story I hoped to tell and document to help my father be remembered for who he was and for the daughters he raised and I married. I’ve never seen the shot, but I know it exists on film somewhere, and I hope to get my hands on a copy one day.
After that shot, I was invited to join a group where the social elements returned. I spent the day getting coached, laughing, and tightening a bond with new friends. I shot a lot and missed a lot, but I had my fair share of hits and birds to the bag. I came to realize the birds were a bonus but not what the day was about. It was about the bond. It was about the connection to land, the connection to food, and our connection to one another. That evening, I returned to my hotel and finalized some cleaning of the birds and freezing them for the trip home. Once I arrived back in Minnesota, I brought the family to the kitchen to review the harvest, think about recipes, and all participate in getting the birds in freezer bags. Watching the children go from, “I only want Mcdonalds Chicken Nuggies,” to “Can we please have more pheasants,” has been one of the greatest family shifts for me thus far. My heart was full, even though my limit was not. I had checked off another step in my journey as a hunter and gatherer of my food. I had another experience under my belt that made me more proficient at this craft. I spent more hours with a mentor who guided me with casual feedback on how to become a better hunter and steward of resources Until next time.
-Ash
The Gentleman Lumberjack