The hell with doves!
Irradiated by Stingray
Over at LawDog’s, there is an amusing piece on dove season. While I would venture the guess that he’s had both more successful and more enjoyable hunts, he also managed to remind me why doves and dove hunting hold about as much appeal for me as dental surgery.
Some years ago while I was in my early teens, my dad decided to let the Boy Scout troop we were in camp on some property he has at Conchas Lake. As it happened, this trip coincided nicely with dove season, so a few scatterguns were taken along so that we could go off and have a heartwarming father-son bonding experience of blasting tasty little peace-symbols from the sky. This was the same trip in which the phrase “HOLY CRAP, YOUR DAD’S A NINJA!” was first uttered, but that’s a different story. Evening approached, we made our plans known and explained where we would be to avoid having any of the other kids wander into range, and we set off.
Comparing ambient temperatures here in the high mountains, where snow is not entirely uncommon for Halloween, and in the lower, hotter area that Conchas Lake lies in is similar to comparing the temperatures between a comfortable room and a blast furnace. At the time, it was only possible to avoid heat stroke by remaining in the lake until utterly shivering, at least to us kids, so I set off in a short sleeve shirt to avoid dying before I shot a single dove. Firmly ensconced in the salt cedar near the shore line, we waited for the doves to come to water. It was at this point that I noticed the always-thick mosquitos were somewhat more abundant even than normal. I swatted a few off my arms, and before long a few doves came rocketing in. As this was my first dove hunt, I was unprepared for the fact that these birds are capable of hypersonic flight. Having shot almost exclusively rifle and pistol to this point in my life, aside from an afternoon’s practice on the trap range before the trip, my first few shots only missed by well less than six hundred yards, though I’m not sure the doves knew they were under attack. Dad, having done this before, managed to down a few. I went back to swatting mosquitos. Then I continued swatting mosquitos. After a while, I began to have difficulty seeing the sky through the mosquitos. At one point, after another twenty or so minutes of fruitless waiting and mosquito swatting, I did finally manage to shoot a dove. Unfortunately, I was simply trying to open up a hole in the mosquitos so I could see if there was any sign of the sky, or if I had been carried off to serve as a food source in the secret mosquito camps.
By the end of the hunt, my grand total remained one lone dove. The mosquitos, however, had a somewhat better day. I left that particular hunt with 137 bites on my left arm, and 164 on the right. My parents spent several days debating whether to take me to the doctor for a cortisone shot, and I spent several days staring covetously at the belt sander in the garage. I have not since been dove hunting.
