Great white hunter in training
Friday was opening day of dove season. It’s become sort of a tradition to make the trip down to the CA/AZ border but all the usual suspects fagged out this year. I considered making the trip solo but decided it just wouldn’t be that much fun by myself. Awhile back I had even considered taking Jack and Joe with me but good sense took over (read: my wife helped me pull my head outta you know where) and I decided that having the two of them down there would be like trying to herd cats while I hunted. So it appeared as though I was going to have to miss it this year and, given all the experts' predictions of an opener to rival last year's, I was pretty disappointed. But a couple weeks ago Jack planted the bug in my ear that he was hankerin’ for some huntin’ and would do just about anything to go. Joe made it pretty clear that he didn’t have any desire to go down there and sweat his fanny off in 118 degree heat. So the idea of taking just Jack with me actually began to make a little sense. If only I could get his momma and his teacher to bite on it we’d be in business. And that was the rub, because Wednesday was the first day of Kindergarten and pulling him out mid-day Thursday seemed a bit unlikely. But a discussion with momma and the K-teacher was had and they said it would be fine. In fact, having this trip at this time proved to be valuable currency in the business of getting Jack to go to Kindergarten. The first day of school brought all sorts of screaming and kicking and resisting and wailing. Donna called me at the office, put Jack onto the phone, and I made it clear to him that no school = no hunting trip. Reluctantly, he gave in.
So on Thursday I loaded the truck with guns, ammo, camo, snacks, & Jack and we headed for AZ. About 20 miles outside Blythe the sky took on an ominous appearance – dust storms and thunderstorms abounded. Not good, this usually causes the birds to flee to Mexico. But there was no way I was going to turn back now, we forged ahead and made it to the hotel where we dumped our stuff and then went out to “scout” for some birds. “Scouting for birds” consists of driving the local ag fields looking for the proper flyways, food, and cover. It’s not rocket science and probably totally useless but it’s part of the tradition so we do it. We found a couple good spots, went back to town for dinner, and hit the sack. The alarm sounded about 4:00 but it needn’t have bothered – I was already wide-awake. I got Jack dressed, fed him a Pop-Tart, and we were out the door. On the way to our pre-picked spot I noticed a lot of standing water – evidence that it had really dumped the night before. Not good for dove hunting, but we pressed on and found our spot. I parked the truck and we began a short hike into an alfalfa field where I knew we’d be well-placed in a flyway. As we walked by flashlight in the darkness I instructed Jack to walk behind me and be mindful of his steps since there are plenty of rattlesnakes in the area. After about 20 yards I stepped on something “moving” and nearly crapped my pants. I stifled a scream and flew backward, nearly squashing Jack in the process. A large bullfrog hopped a few feet away and then stopped. I did my best to quickly re-don my manhood in the darkness and said, “Uh, hey, look at that, a frog.” Jack descended on the frog and nearly had it in hand before I could even call him off. We made it to our spot and the sun eventually rose. It was a good 40 minutes before we had any action. A set of triples came in fast from behind and I dumped one just before they got out of range. We spent the next 20 minutes searching the knee-high alfalfa for our kill but eventually gave up. After 20 more minutes of no action we pulled up stakes and moved to another spot. This spot was a freshly disced dirt field but it was a good flyway and had quite a few more birds in it. We’d only been there a couple minutes when a solo came bombing in fast. My shot was a direct hit and he went down hard. Jack smiled widely and said, “Did we get one?” I told him, “Yeah, go get ‘im.” He bounded across the dirt field for the bird. I wondered how he’d react when he saw that the bird was dead. I mean, really dead. But he ran right over, picked it up, and let out an enthusiastic “woo-hoo!!” This repeated itself over the next hour or so as I knocked down another six or so birds (except for the birds that we couldn’t find). Each time he’d retrieve a bird he’d set it down on next to the others, stroke the feathers, and talk to it. Um, can I just say… cree-pee! It was starting to get really hot and we were having a tough time finding some of the downed birds so we decided not to kill any more if we weren’t going to be able to find them. It’s times like that that I wish I had a bird dog. Here's Jack after the first morning's hunt:
We packed it up and went back to the hotel for showers, breakfast, and naps. But before showering the business of cleaning the birds needed to be addressed. I pulled a bird from my game sack and made a cut under the breast. I jammed my thumb in and pulled up. Jack let out a shriek.
What are you doing? You’re gonna hurt it!
“Uh… buddy, it doesn’t feel a thing, trust me.”
I wanted to take it home and play with it.
“Uh… no.”
Later that afternoon we hit an alfalfa field with some other hunters nearby. The combination of the location and the other hunters kept the birds moving and we had plenty of action. Here's the happy hunter with a coupla birds we whacked:
And a picture of the day's sunset:
It was a good time. As the sun set we cleaned our birds (with a repeat of Jack’s protestings that I was hurting the birds) and then we went to dinner. Since it was getting late we simply washed up and stayed in our camo hunting clothes (it’s not as dorky as it sounds, the town is loaded with hunters and that’s generally accepted behavior). Jack was the hit of the restaurant as a long line of diners stopped by the table to talk to him about how many birds he’d shot that day and how much fun he was having with his daddy. He really enjoyed the attention and I enjoyed the heck out of having folks tell me how adorable my son is. By the time we got back to the hotel it was getting late so we watched a little t.v. and hit the sack. The alarm buzzing at 4:30 the next morning felt like a bomb going off in my head. We dragged ourselves out of bed, limped out to the truck, and cruised to the spot we’d hit the night before. It was still black as pitch so we sat in the cab of the air conditioned truck (it was 85 degrees out) and told jokes to each other (I’ll always think of that trip whenever I hear another knock, knock joke). When the sun started to rise we took our place out in the field and the birds started flying. At one point a Eurasian collared dove came in directly above me but really high. I touched off a shot and that thing dropped like a boulder, making an audible thump when it hit the ground. That shot and the result was cause for great celebration between the two of us. We had decent action till about 8:00 and then it stopped cold. We entertained ourselves by blowing a couple of fire ant colonies to smithereens with 12 gauge shotgun blasts. To a 5 year-old boy there isn’t a whole lot that’s more fun than that. It’s pretty cool to a 38 year-old boy, too. Since birds and ant colonies were in short supply we decided to pack up and head back to the hotel to clean the birds and load up for the drive home. Here's a couple pics I snapped before we left the field:
When it came time to clean the birds, Jack asked if he could help me clean them. I gave him a pair of latex gloves and he jumped right in. I noticed he was first yanking the heads off the birds and stacking them neatly in a pile. I asked him, “What are you doing that for?” His matter-of-fact reply, “So that I can take them home and show Joey.” Again, cree-pee!
We finished cleaning our birds, showered, and loaded the truck. We were on the road and heading for home by 9:00. I was tired but I felt content and totally thankful for the quality time I got to have with my son. I think it was the most fun I’ve ever had dove hunting and I just know there’s going to be lots more trips just like it in the future. Thanks for the great time, little buddy!
So on Thursday I loaded the truck with guns, ammo, camo, snacks, & Jack and we headed for AZ. About 20 miles outside Blythe the sky took on an ominous appearance – dust storms and thunderstorms abounded. Not good, this usually causes the birds to flee to Mexico. But there was no way I was going to turn back now, we forged ahead and made it to the hotel where we dumped our stuff and then went out to “scout” for some birds. “Scouting for birds” consists of driving the local ag fields looking for the proper flyways, food, and cover. It’s not rocket science and probably totally useless but it’s part of the tradition so we do it. We found a couple good spots, went back to town for dinner, and hit the sack. The alarm sounded about 4:00 but it needn’t have bothered – I was already wide-awake. I got Jack dressed, fed him a Pop-Tart, and we were out the door. On the way to our pre-picked spot I noticed a lot of standing water – evidence that it had really dumped the night before. Not good for dove hunting, but we pressed on and found our spot. I parked the truck and we began a short hike into an alfalfa field where I knew we’d be well-placed in a flyway. As we walked by flashlight in the darkness I instructed Jack to walk behind me and be mindful of his steps since there are plenty of rattlesnakes in the area. After about 20 yards I stepped on something “moving” and nearly crapped my pants. I stifled a scream and flew backward, nearly squashing Jack in the process. A large bullfrog hopped a few feet away and then stopped. I did my best to quickly re-don my manhood in the darkness and said, “Uh, hey, look at that, a frog.” Jack descended on the frog and nearly had it in hand before I could even call him off. We made it to our spot and the sun eventually rose. It was a good 40 minutes before we had any action. A set of triples came in fast from behind and I dumped one just before they got out of range. We spent the next 20 minutes searching the knee-high alfalfa for our kill but eventually gave up. After 20 more minutes of no action we pulled up stakes and moved to another spot. This spot was a freshly disced dirt field but it was a good flyway and had quite a few more birds in it. We’d only been there a couple minutes when a solo came bombing in fast. My shot was a direct hit and he went down hard. Jack smiled widely and said, “Did we get one?” I told him, “Yeah, go get ‘im.” He bounded across the dirt field for the bird. I wondered how he’d react when he saw that the bird was dead. I mean, really dead. But he ran right over, picked it up, and let out an enthusiastic “woo-hoo!!” This repeated itself over the next hour or so as I knocked down another six or so birds (except for the birds that we couldn’t find). Each time he’d retrieve a bird he’d set it down on next to the others, stroke the feathers, and talk to it. Um, can I just say… cree-pee! It was starting to get really hot and we were having a tough time finding some of the downed birds so we decided not to kill any more if we weren’t going to be able to find them. It’s times like that that I wish I had a bird dog. Here's Jack after the first morning's hunt:
We packed it up and went back to the hotel for showers, breakfast, and naps. But before showering the business of cleaning the birds needed to be addressed. I pulled a bird from my game sack and made a cut under the breast. I jammed my thumb in and pulled up. Jack let out a shriek. What are you doing? You’re gonna hurt it!
“Uh… buddy, it doesn’t feel a thing, trust me.”
I wanted to take it home and play with it.
“Uh… no.”
Later that afternoon we hit an alfalfa field with some other hunters nearby. The combination of the location and the other hunters kept the birds moving and we had plenty of action. Here's the happy hunter with a coupla birds we whacked:
And a picture of the day's sunset:
It was a good time. As the sun set we cleaned our birds (with a repeat of Jack’s protestings that I was hurting the birds) and then we went to dinner. Since it was getting late we simply washed up and stayed in our camo hunting clothes (it’s not as dorky as it sounds, the town is loaded with hunters and that’s generally accepted behavior). Jack was the hit of the restaurant as a long line of diners stopped by the table to talk to him about how many birds he’d shot that day and how much fun he was having with his daddy. He really enjoyed the attention and I enjoyed the heck out of having folks tell me how adorable my son is. By the time we got back to the hotel it was getting late so we watched a little t.v. and hit the sack. The alarm buzzing at 4:30 the next morning felt like a bomb going off in my head. We dragged ourselves out of bed, limped out to the truck, and cruised to the spot we’d hit the night before. It was still black as pitch so we sat in the cab of the air conditioned truck (it was 85 degrees out) and told jokes to each other (I’ll always think of that trip whenever I hear another knock, knock joke). When the sun started to rise we took our place out in the field and the birds started flying. At one point a Eurasian collared dove came in directly above me but really high. I touched off a shot and that thing dropped like a boulder, making an audible thump when it hit the ground. That shot and the result was cause for great celebration between the two of us. We had decent action till about 8:00 and then it stopped cold. We entertained ourselves by blowing a couple of fire ant colonies to smithereens with 12 gauge shotgun blasts. To a 5 year-old boy there isn’t a whole lot that’s more fun than that. It’s pretty cool to a 38 year-old boy, too. Since birds and ant colonies were in short supply we decided to pack up and head back to the hotel to clean the birds and load up for the drive home. Here's a couple pics I snapped before we left the field:
When it came time to clean the birds, Jack asked if he could help me clean them. I gave him a pair of latex gloves and he jumped right in. I noticed he was first yanking the heads off the birds and stacking them neatly in a pile. I asked him, “What are you doing that for?” His matter-of-fact reply, “So that I can take them home and show Joey.” Again, cree-pee! We finished cleaning our birds, showered, and loaded the truck. We were on the road and heading for home by 9:00. I was tired but I felt content and totally thankful for the quality time I got to have with my son. I think it was the most fun I’ve ever had dove hunting and I just know there’s going to be lots more trips just like it in the future. Thanks for the great time, little buddy!
posted by willhuntforfood at 9:42 PM
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