Recently I sat by the Little River in the Smokies in a camp chair beside my father in law.
Greg is a hard working man who has many years of outdoors adventures under his belt- everything from backpacking thru Europe, captaining boats in marshes and salt flats, and chasing wild turkey on the Cumberland plateau.
When asked “What is your favorite thing to do just for fun, for the joy of it?” He paused, leaned back into his chair, a fond look of nostalgia brought a smirk across his face, he responded “the dove hunt.”
A once a year phenomenon that has the ability to bring folks together like no other outdoor event.
We hail from Knoxville- Rocky Top territory where people in our town bleed orange and I dare to say, the dove hunt can rival any UT football game as far as commitment and excitement. All year long, our friends look forward to meeting up at the field.
Greg thinks back to the first time he went dove hunting…he remembers showing up at a field where you drop your cash into a box with the farmer, take a spot, and have at it.
He doesn’t remember many details about specific hunts besides years that he describes: “There were so many birds, we couldn’t keep our guns loaded!”
You can’t plan for birds, although every year we attempt our rain dance of sorts- all throughout the summer months we look longingly at fields of corn and sunflowers, daydreaming of the birds they may draw with their beautiful sprawling rows…when it comes closer to time, the farmer cuts the corn for silage for his cows and we walk up and down the rows tripping on corn stalks with eyes glued to the skies and to neighboring power lines that often get weighted with doves.
There’s something about these hot summer nights, lookin at the field, seeing how many birds are there, sowing wheat seed to encourage even more birds to come and after our work, cracking open a beer on the tailgate and watching the sunset, wondering how many doves will fly over on September 1st.
The first time I went for a hunt it was so exciting. People everywhere, gunshots everywhere.
People young and old…little tikes in Carhartt overalls and ball caps tagging along with young dads, they swell with pride as they eagerly do the job of watching for birds and cleaning up shells.
It takes a minute to get the hang of identifying what is a dove and what is a “tweety” as Carson likes to call them. But the thrill of “keeping your head on a swivel” makes the dove hunt fun for anyone, even if you’re not holding a gun.
When I think of the dove hunt, it’s like I can hear the scene. I can almost hear the heat.
In East Tennessee we’ve had some hunts that are pleasant but for the most part it is hot, hot, hot. Truck doors shutting, tailgates dropping, the sound of the over under snapping back into place, loaded, shouldered, the dull clack of shells rolling around like rocks in every pocket available, boots crunching on uneven terrain- the remnants of corn stalks and dried mud…bugs sizzle and rattle in the distance- raising into a crescendo and subsiding in a rhythmic breathing pattern, killdeer squeal sharply as they dive and swoop in and out- making every hunter jump at the false alarm of a dove, the smell of cows… a horrible smell that somehow becomes familiar and almost nostalgically pleasant from hours in the field, the holler of another hunter- “Over!” Warning to look up and notice the dove flying overhead…Barrel up and safety off without a second to lose- the “POW” of the shotgun seems to ricochet off of the tin roofs of the barns and trucks and fill my ears with a shrill excitement, wings and feathers descend and beaux is already running to retrieve.
Beer cans crack and fizz, water tanks guzzle and spray as birds get cleaned, loads get taken off as hunters plop down on camp chairs, tailgates, and coolers. Kids giggle and play and friends- old and new, relax together as they marvel and tell the stories from their corner of the field that day.
No matter the number of doves that wind up on the tailgate at the end of the day, I think the phenomenon that brings these folks back year after year is a debated mystery. Perhaps a combination of the thrill of a hunt, community and loved ones, the anticipation that has built all year, or maybe just the camaraderie of shared experience. There’s a magic about the dove hunt that can’t be recorded or explained. It’s something you gotta live and once you do, I promise you’ll be looking forward to next year, eyes on the skies, wondering how many doves will wind up flying over, because you never know, it could be like one of those years… so many birds, you can’t keep your gun loaded.
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