"The River" is their camp. To all who know of it and have graced it's halls, it's somewhat a shrine, a holy place, a satchel of comfort and a purse of fellowship. I mean this place is revered. Considering that, you'd think I'd be fired up to be going back but I wasn't. Nope, not in the least. I was tired, beat down, choking from the man standing on my throat, working more and making less, and I just didn't see how going and shooting 'at' a bunch of doves yielding a heavy dose of humility and humiliation would help my attitude. The wife kept saying, "Justin, if you're too tired, just don't go." And I didn't want to. In fact, I said no to Gauge and Trapper at least 10 times before he called to confirm I was going, yet four o' clock this morning found me chugging coffee, "rocking out" to Cross Canadian Ragweed, Jason Boland, Reckless Kelley and a whole bunch of other racket while burning down the interstate.
Was it worth it? You better believe it. Not so much because of the shots, the kills or the heavy game bags, but because of everything else combined made it exceptional. You know, the little things or better yet, the details.
The value of the experience can be measure by many men, many ways, but a breakfast of tomato gravy, biscuits, sausage and/or bacon sure help to weigh the scales:
It wasn't long thereafter when I found myself perched under an old oak tree, lost in my own thoughts, waiting on shooting time. That's "my time". It almost seems as a corridor between life and death to me, and if you think about the task at hand, it may well be. As the cool morning breeze wrapped around me, I felt the world fall off me. Gone where the thoughts of mortgages and bills, the damned garbage disposal, and the fact my wife's Infinite sounds like a monster truck running down the highway. Gone were the "gotta work on it's", as they were replaced by the "nothing else matters'."
It seems funny to say, but it was just me and the doves. The little, tiny, fast moving, "how did I miss it", "dammit you sorry joker", doves. And, I loved every minute of it.
It was actually a fun shoot with the clouds, wind and overcast skies yielding doves that were literally here one minute and gone the next. All these nuances led to screams of "birds in the field...........where did they go?", "man, whatchu shooting cause that bird was on a tee?", and "right over your head........shoot.............man, whatchu waiting on?"
All too soon, the birds turned off the faucet, stopped flying and I found myself on the back porch of the camp, layed out in a rocking chair having my mind churned by the sounds of "the river" while I fought a battle with my eyes concerning their need to stay closed:
I thought about four generations of hunters that sat in my field of vision this morning. We had "papaw" (my wife's grandad) who fought in the Pacific Theater shooting a Model 12, missing more than naught, cussing more than most, and laughing most of all. That old Model 12 is something I'm going to make a point to look at further. The weight in the heft of the gun would lead me to believe it takes a man hell bent on shooting such a piece to actually do so. On each of my flanks were two of his sons, twin brothers, one of which is my father in law. I am a "son in law" and out in front a hundred yards or so was another "son in law". On the back side of the field, sporting a brand new over and under shotgun I'm not sure I could afford (and handling it very well) was a young man doubling as a Great Grandson and Grandson. Considering how much I miss my own granddad and in my most humble opinion I have to say, that's power.
Another detail that rounded out the morning is the beauty and rawness of the hunt. I'm of the opinion the finality of death is too much for some people in today's society to comprehend. Rather than call names or try to convert, it may be just as effective to show them our lives through our own heritage. But, I guess that's a debate for another time. Truly though, the people that don't get it never will.
There's something to be said about a clean, quick kill that leads to a bird in the hand, and I was reminded of this thought over and over as I searched for a bird that fell not ten yards away but absolutely wouldn't show himself. Understanding I don't like hunting over my dogs with people I haven't hunted around, I left Gauge and Trapper at the house to make my wife miserable. Someone tell me how dogs just "know" when you're going hunting? In any case, "the boys" are in for a tough few days considering the barking and whining they kept my wife up with.......they really are good boys though. Given that I was being slashed by virgin briars, you can imagine my language while rummaging in the thorny undergrowth which was topped only by half the field's laughter.
Was it a barrel melter? No, but we did our share:
The thing is, and I guess my point in general is that if you hang your worth as a hunter on the coup you count you're truly missing out. There truly is much more. Take time to find it, and I think you'll find the worth of your memories weighing heavy. Near the end, when physical limitations keep you from the field, those memories may keep you in the hunt.......just like "papaw".
In the words of the "gangsta rapper" Ice Cube, "Today was a good day."
-Gator
Take the 12 out and drop in and slender 28 and Go 
