Back In The Swing Of Things

When It Comes To Family Dove
Hunts, Tradition Has No Limit.

Hunting, at its best, is a family tradition. Some kids have fond memories of Wisconsin deer camps, Georgia quail get-togethers or Wyoming antelope hunts. Mine are of broiling Labor Day dove openers in dead-flat, plowed-over agricultural acreage—wheat, sorghum, maize, a feedlot, whatever. Anything that’d bring the birds in—low and fast and dippy when it’s barely light, higher and spookier when the sun starts to climb out of the orange-pink haze to the east.

A cold snap or thunderstorm could queer the whole deal. My uncles and dad used to say if you weren’t sweating bullets by 8 a.m., it was too darned cold to bother with (I subscribed to this notion until I had a pretty good shoot not long ago in some rather brisk fall weather in South Dakota).

The Neal family dove hunt began a few years prior to WWII and—with a few breaks—has continued in one fashion or another. The locale has shifted from various spots in Southern California’s Coachella and Imperial Valleys (Indio, Mecca, Indian Wells, Brawley) and has recently relocated near Phoenix, Arizona. And, of course, the faces have changed. The real old-timers are all gone now. But the younger faces of sons (two of which are mine) fill the ranks for the departed. Sometimes recognizable mannerisms of a badly missed elder, somehow inherited by a junior member, are cause for a wry, but wistful comment.
Now the “senior circuit” includes just my cousins Mike, Craig and I, and the occasional in-law husband lucky enough to get a “kitchen pass” from home. We are now the geezers we used to giggle at affectionately when we were kids.

Man, gun, dove: your basic traditiional Labor Day Trilogy.

Neal family dove hunt, Indio, California, circa 1962 (left to right):
Mike Neal, Keith Neal, Payton Miller, Howard Miller (with aviator shades),
Burton Burton, Virgil Neal. Photo: Mick Neal.

My father began going around the late 1950’s. My older cousin Mike was in his third year when I first showed up at my Uncle Virgil’s place in Palm Desert. Mike told me how lucky I was to have been entrusted with a shotgun. His first year, he simply shagged, picked and cleaned birds, a task he could hardly wait to pass on to his younger brother Craig. But, shotgun or no, all three of us pitched into that humongous gray mound of mourning dove after each outing (no 10-bird limits back then) as the elders flaked out, beer in hand, in Virgil’s ranch-style house with its industrial-strength air conditioning. We generally hunted south toward Indio in fields, which today are packed wall to wall with ungodly pink “Moorish-themed” condos if not mini-malls and golf courses.

Later, for well over a decade’s worth of seasons, our rallying point was a motel in Brawley, California, at the southern end of the aptly named Salton Sea. The area was hot, full of rattlers and gnats and an absolute blast to hunt in, provided you stayed hydrated.

We quickly adopted two local restaurant hangouts—one for Mexican dinners, another for country-style breakfasts. Both places quickly became our post-hunt command centers. And why not? They were invariably filled with hoards of camo T-shirt-wearing guys trading lies over how fast they limited, while at the same time being remarkably circumspect about exactly where they actually did it. And the food was first class.

But, of course, the inevitable happened. Dads and uncles passed away. Wives dreamed up home improvement schemes. People moved. Divorces shifted the dynamic of relationships. Kids grew up and got jobs (Labor Day is a tough time to wrangle a couple of days off you’re in anything remotely resembling retail sales).

Neal Biery (bottom) couldn’t resist this high-flying barn pigeon. It, too, was featured prominently in the inevitable barbecue. After suitably heavy marinating, of course. Lightening up for a change of pace: A Benelli Legacy 28-gauge accounted for several “first morning” mourning dove (top).

Our last get-together at Mike’s house west of Phoenix, Ariz., was a skeleton crew compared to the glory years—me, Mike, brother-in-law Doug and his son Neal (named, of course, after the founding family). My two boys who, against all odds, had somehow turned into responsible citizens, had to work. Our puny numbers were the downside. The upside? The daily limit had just been bumped up to 15 birds, a number we hadn’t seen back in California since Shep was a pup.

Plus, good old Cousin Mike—who inherited Uncle Virgil’s awesome talent for getting permission from landowners—had gotten us on to a true hotspot, a magnet for Eurasian, whitewing and mourning dove… all just a 20-minute drive from his doorstep.

Still, on the first morning I was feeling kind of blue. I posed what I thought was a fairly philosophical question during pre-dawn preparations. “How did we get this way,” I asked as I rummaged about in his kitchen for Zip-Lock bags and ice. “How did we get so old?”

“I dunno,” Mike replied as he tried to decide between taking his new, shockingly lightweight Benelli Legacy 28-gauge auto or his old Browning Citori 12. “But it beats the heck out of the alternative.”
“Besides,” he added, “now that we’re old and selfish, we can afford nicer shotguns than we had when we were kids. Or when our kids were little.”

Mike Neal takes a bead on an incoming dove with his Browning O/U
(above). Keeping your gun loaded is a full-time job when things
are hot and heavy.

True that, I thought. My first gun had been a Depression-era Stevens Model 520 pump 20-gauge marketed under the Sears Roebuck “Ranger” label. It was choked tighter than a second coat of paint. Our fathers and uncles had mostly hunted with 12-gauge Remington 870 or Winchester Model 12 pumps—except for Mike’s Dad, Keith, who liked a 16-gauge Model 37 Ithaca, which, even today, still sees service when someone needs a loaner. Or is in a particularly sentimental mood.

Opening morning—my first ever on the Arizona side of the border—was a good one. By the time the sun was well up off the deck, most of the birds were coming out of it—which meant a lot of them never got shot at. Once they disappeared into that giant orange ball, they pretty much had a safe conduct pass—at least from where I was. Passing up “Hail Mary” shots is one of the best ways I know to improve your bird-to-shell ratio without having to endure the public humiliation of a sporting clays course. But, of course, relatively few once-a-season shooters have that kind of fire discipline unless the birds are coming in like flies.

But there were enough of them this time—low enough and out of the glare—to allow us to fill out pretty quickly. Every now and again, everyone would count—and recount—the number of birds in the rear vent pocket of his shell vest against the possibility of an “over-limit” ticket and the subsequent hassle that would ensue.

Naturally, Neal, the youngest member of our little band punched out first. He shoots well, but was also the unwitting beneficiary of a dove hunter’s greatest ally since Improved Cylinder and the cheap folding stool. That would be location, location, location.

After we had breakfast at around 8:30 (breakfast always seems like lunch on opening morning), we headed back to Mike’s place to clean the birds, get ourselves “air-conditioned” and take a nap. Doug and Neal had to head back home, so they napped longer and harder than did Mike and I. Next morning, of course, Mike and I went out again by ourselves. Took us a bit longer to fill out this time, but it was well worth it. When we got back, I called my boys to tell them how things went. They were suitably envious and both told me they are good to go for the later split season. I’m good with that. I’ll settle for anything that keeps things going.

I seem to need it now more than I ever thought I would.

Target loads with No. 7-1/2 or No. 8 shot are proper
dove medicine. Winchester AA’s have plenty of oomph
and will cycle the most finicky autoloader.

By The Numbers

Two state stats: During Arizona’s previous dove season (2013) an estimated total of 36,300 hunters averaged 21.3 birds for the season. During the same time frame, 63,300 California hunters averaged 13 birds.—Courtesy US Fish & Wildlife Service
By Payton Miller

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