“In the South, however, dove hunting is older than bourbon and as beloved as college football.” –Jonathan Miles, Field & Stream

It truly is a tradition and, for most hunters here in Mississippi, dove season signals the official start of hunting season. It is the kickoff, a celebration of the fall hunts to come.

Miles captured the essence of dove hunting here in the South in his 2005 Field & Stream article. It is older than bourbon and as beloved as college football and often, at the end of the afternoon hunt, the three are combined into a celebration, a gathering of hunters both young and old that is the social event of the hunting season, the red carpet gala of the woods and field, if you will.

For the young hunter, it is also a rite of passage. The dove field is, most often, the place where the first attempts at wing shooting occur. I well remember sitting beside my father in a hedgerow that ran through the middle of a plowed field waiting, with sweat running down my back, for the first dove of the day to appear.

I watched, with eager anticipation, as that first dove made its way down the field in our direction. My first feeble essays at wing shooting were just that. The doves were clearly in no danger and their erratic and abrupt flight patterns were more a display of aeronautical mastery than an attempt to avoid my errant shot patterns.

My weapon, as is the case for many a young lad in the dove field, was the .410 bore single-shot shotgun. Originally intended as a garden gun, the small shotgun is well suited for small game like squirrels, but is much less effective (in all but expert hands) for the fast-flying mourning dove.

As a side note, all my failed efforts in the dove field with that shotgun led me to take a different course when it was time for my son to make his first hunt alongside me. I opted for a light-recoiling youth model 20-gauge to increase his odds as well as accommodate his size. As a result, his initial forays into wing shooting were met with much more success than mine.

When I could be trusted to safely hunt alone, I often ventured out into the fields that surrounded my boyhood home each afternoon directly after disembarking the school bus in order to hone my wing shooting skills. I learned much in those solitary excursions.

First and foremost in those lessons was the importance of some form of cover or camouflage. That cover ranged from a few cornstalks that had been left standing to the use of shadow and whatever from of rudimentary camo clothing (mostly army surplus BDUs modified into shorts and short-sleeved shirts) was available at the time.

I also learned the importance of being still, of waiting until the last possible second to bring stock to cheek in a fluid motion that made the shotgun an extension of your arm and, in turn, when paired with a consistent follow-through, ended in the clean harvest of the dove.

Once, I remember wearing a camo rain poncho in order to blend in with the briars along the field edge. While the camo did prove effective in disguising my position, I’m not sure it was worth the resulting puddle of perspiration that soon gathered at my feet. We did not have “breathable” synthetics and at that time lightweight hunting clothing was only made lightweight by the application of scissors.

As an adult, the anticipation of opening day intensified to an almost fever pitch. I was like a child on Christmas Eve both the day before and the morning of as I anticipated the events of the day.

I quickly learned that prime spots in the field for group hunts were often earned by one’s ability to shoot and since I most often hunted with my father-in-law, an excellent wing shooter himself, I made it my mission not to disappoint those that had entrusted me with that position. If the doves cooperated, and by that I mean appeared in adequate numbers, I never failed to leave without a limit.

These days the hedgerows and BDUs have been replaced with round bales of hay and breathable microfiber, however, the feeling is still the same. The anticipation is still there for me. In fact, this year it may even be steeping to a greater height as we are, for the first time, dove hunting at our family farm in Louisville.

We’ve talked about doing it for years and this year, with the help of my brother-in-law and nephew, the dream is becoming a reality. There will be an empty bale at the top of the field in honor of our father-in-law and all other bales will be filled with family and the thought of it makes me as giddy as a child on Christmas Eve!

Until next time, I look forward to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.

Email outdoors columnist Brad Dye at braddye@comcast.net.