Crouched behind the old military surplus camouflage poncho, I watched the sky through a clump of the few remaining cornstalks in the freshly cut field for any incoming birds. 

The small stand of remaining stalks seemed perfectly positioned in the back corner of the field, where it was bordered by two converging creeks. In my estimation, it was the ideal spot, nestled beside a water source and surrounded by more fields of cut corn on the opposite sides of each creek. 

After readying my makeshift blind with the poncho, I crouched behind it for cover and the minimal shade that it provided and began my watch. I had daydreamed about the afternoon hunt throughout my classes that day and had envisioned the plan for the blind on my walk home from school. Thus far, everything was going according to plan, now if only the birds would cooperate.

As I waited and watched, beads of sweat trickled down my leg, dripping onto and dimpling the dusty soil beneath me. In my hands I held the Browning Sweet Sixteen that had been passed down to me from my grandmother the prior year, following my grandfather’s passing.

The shotgun had been Paw Ben’s quail gun. Its cylinder bore, perfect for a flushing quail, meant that the shot pattern projected by the gun would be very open, a thought I had considered when planning my hiding spot. The combination of the corn stalks and camo poncho would allow the incoming birds to get as close as possible which would, I thought, improve my odds.

I wanted to give myself the greatest possible chance as I was still relatively new to wing shooting. I was so new, in fact, that I had yet to take one of the swift and erratically flying doves in flight, and I knew that it would be no easy task for what seemed more like a tiny, feathered missile than a bird.

The first dove came from behind my setup and by the time that I had shouldered the shotgun and fired, the bird had passed out of my effective range. I narrowed my focus and watched intently over the line of trees that bordered the creek, telling myself that I would be ready for the next one.

My efforts were quickly rewarded as an incoming bird soon appeared over the trees making a beeline for my position. As it came within range, offering a passing shot, I stood and fired, dropping my first dove.

In that moment, as I stood amidst the smell of cordite and the sight of feathers drifting to the ground, I was struck by the fluidity of motion of both the bird and the hunter. For a dove, flying is as instinctive as breathing and for me the shot felt just like that, no thinking, only instinct.

The lesson was clear. If I hoped to become a successful wing shooter, my shooting needed to become second nature. Consistency with a shotgun, at least for me, would require less thinking, less aiming, and more muscle memory–point, follow and shoot.

Over the years, I’ve become a much better wing shooter thanks much in part to the lesson learned in those cornstalks many years ago. In truth, I’ve improved due to experience. Much like any activity involving hand-eye coordination, the old saying—practice makes perfect—certainly applies when it comes to the shooting sports.

I’ve also had the benefit of hunting alongside some of the best. I would put my father-in-law’s skill with a shotgun in a dove field, on a quail hunt, or in a duck blind up against anyone’s. When it came to wing shooting Billy “Pop” Hull was a natural.

Dove hunting with Pop over the years, I found myself consistently improving, and that improvement came not from the various tips that I gleaned from others, but from the pressure that I applied to myself to get better. Pressure can either break you or refine you and in this case, for me, it was the latter.

I remember gathering my gear to walk out into the field on my first dove hunt with Pop, and while standing beside him at the tailgate, he gave me my instructions. “Don’t embarrass me,” he said with a smile, and he meant it.

“No pressure,” I thought to myself as I made my way to the hay bale blind I had been appointed in the middle of the field. As shots began to ring out around me, I focused on the horizon across the field and readied for what was to come.

When I heard Pop call my name from his position, I swiveled on my dove bucket, stood, and fired, dropping the dove that was swiftly headed toward my bale. However, there was little time to celebrate that afternoon as the action was fast and furious and we soon found ourselves back at the tailgate post-hunt counting our birds.

Each of us had a limit, a fact that I already knew having kept a running tally in my head with each shot. “You did good,” he said.

I remember the feeling of that moment as if I were still standing there now. You always knew where you stood with Pop. You always knew that he loved you, and that he had your back no matter what. However, comments about your skills afield were hard earned.

On our ride home that evening, I thought about that young man in the cornstalks. I think I smiled all the way.

Until next time, here’s to treasured memories of time afield, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.