“Mr. Brad, what kind of shells are you shooting?”

The question came to me from down the field, emerging from the thick growth of goldenrod that concealed each of our positions. We were both hidden in the cover, watching across the field, and waiting for any incoming doves.

The last time that I had hunted near this spot, the boy had been only a baby, now he was eleven and hunting alongside me. “Remington game load, number eight shot,” I replied as I scanned the field for birds.

“Can I try some of your shells?” he asked.

“Sure, come get a few,” I said with a laugh, reaching into the shell pouch of my game belt to grab a handful for him. After retrieving the shells, the lad returned to his blind in the edge of the cutover along the field’s edge.

With the sun at my back, I saw the shadows before I saw the birds overhead and, turning quickly, I tracked the targets and dropped one of the pair. As I returned to my seat after retrieving my prize from the field, I spotted another solo bird heading my direction.

Seeing me, the feathered rocket flared toward the boy’s position. “Coming over, Jase,” I called out. I saw the barrel rise above the tall ragweed and track the bird followed by a “boom.”

The celebration was immediate. “I got him, Mr. Brad,” he said excitedly, and he strode into the field to get the bird adding, “I like your shells better.”

I grabbed my phone to help refresh my memory and began searching for the picture that was running through my mind. In the picture, my father-in-law, Billy “Pop” Hull, is standing next to Jase’s dad Buck who holds Jase, still a baby, in his arms. The year was 2013.

The picture was taken during one of our last dove hunts near the spot we were hunting now. It was also, although we didn’t know it at the time, one of our last dove hunts with Pop.

I studied the photo for a bit, and as I reached to put the phone back into my pocket, I noticed the shadow the afternoon sun over my shoulders had created on the brush directly in front of my position. The silhouette reminded me of Pop, and it struck me that I wasn’t hunting alone.

Truth be told, I haven’t hunted alone in years. In the physical sense, I was surrounded in the field that afternoon by multiple generations of family and friends all of which were fathers and sons. The group consisted of my son Dan, brother-in-law Michael, nephew Billy, and our friend Buck and his son Jase.

The hunt was a both a reunion and the renewing of a longstanding tradition. For years, we had all dove hunted together. However, the last of those hunts had been in 2014. After that, as often happens, life got in the way. Pop’s health began to decline, our kids got older, we all got busier, and the annual dove hunt became a casualty of that chaos.

A couple of months ago when I got the call from Buck to let me know that the tradition was being reestablished this year, I was ecstatic. I couldn’t wait to share the news with Dan, Michael and Billy. We couldn’t wait for Labor Day!

Now, let’s get back to that shadow. As I said, in the physical realm on the dove field that afternoon, I was surrounded by family and friends, but the shadow had me thinking of the metaphysical.

I’ve often written about the fact that I always have a strong sense of Pop’s presence when I turkey hunt, especially in places that we hunted together in the past. Monday afternoon in the dove field, I had that same feeling.

Yes, I know that the shadow was mine, but I also know how much Pop would have enjoyed the reunion hunt. He would have laughed at all the misses and belly laughed at me trying to shake the fire ants out of my game bag (that was once his) which I only set down for five minutes while reorganizing my dove bucket.

He would have relished the time with Buck and Doug after the morning hunt and would have been the first to encourage Jase over his good shooting. He would have also been the first to give Jase some of his shells because the boy “liked the way they shot” in his gun.

As we wound up the hunt that afternoon back at the trucks, I handed Jase a box of my shells. His smile said it all. I remember seeing that same smile on Dan’s face when he got his first dove and then again on Billy’s. I even think I remember smiling that same smile as a boy myself, although that memory is a bit hazy now.

Pop would have been proud. He would have also given Jase two boxes, but he was always a better shot than I, and he would have had two boxes left over. I, on the other hand, had only one box and enjoyed every shot that my sore shoulder attested to as I climbed into the truck.

“We’ll do it again soon,” we agreed as we said our goodbyes. “Thank you, Mr. Brad. I hope you can come back soon,” Jase said.

“Count on it,” I said, and we followed the smiling young dove hunter as he drove his Polaris leading us out of the field.

Make it a point to make a difference this week, to make others smile, and to do the things that make you smile as well. Until next time, here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.