Sunset’s Secret Thrill

EITHER WE WERE EARLY, or the doves were late. Regardless, the South Texas brush was sweltering under 95-degree September heat—and no flights were incoming to water at the stock tank.

“This is brutal,” I said, hunkering in the sweaty semi-shade of a mesquite bush.

Klink peered over from his folding stool on the tank levee. “Well, it was your bright idea to get here at 4 o’clock; we could be kicking back in the air-conditioned motel room. No rush—plenty of time to get here before sunset.”

“You never know. Besides—Hey, over you! Over you!”

A lonesome dove banked above the levee and lowered flaps 20 yards above Klink. Caught off guard, he swiveled abruptly, and the stool shifted. He swept his pump gun in an awkward arc.

Bang, Bang… Bang!

The unscathed mourner flared and disappeared.

“Aye!” he lamented. “I’m the worst wingshot in all of Frio County!”

“No way, dude! You’re not that good!”

His muttered response was lost in the whipping south wind, but payback for my flip critique occurred fifteen minutes later. Looking for better shade, I repositioned on the far side of the levee and managed to stand in the middle of a fire ant bed. Moments later I was flapping and slapping while Klink was hooting.

He studied my frantic jig. “Hey, dude! What moves! You’re a cinch for ‘Dancing with the Stars!’”

The water hole continued to steam and simmer under high sun, and the thornbrush continued to shake and rattle against dry gusts—and I continued to itch and scratch as the clock moved inchmeal like torture. The only thing that could have made the vigil more unpleasant would be if the tank proved to be a watering hole for Spanish fighting bulls.

Assorted hooves and horns aside, the untested pond had the marks of an ideal draw for mourning doves. The water level was low, drained by late summer evaporation, and the exposed banks were flat and open. Doves are wary of tanks with steep banks and rims of brush that can hide all sorts of rude surprises. 

Growing restless, I ceded levee priority to the resident ants, and walked to a three-strand fence near the lower end of the tank. The site was promising, with a sandy swath and several dead mesquites—incoming doves often land on high branches to oversee the situation.

I positioned alongside a fan of scraggly brush; the cover was sufficient to hide a camo-clad crouch, but low enough to permit an open view and a clean swing. Smart tank hunting favors concealment—but also the ability to react to quick chances. Burrowing inside a thick tangle might be a fine way to ambush an armadillo, but the dove shooter can get handcuffed by too much overhanging clutter.

Another bottle of Ozarka later, conditions began improving. The shadows were longer, and the air was cooler—well, maybe not “cooler,” just not as hot. But the sky remained empty. Hovering dragonflies and darting swifts don’t count.

I waited. My company was a huge bullfrog puffing and pouting in the scummy rim. I glared over suspiciously. Once—no kidding—a bullfrog ate a dead dove I dropped in a tank. This audacious rascal with its bulbous eyes and squat, square maw looked entirely capable of glomming a mature mourner, if not a blue rock pigeon.

I fingered the safety on the Winchester Model 21. I was tempted to rake froggy with a load of 7½s, adding a pair of jumbo legs to the hunt, but the mixed-bag musing was interrupted by the abrupt “POP” of a wind-blown 12 gauge. As Klink walked straight-arrow to retrieve the dove, the thrilling and unmistakable silhouettes of several long-tailed wing mates sailed above him.

“Show time!” he exulted, waving the fluffed dove.

The late-afternoon flight was commencing—first, a few sporadic singles and doubles, then a flock of 10 or 12 slanting from grain fields to the west and strafing above the slick surface.

I picked my shots and rolled six straight, all easy incomers with lowered flaps. A proper tank shoot can be a great balm for the ego, as the hunter is stationed exactly where doves want to be. Most of the shots are close, within 30 or 35 yards, and the disciplined hunter can select “cream puff” chances.

Numbers seven and eight also crumpled over smooth gun play. I was starting to feel pretty cocky and started thinking about a straight run, and naturally missed twice on a dove trying to land on my head. Klink cackled from across the pond.

The sky surrounding the tank never swarmed, but the shooting was steady. The low glow was spreading above the frilly mesquite tops as I dropped my final dove. Both Klink and I were “inside a box” for our 15-bird limits, an uncharacteristic average. Still, to repeat, the dove gunner seldom has a better opportunity than when birds are circling and slowing to close water.

Our belt bags were jammed with mature mourners, the makings of excellent greasy-fingered sessions on the grill. Plump dove breasts wrapped in bacon and stuffed with onion and jalapeno slices and served over rice remain my all-time favorite gamebird meal.

We retreated to his Expedition and cased the guns and popped the tailgate (and the cooler lid) to watch the dusky theater. The sun was below the levee, turning the shadows from gray to black. The lighting was soft, and the air carried the first shirtsleeve brush of fall. Flights of doves, dark against the fading light, landed with confidence along the open banks.

To be there relaxing in the satisfaction of a great experience while watching the wild bounty unfold—that is the secret thrill of sunset that awaits Texas dove hunters this season.

 

Email Joe Doggett at ContactUs@fishgame.com

 

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