Every spring a group of friends gather in the Great Basin of Nevada, drawn to the pivots of alfalfa planted throughout, like the swallows to Capistrano.  We will tell people that we come to shoot the ground squirrels, but

really it is for more than that.  We come to share an adventure.

I returned home weary from the long drive and lack of sleep.  I’m beat.  I have chapped lips, and sunburned ears.  My mouth tastes of bad coffee and cigars. Worst of all, my guts are tore up from a nasty burger I had eaten the day before.

On arriving home, I am too tired to go into the details of the week with my family.  I leave a pile of dirty guns, laundry, and gear in the living room, shower and get into bed.  I doze off quickly, my ears ringing with the hum of the road.  If the lights were on, my wife just might see a slight smile on my face.  It was a good time, a real good time.

In the morning, rising slowly, I head for the coffee downstairs in the kitchen.  I pour myself a large cup, and sit down in my chair.  I put my nose to the cup and take a quick whiff.  The coffee smells good.   I throw some Advill into my mouth and sip the coffee to wash them down.

The warm bitter liquid tastes good.   You can’t get coffee like this on the road.  I feel the warmth as it goes down my throat where it will work to dissolve the 800 milligrams of Ibuprophen.  I’m home.

After half a cup, I can feel the caffeine starting to do its magic.  I look up at my sweetheart.  Susan is moving around the kitchen doing who knows what.  I know she wants to hear about the trip, but won’t ask.  She always waits patiently for me to wake up and start the story telling.  800 miles, she knows how the road takes its toll.

My dog, Ceniza, comes up to me now, her tail wagging.  The old girl missed me too.  I start petting her head, but I know what she wants.  She turns around, and I start scratching her ass with one hand trying not to spill my coffee.  I tell her she is a good dog.

Finally, I begin to open up, “I had a good trip babe.”  Funny how all the stories start the same.  Susan listens to me like this was the first time.  She has heard so many stories of my adventures you would think she would get tired of it.  Sometimes I think she is more into seeing my reaction as I retell the adventure than in the specifics.

I had called home all week long.  Mostly, I call to let Susan know that I am still alive, and not in jail.  I do give her updates on the trip, such as the weather, and highlights of the day.  I also call to hear her voice.

As I sip my coffee, I start filling in the details for her.  Things that went wrong, things that were funny, and of course what a great marksman I am.  She takes it all in with a big smile on her face, buying every line of crap I lay out for her.  As I said earlier, I think she just likes to hear me tell the story.  She can see how much fun I had by the look in my bloodshot eyes.

My story telling will go on most of the day as I clear the pile of gear I left in the middle of the floor.  As I get to them, I distribute the souvenirs from my trip, and retell parts of the story for my kids.  Of course my family will tell me what they have been up to while I was away.  Some of those stories are pretty good as well.  Susan and I will laugh and play all day, catching up with each other.  I am a lucky man.  As much as I may love my adventures, it’s sure good to be home.

Mark and I left early on Thursday morning.  His rig filled with guns, ammo, and an ample supply of cigars.  The weather forecast wasn’t good for the drive to Twin Falls, cold and wet, with a chance of snow.  Mark and I

would be traveling north on the Great Basin Highway through eastern Nevada.  I have been over this road many times.  A great drive through beautiful country.  Mark and I have learned to take it easy on this road.  We stay within the speed limit, the Nevada highway patrol are as thick as flies.

We saw plenty of people who ignored the posted limits, many were pulled over to the side of the road, trying to talk their way out of it.  Mostly the speed limit on highway 93 is 70 mph.  There is one particular spot between Ely and McGill were it does not.  It is only 60 mph, but you wouldn’t notice unless you pay real good attention to the signs.  I got caught here a few years ago.

As you enter and leave the towns along highway 93 there is a progression of speed limit signs slowing you down or speeding up.  The signs read something like 60, 45, 35, and then 25 mph going through town.   This slow down is over about a half mile stretch, and go back up the same way to 70 mph when you leave town.

As I noted, I once failed to notice that this stretch between Ely and McGill never gets to 70.  I got pulled over by a county sheriff deputy who, while polite and friendly, didn’t buy anything I had to say.  My lesson was learned, they will never get me again.

While the weather was nasty, the road was open and safe.  The snow at times fell pretty hard, but the state of Nevada had a fleet of plows already stationed all along the highway to deal with any build up of snow, should it occur.  It is nice to see a state doing something right for a change.

Driving along the highway this time we saw more game than in previous trips.  Pronghorn were common and in sizable herds.  Many of the bucks were good size.  North of Wells, the Mule deer were in herds of 20 to 50 stacked in behind a high fence running along the highway.

This was a Mule deer migration route that funneled into a narrow area that makes highway 93 real spooky at night.  Many deer are hit on this stretch of highway trying to get across.  Unfortunately, many those people had to be taken away in ambulances.

The good news is that the state of Nevada is constructing over passes for the deer in this area so they don’t have to cross the highway.  The high fence is there to hold the deer back until the work is done.  When completed, I guess the idea is for the fence to funnel the migrating deer to the overpasses.

Mark and I arrived in Twin falls in good time.  It was raining now, but thankfully the weather hadn’t slowed us down too much.  We drove straight through.  We only stopped for a couple hours in Las Vegas to have breakfast with my son Robert.  Plenty of time we thought.

We made it to the Crazy 8 Motel on Blue Lakes Boulevard at 5:00.  After asking for a ground floor room, we lugged our crap to the third floor.  We met two of our fellow adventurers, Ron and Bill, in the hallway.  They informed us we only had half hour to spare before we were supposed to meet everyone else in our party for dinner.  Damn, we forgot about the time change when we entered Idaho.

Ron and Bill headed for Rod’s house, so we just threw our bags on our beds and followed after them.  We got to Rod’s house and said hello to his wife Laurie.  Always nice to see her, she would be joining us for dinner.

At dinner, Rod informed us there would be 6 of us shooting rock chucks tomorrow.  Rod, our host for this adventure, and Gene, both lived in Twin falls, Ron had come from Kansas City, and Bill had come from Montana.

I really love all these guys.  It was good to see them all again, especially when we had a weekend of shooting ahead of us.  After a good dinner, Mark and I hurried back to our motel and climbed the three flights of stairs to get some sleep.  My dreams that night were of exploding fur balls and smoking brass.

In the morning, the first thing I did was look out the window.  The rain was gone! The weather was completely different today. Blue sky, but it looked like the wind was howling, and I could feel through the glass that it was cold outside.

We all met again at Rod’s house where we picked up Gene, and headed to the Depot diner for breakfast.  I had poached eggs and one of the best sausage patties I have ever had.  After our fill, we made a quick stop at a local gun store for some last minute items.

Red’s Trading Post was a nice store with really good deals.  Mark and I almost bought a couple new guns.  Ahh, but my will power was strong.  I quickly exited the store, my money still in my wallet.  I was proud of myself.

Our group, bellies full, headed off toward a little town called Hagerman to shoot the rock chucks.  A little secret spot Rod had scouted out earlier in the month.  Rock chucks are large rodents.  Some seems as big as toy poodles.  They dig holes in between the rocks and climb up onto them to sun like lizards.

While the high winds would make shooting a little difficult, we were all excited about the good time ahead.  Mark and I had Gene with us.  I have hunted with Gene many times before and was glad we would be together today.  He is lots of fun, and tells some good stories.  Rod, Ron, and Bill were in the other rig.

The spot Rod had picked out for today was a cattle ranch near the Snake River.  Once we got to the spot, the plan was to move parallel with each other on opposite sides of a pasture that was scattered with large rocks, and rock chucks.  With the wind, we would be shooting our center fire rifles today.  Mark using his new Encore rifle in .223, Gene, also with an Encore rifle in 22-250 Improved, and me with my 700 Remington in .221.

Within minutes of getting on the spot, Mark and I managed to “paint a Picasso” on a large rock with four stupid chucks not 20 yards away.  However, most shots would be longer than that, the wind would give my little Fireball hell.  Shooting

was in excess of 150 yards. I sure wish I had a 6mm with me.  I have been getting the “itch” for one lately.  I don’t know how long I can hold out.

We shot the pasture all day.  We stopped only long enough to grab lunch in Hagerman.  Shooting was pretty good.  We laughed and joked all day.  We all made shots we were proud of, and a couple that would be a little embarrassing.

We had to get to Elko Nevada for dinner that night, so we stopped around 3:00 and packed up.  We left Hagerman and headed back to Rod’s house were we picked up his son Steve, said goodbye to Laurie and Gene.  We got back on the road heading south on good old highway 93.  Turned west on highway 80 at Wells, and got into Elko about 6:30 PM.

There at the motel, we met two more or our friends, Denny from Salt Lake, and Kent from Oroville California.  This was their first time joining us for this shoot and I am certain not their last.  After getting settled in our rooms, it was time again to eat.

For dinner we were headed to the Biltoki, a Basque restaurant that has become the official feedbag of our group.  If you have never been to a Basque restaurant, you should go.  Just make sure you take an appetite with you, since no one leaves a Basque restaurant hungry, especially the Biltoki.

We arrived at the restaurant and were met by the final members of our group, George and his sweetie, Gretchen.  They both live in Elko and are two of the nicest people you could ever meet.  George would be shooting with us this weekend.

After a great dinner of too much food, we headed back to the motel to get some sleep.  I don’t know about Mark, but I was feeling the effects of all the road time.  Going to bed sounded like a good idea.  I was asleep in an instant and mostly slept soundly through the night.  The only interruptions were from some intestinal distress my buddy Mark was having.

Morning came a little slow.  No need to get on the spot too early.  It was still cold and windy.  Today we were shooting ground squirrels.  The plan was to go to a big alfalfa pivot south of Wells.  Our group has shot this same spot two years now, it was always good.

We headed for a breakfast spot at a casino in town.  I needed some coffee for sure.  I always enjoy the meals with these guys.  Not only do we become center of attention at whatever place we are in, but the conversation is always good.  Guns, ammo, and what we do with them.  This morning, the conversation was about what we plan to start with.  What firearm and caliber each of us planned on starting with.  Like with golf, you don’t show up to play with only one club in your bag.

I enjoy casually watching the faces on those at other tables as we excitedly go over the details of club selection for the morning shoot.  Some bystanders to our excitement may not be too happy, but more than a few have a look on their face that could only be saying, “I wish I was with you guys.”

After a filling breakfast, we gathered in the parking lot, picking our teeth, and belching.  Rod was still inside getting his thermos filled with coffee.  He has the largest thermos I have ever seen.  The waiter probably used four full pots to fill it.  Finally Rod came out and shouted, “Let’s go!”  We are off to the pivot chasing Rod at 85 miles an hour.

We arrive at the pivot and could already see ground squirrels moving around. These critters are much smaller than the rock chucks.  Having at these little rodents is kind of like shooting hairy hot dogs.

Ground squirrels live in holes like gophers, but are vial little

things that are often cannibalistic.  Many times I have shot them while they are feeding on the carcass of another shot minutes before.

We noticed immediately that the alfalfa is not very tall.  Spring is late this year.  The squirrels will be wary of moving around.  We then broke into smaller groups for shooting.  Each group picked out a portion of the pivot, and we moved our rigs into position.  Within minutes there was gunfire.

Mark and I use shooting bags on his Tonneau cover, shooting off to the side.  Rod has custom fitted sand bags mounted on his mirrors, shooting out to the front.  The rest, either shooting off the hood of their truck, or like Denny,standing on the tail gate, shot off the top of his camper shell.

Mark and I both started with our .17 HMR rifles.  Mark used his Weatherby, and I used my Marlin.  Without the cover of the alfalfa, shooting would be long range.  We aligned ourselves to shoot with the wind so we were able to stay with the little guns most of the morning.   In the afternoon though, we were using the center fire rifles again.

The damned wind just wouldn’t lie down.  It blasted us all day with cold air coming off the nearby Ruby Mountains.  This late spring also kept us from shooting the little squirrels.  If there were any, they stayed underground.

Young and stupid squirrels are always the best part of this shoot.  Like hamster size Meer cats, the new hatchlings stand up in groups looking around at the world with wonder.  They freak out and run in circles after the one standing next to them explodes, covering them with remnants of their buddy.

The older squirrels don’t usually display this carefree behavior.  They rarely stand up at close range, but keep low and run fast between holes.  Squirrels don’t last long making themselves a target.

We ended up the day having a better shoot in the afternoon.  The warm sun that peeked out helped make the squirrels move around.  About 4:00 we packed things up and headed back to Elko.  We were having a special dinner tonight.  Gretchen had arranged a treat for us at the Biltoki.

Back at the motel, we cleaned up and had a cocktail.  Retelling the events of the day and making plans for the next.  Denny had brought with him some homemade “hooch” as he called it.  Made with mashed up apricots and a gym sock, it looked worse than it tasted.  Denny promised to send me the recipe, along with his assurances that it would not make anyone blind.

My favorite meal at Biltoki is the beef tongue with gravy.  I have it most of the time.  Our special treat for dinner tonight was bull and sheep balls cooked with mushrooms and garlic.    Not for everyone, but it was pretty

good.  I think it would make a great burrito with some chilies and rice.  Tonight, we just shoveled it in with a spoon.

After stuffing ourselves again, we retired back to the motel and drank some more of Denny’s hooch until we started to get sleepy.  Tomorrow was the last day.  We all hoped it would be a good one.

On Sunday, after the usual breakfast we again headed for the pivot at warp speed.  When we got to Wells, Mark and I stopped at Bella’s, for some coffee and souvenirs.  What says I love you more to your grown up boys than a hat or T-shirt from a Nevada cat house?  Anyway, the coffee at Bella’s is the best I have had in this part of Nevada.

Morning was a repeat of Saturday.  Shooting was good, but the damned cold wind was still with us.  For lunch we gathered together in the center of the pivot.  Shooting had slowed down, so now we were shooting the shit more than the squirrels.  We also started breaking out the handguns for a little target practice.

After blasting away for an hour or so, it was time to start packing up.  The worst part of these trips is saying goodbye.  But we all have to get home to our families.  Mark and I didn’t have to be home until Monday so we were going to shoot a little more after everyone had gone.  That turned out to be a good decision.

Mark and I had moved back to a corner of the pivot that had been pretty good the day before.  We each lit up a good Nicaraguan cigar and started glassing.  Not expecting much, we were surprised when the wind went

away and the sun came out.  So did the squirrels.  Big ones, and most fun of all, the little stupid hatchlings were now everywhere!  Hundreds of them!  Mark and I took off our sweaters for the first time this trip and had at them.

Mark and I had a non-stop shoot that lasted almost four hours.  At times we couldn’t shoot fast enough.  We stopped only long enough to get another box of ammo and to light another cigar.   It was good, real good.  We were laughing and shooting so fast, we often shot at the same squirrel, turning the little hot dogs into clouds of red and green.  I am only sorry the guys missed it.

Mark and I drive back to Elko each smoking a triumphant cigar, laughing and retelling every shot that afternoon.  To celebrate the end of a good trip, we decided to have dinner in an old casino that looks as if it has not been redecorated since 1953.  We just couldn’t eat at the Biltoki again.  This was a big mistake.

We had a terrible meal.  It was one of the worst hamburgers I ever had.  Looking and tasting like it was made three days ago, mine was better than Mark’s.  His had only half a bun.  We sat there tired and dazed, but we each had a slight grin on our faces, thinking about the carnage we left for the buzzards in the pivot that afternoon.  After we choked down our burgers, we headed back to the motel.  Time to get some sleep; we have a long drive tomorrow.

CJ Cupp

I decided late to run out for the last weekend of dove shooting.  Mark had his girls, Al came from Texas, and Rob had the rest of the gang.  Rob had already been there a couple days, and had found the spot, limits around.

The spot had the birds alright, but it was a shit hole.  It was a dump area for damaged cantaloupe, next to large manure piles.  The 100 plus degree days had created an unbelievably nasty smell, rotten and shitty sweet.  The melons were scattered next to a dirt road for at least a ¼ mile, and maybe 100 yards wide.  There were cattle standing in the middle of it, gorging on the rotting melon.  Along with them were ravens, doves, and millions of flies.

The flies appeared to be one gigantic swarm over the whole area.  It was ugly.  Mark and I were the only ones brave enough to challenge the flies this morning.  When we asked Rob if he would come with us, he said, “Fuck the flies!”  He had been there the day before.  He had enough.  He and the others went to hunt the creosote to our north.  Now by ourselves, Mark and I loaded up, and slid into a line of low cat claw bushes north of the road, and watched the sky.

As the sun got higher, you could actually see the cloud of flies, faintly black and higher than the manure piles.  They were relentless.  Bug spray didn’t work, and swatting at them was pointless.  I cussed at myself for wearing short sleeves.  Standing still, all we could hear was the constant buzzing.  But the dove were also buzzing.  Wads of Mourning dove from behind us in the creosote were coming over our heads and landing in the melon.

Our first couple shots scattered the cattle and they moved off, but not the flies.  My hands, arms, and legs were covered.  They were on my face, and I had to constantly work to keep them out of my nose and eyes.  Mark told me later he had ate at least three that crawled into his mouth.

It was so bad, I remarked to my good buddy that we looked like Ethiopian refugees, and that at any moment, Bono would step out of the bushes and offer us a bowl of rice.  Mark laughed and suggested Sally Struthers instead of Bono.  He said at least we could ask her to show us her tits.  That’s what I love about hunting with Mark, he always thinking of me.

Each time we shot, the flies would lift off of us for a second, then land again.  It was all a bit much, but the shooting was great.  Our bird counts were going up steadily.  Mark and I lit up a couple cigars and started talking about politics between the birds.  The flies paid no attention.

Mark was fired up about Joe Wilson.  He is the South Carolina congressman who called president Obama a liar during his speech on health care.  The president had said that the proposed plan would not cover illegal aliens.  At that moment, Wilson yelled out the now famous quote;”you lie!”  This outburst momentarily silenced Obama and drew a look from Nancy Pelosi that would turn any man to stone.

For calling the president on his crap, Wilson was a hero to Mark.  He argued with me that he didn’t care about decorum, he was just happy someone finally called Obama on his bullshit.  I agreed with Mark.  He is pretty good at making his point, especially since he had more birds then me.

We all know how the game is played.  We have all been played by politicians for a long time.  The president has no intention of keeping illegal aliens from getting benefits.  He may state that the illegals are not entitled, but it’s all bullshit.  Regardless of what it says in the bill, Obama and the Democrats have no desire to enforce any such provision.  That’s why they defeated enforcement amendments twice.

Wilson’s outburst, no matter how disrespectful of the occasion, changed the game.  It put the Democrats in a tough spot.  They have to back off their current insincere game plan, and quickly switch to a new one.  Like the flies, they back off only when you disturb them, and in a second, they land on us again.

You can’t deny this game our politicians play.  They will do what they have to in order to get what they want.  If not all at once then incrementally.  In this case, Joe Wilson has made sure they are stuck denying health care benefits to illegal aliens.  So they just have to make sure there are no illegal’s anymore.  Problem solved!  Amnesty will now be paramount.

As I stuffed my last bird into my vest, I said “Let’s get the hell out here”.  Mark already had his limit.  I have been chasing him and that damn model 12 for years.   We packed up quickly, and went to look for Rob.  As we drove out, I looked out the window and thought it funny how much this spot was like Washington.  Keep your eyes open, and remember most politicians are like the flies, they eat shit and bother people.

CJ Cupp

29 Aug 09

Summer is about over and fall is right around the corner.  That means hunting season, and dove is first.  Man, am I looking forward to it.  Dove open on 1 September.  I hunt in Arizona, so the shooting can be as hot as the weather.  If you have never been, it is not what you think it is. Oh sure, it’s about laying them in the aisles, but there is some ritual to it.

As I get closer to the date, anticipation grows.  There is much to do.  Phone calls to my partners, lining up cheap motel rooms, and buying new crap.  Then, when it’s finally time to go, I will fill up the truck with gas, guns, and ammo.  Give the wife a kiss goodbye, and hit the road.

Most don’t know that dove shooting is a competitive sport.  It is not for the timid or the squeamish.  Who is going to limit out first?  Who’s got their limit with the least shots?  Who’s got the new Hustler in their truck?  It’s also a team sport.  You don’t go dove shooting by yourself.  This is not that “man against nature” crap, you should shoot dove with a group of your friends.  It is more fun this way, and as I will explain, very important to a successful trip.

Leave the women at home, but it’s OK to bring your kids.  They will have a blast.  It is important to understand that hunting is a mentored sport.  That’s why it’s good for the kids to go.  You can’t learn this stuff by reading a book.  It is traditional that the father teaches, and passes these lessons on to his child.  Including those that start, or end with with, “Don’t tell your mom”.

The set up to shoot dove is like this.  Everyone in your group gets up way too early because you have to be in the field when the sun comes up.  Dress in that new camo outfit you bought, eat a handful of aspirin, and cover yourself with sunscreen.  Throw your guns and ice chest in the truck, and wait.  There is always one guy dragging his ass out of bed late.  This is when you go and get some coffee.  Then when everyone is finally ready, you race for the dove fields in caravan style.

The fields are usually farms growing feed like alfalfa, and such, or crops like melon.  Stay out of the cotton!  Park the vehicles so they are kind of hidden from where the birds are flying in from, and walk out to a shooting position.  Light up a cigar and shake off the prior evening.

Your group, if possible, has to be large enough to dominate the field.  You want to discourage others from trying to crowd in.  If you are running late, your large group of vehicles pulling into a field can cause a smaller group of hunters to yield.  Park your vehicles where the other hunters will see them.  Not too spread out.  This is a sign to all that this is your field.  If anyone drove his wife’s mini-van, or a hybrid, have it somewhat surrounded by real trucks to help hide it.

You want to send the message to others of your group size.  Grouping the vehicles tightly does this and also acts to protect them.  Often, some knucklehead, or group, hunting dove for the first time will pepper someone’s truck.  It has happened to me.  I find that hunting with a large group of loud, cigar smoking, assholes, is a good deterrent to this kind of carelessness.

When everyone in your group is loaded up and ready, move out into the field and take up positions.  Usually forming a long static line at the edge of the field.  I like to find some shade against a Palo Verde.   Stand about 20 yards apart.  Ideally, you should try to be where the birds fly into the fields from their roosting spots.  If you are in the right spot, the birds will be surprised when they first see you.  You can see it on their faces.

When the shooting starts, most hunters will start to bunch up.  It is natural to crowd in on the guy getting the most shooting.  Hell, why should someone else have all the fun?  To do this properly, just walk up to the man casually, and when challenged, make an excuse like you need to borrow a cigar cutter or something.  You can also ask how many birds he has.  It doesn’t matter just make sure you smile while your lying to him.

When the shooting get hot, wads of birds start flying in.  This is the magic time.  There is shouting, shooting, and running as the most wonderful kind of chaos takes over.  You want to kill your birds cleanly and drop them in the open field where they are easy to find.  You don’t want to end up out in the middle of the field walking in circles looking at the ground, or in the brush looking for your goddamn bird.  This is very frustrating as you are not only missing out on the hot bite, but your buddies may move in on your spot.

Everyone should try and give warning to one another when birds are approaching.  Remember you are a team.  Your friends will all call out, alerting you just before a wad of birds appear in front of you.  Suicide birds.  An easy double, you think to yourself.  You pick out your first target and shoot.  A swing and a miss!  Oh god no.  You empty your gun at them as they fly off, but you know you blew it.  So does everyone else.

Wing shooting is difficult.  Get used to the idea that everyone will see you miss a shot, especially the easy ones.  When it does, you must be prepared for the load of shit that will be coming your way.  We all like seeing a friend successfully make a difficult shot.  We say so when it happens.  But we really enjoy teasing him when he fucks one up.  The look of disbelief on his face as the bird flies off is funny.  The slack truck will not be stopping.  Learn to laugh it off.

If you’re the witness to a terrible display of shooting by a friend, remember that your comments can be sharp, but they must be funny.  The idea is to encourage him to pay attention and shoot better.  If you are too harsh, eventually you will miss one, and everyone will remember what a dick you are.  Keep the commentary friendly by making reference to you partner “swinging like a rusty gate” or just yell out “what the fuck was that?”  He will get the idea.

When you actually do hit the birds, watching them fall from the sky is something to pay particular attention to.  Not only must you “mark” the bird, the various visual displays are something special.  Some times they explode in a cloud of feathers that slowly rain down like snow.  Hitting one high up and having it fall on a long arch is cool.  Occasionally you hit one in such a way that one wing locks extended outward, and it will pinwheel to the ground.  This particular display will get you extra style points and the admiration of the group.

A wounded bird is an unfortunate occurrence.  You must mark these well as you can easily loose them.  Angling into the ground like and old biplane coming in for a controlled crash.  The bird leaves a trail of smoke made of feathers, struggling to stay in the air.  They can go a long way.  Usually passing right in front of your buddies drawing a hail of fire and shouts from every one of them.

As the morning shoot whines down, everyone begins to heads back to the vehicles.  Gear is put away, birds are counted, and everyone gathers for a cool drink.  At his point a debriefing of sort takes place.  Going over the good, bad, and ugly of the morning.  This is a good time to remind your best friend of the lousy shot he made.  When everyone is ready it is customary to head back to the motel, clean the birds, and head to a dive café for some food.

That’s pretty much it.  Oh sure, there is more detail that does go into the preparation.  What kind of clothing, decoys, shotguns, and shells.  After the shoot, there are the parties.  We will have a BBQ and hang out by the motel pool.  We cook up the dove from the morning shoot with some steaks.  Some guys take their clubs and golf in the afternoon, or just hang out at the local bar.

As you can see, there is more to dove shooting than parking in a field and blasting birds as they fly by.   Call your friends and see who’s going, it’s not too late.

CJ Cupp

Texas Rumaki

This is a real easy 4-step recipe to enjoy your dove.  You can bake it, or grill it.  Just don’t fry it.

1.  Fillet the dove breast.

2.  Take half a breast, and match it with a piece of jalapeno pepper.  You decide how much.   My buddy Rob uses a maraschino cherry instead of a pepper.  It sounded nasty to me, but after a couple bourbons, I tried one.  It was pretty good.  Make a few of these for those that won’t eat peppers.

3.  Wrap the whole thing with bacon, and shove a toothpick through it to hold it all together.

4.  Brush them with your favorite teriyaki glaze and cook’em.

Don’t over cook, or use too much heat.  Take your time and do it right and you’ll be a hero.