The open plains soothe me. They’re like being at sea, only this is a sea of grass, of sweeping farms and vast vistas. I sat on a stool in the shadow of a hay bale in a milo field in western Oklahoma, looking north.
Were I to start ambling up that way, my view would not change all that much for the next 1200 miles, all the way past North Dakota to Winnipeg. But the birds would. Doves, to be specific. Doves prefer warm weather, and Oklahoma is loaded with them.
Dove hunting marks the traditional start of the year’s hunting seasons, a time for both happy conviviality among friends and to shake the rust off your shotgunning. We did a lot of that at my friend Larry Robinson’s place in Loveland, but this day I was solo.
I needed it. It’s been a challenging year, and I’ve vacillated on whether I am even going to hunt this season at all. My head’s not entirely in it, and until just last week, I didn’t have a home — or a freezer to put in it. So why kill when I can’t really do much with the meat?
Turns out we needed the meat at Larry’s. I was prepping for one of the culinary hunts we do there, and we needed plucked doves to serve the hunters. Could I go out and get some? Sure. I can do that.
So there I was, in the shade of a hay bale, “grocery shopping.”
Although I had Tinkerbelle with me, the 20-gauge shotgun I’ve shot ever since I began hunting 20-plus years ago, I had not pulled the trigger since… I wasn’t really sure, really. Maybe January? And doves, while not terribly fast flat out, are aerobatic and tricksy when they’re alarmed.
The silence of the Great Plains always seduces me. For a place that is windy almost all of the time, those moments when the wind holds its breath are stark and stunning. A silence so profound you can hear your heart beat.
A familiar whistling broke that silence. A dove! Doves’ wings whistle unmistakably when they fly, so if it’s quiet out, you can hear them before you can see them. Hear it enough times, and even without seeing the bird you know if it’s close enough to care.
This one was close enough to care. The dove flittered over the decoy I’d set, I rose, shouldered Tinkerbelle, shot… and the bird fell.
Well, that was nice. At least I won’t get skunked.
Another came in. Another one shot, one down. Huh. Not too bad. Can’t get too cocky though. I once shot five ducks on five shells, then proceeded to miss seven in a row before getting my sixth, then it took another six shells to finish my limit. So I know not to anger the shooting gods, lest they curse me with the yips.
A lull came with a breeze. It was hot, so the breeze felt like the caress of a lover on my neck. I shut my eyes a moment, and must have dozed — daydreaming of such a moment — when I heard the wings of a dove. I opened my eyes, but saw nothing. Oh well.
A buzzard circled far overhead. Not today, vulture. Not today…
A flock of doves bounced around on the horizon. Too far. I stood to look behind my hay bale. Maybe the doves were there? When I did, one flushed from right next to my decoy! I shot twice, missed twice. I had to laugh, and tipped my hat to the fleeing dove. Got me.
Slowly the array of doves I’d been hanging to the back of the hay bale grew, until by sundown I had 13. Not a limit, but not bad, either. I counted up my empty shells: 28. Again, not terrible, but pretty good for me — especially my first day back in the field.
I plucked the birds, and served them as Doves a la Mancha to the guests, who appreciated them.
It was a soft opening to a new life. A baby step towards including some of my old life into this new existence. I don’t know what will survive the process, but I am glad that I can still savor the experience of bird hunting, of shotgunning, of processing my game — to me it’s like opening a present — and, most of all, of cooking birds for those who will appreciate them.
I’ve changed. People change. Lives shift. Things that mattered to you as much as life itself somehow just, don’t anymore. They say that every cell in your body turns over anew within seven years. I don’t know if that’s true, but it sometimes feels so.
Chances are some of you are changing, too. Or have just. Or want to. Your new life awaits, challenging, glorious and full of possibility. Savor that.
But remember your old life, too. Return to some of those old ways, try them on, see if they still fit. Some will not. Let them go. But a few will still feel as comfy as your best flannel, even if they are a bit threadbare. Maybe it’s making muffins for someone you love. Maybe it’s hiking in the mountains. Maybe it’s hunting birds.
All this was a few weeks ago. I am writing now from northern Minnesota, where I am employed as a chef at a grouse hunting lodge until November. It’s hard work, sweaty and physical, with long hours.
But I can still scratch that itch by taking a short walk in the woods, Tinkerbelle in hand, and by cooking woodcock the way I cook doves for our guests, who wolf them down like castaways, leaving nothing but bones on their plates.
Beautiful essay, thanks Hank.
Beautiful. Thank you. With age comes wisdom, and your words have been wise.