Pennsylvania Game News - September 2020 - 16

never flushed more than 30 doves while
walking a field, and 20 of them might be
out of range. But walking up doves can
bring reflex-challenging action. Shooting
at doves as they fly in to your setup affords
the luxury of time to lead them. Shooting
at flushing doves is closer to grouse hunting, but without the tangle of grapevines.
I load my shotgun as I reach the gravel
lane's first turn, up and away from the
road. In this stretch, one or two doves usually will flush. Although loaded with No.
7 shot, my New Haven 12-gauge perhaps
isn't the ideal dove gun., but it's the only
shotgun my family owns.
I bring the stock close to my shoulder
in anticipation and await the sound of
wings against the cornstalks, and tumbling calls as doves lift and rise above the
tassels. Even at 6-foot-6, I know the tall
stalks will block my view as doves bank
away. I'll need to be there with a shot as
soon as I can see them.
My arms ache with the gun's weight.
I walk deliberately, then rustle the
drying stalks so the sound travels farther
into the field, where doves might feel safe
enough to sit tight.
Three doves flush, flying down the
rows to my right. I bead the last bird and
fire, seeing feathers as the bird disappears
into the corn while the others continue to
a tree line.
I duck into the rows to where I
marked the dove, and find it like a silver
stone on the brown earth. I place it in a
plastic grocery bag, then into the back
pouch of my vest. I can feel its heat
against my back.
Lying in the lane, my shell glints in the
sun. I pick it up and shove it in my pocket,
and smile.
I miss the next two groups that flush,
a pair and another triple, and watch them
16

angle across the road, then settle in a stand
of trees. I pick up my smoking shells,
replaying in my mind the doves turning
from my shots, then sailing to safety.
The field reaches an incline, then
slopes down. At the bottom, the corn
struggles to grow where the water pools.
Doves like sparse cover like this. They can
see what's coming and flush quickly. Four
rise and I miss with my first shot. Two fly
left, the others go right. I swing left, find
the lead bird, and shoot.
The dove drops on the two-track.
As I walk to retrieve it, gray feathers
float around me. They drift with the breeze
and catch on my clothes and hat. It's as
if the bird is still falling, even as I place it
next to the other in my vest.
I reach the top of the field and shoot
one more dove out of a flushed pair.
Looking back out over the valley, I can
see the river running north where I'll fish
for trout when the sun sinks low. Tucked
between narrow ridges turning red with
sugar maples, the fields are looking closer
to harvest.
Spending my weekdays in classrooms
makes me thankful for this view, these
doves, and the opportunity for both, if
only for a moment while I catch my
breath.
At home, I pluck the doves, and cut
their breasts off the bone. Overnight, I
marinade them in orange juice, soy sauce,
and a splash of maple syrup. After church
on Sunday, and before I catch the train
back to Greensburg, I pan fry the breasts
in butter, no more than a minute each side,
and eat them sliced on toast.
Three doves hardly make a meal, but
it's their taste that lingers in my mouth
for the ride over the Laurel Highlands,
reminding me what waits at the end of
another week of school.
Pennsylvania Game News - September 2020

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