Remembering the First Day of Hunting Season
An Irish Setter basks in a sunlit field. Image credit: Gary Sandoz
As far back as I can remember, the first day of hunting season was like a holiday in many ways.
Dad saved up vacation days at work for this day. Mother bought extra freezing supplies to freeze all the birds that would be brought home on a long rope and proudly captured in Polaroid for posterity before being cleaned and readied for the cast iron skillet waiting on the stove.
There were rules for this day that were strictly followed:
The official dress code was camo, with an orange safety vest thrown in the truck for later.
Guns must be carefully cleaned and polished with three-in-one machine oil and put in soft cases.
Equipment was to be laid out carefully on a bed in the guest room. Guns, ammo in bags and the loops on hunting vests were filled. Lucky caps, work gloves and old boots at the ready.
Survival rations; tins of sardines, sleeves of soda crackers and squares of Red-Man tobacco, pocket knives, handkerchiefs, and little match books must be packed. All essentials.
My older brother, Nick, was always too excited to sleep. He’d clean his shotgun to a fare-thee-well. A semi-automatic, 12-gauge Remington, with a black walnut stock, it was always perfectly and painstakingly cared for. It gleamed in the light on the first fall fire to be lit in the keeping room, (the equivalent of today’s den).
Nick was so proud of that gun. It was a hand-me-down from his grandfather, who was an avid bird hunter.
His bird dog, an Irish Setter named Queenie, slept beside Nick’s bed on a rag rug that Mama Nina had made. It was barely held together by threads, but Queenie never complained. She worshipped Nick and obeyed his every command instantly. She was an excellent bird dog, and Nick had been offered what was considered a small fortune for her, but he just laughed at the offers. Money couldn’t buy that dog.
The house smelled of WD-40, used to clean the guns inside and out. The huntsmen spent hours checking all the moving parts, removing excess oil, then applying a light coat of machine oil. Their hands smelled of the old rags used to apply the oils. It would linger until the scent of lard and frying birds took their place.
The oldest gun in the house, the one Nick inherited from Big Daddy, was at least 30-40 years old, its stock and firearm were worn but polished , it always smelled of oil and was kept hung on a handmade cedar gun rack in the house, or on hunting day, on a metal rack in the back window of his old Ford truck. It was nothing in those days to see pick-ups all over town with guns proudly displayed in their back windows, and a dog or two riding in the truck bed.
The men left the house around five am just as dawn broke in the eastern sky, orange-pink, like there was a fire burning beyond the scrub oaks and tall yellow pines.
They’d wolfed down salt-cured ham in warm biscuits and slurped scalding hot coffee from their saucers. Nick crumbled his biscuit in his coffee, added milk just brought poo in from the barn, and heaped as much sugar into the concoction as he dared, not wanting to be teased by the grown-ups about eating biscuits and coffee like a baby.
The men began packing the leftovers, wrapped in tin foil, tucked inside front pockets, to be eaten in the field after the hunters had spread out and claimed their spots. Queenie milled around catching the crumbs.
Fall weather in the South has always been the perfect time for bird hunting. Well, it was usually good for deer and ducks, or just about any kind of wild game you can name. The air, crisp and clear, was a welcome respite from the oppressive heat of summer, the sky was usually clear and of a brilliant azure blue that belonged to fall alone. A slight ground mist swirled around their feet.
The men drove along rutted rock roads that turned into narrow dirt trails, bumping and winding as they left the mountain that gave way to the fields. They eventually arrived, jumping down, stretching, laughing, spitting tobacco and cussing a little bit. The men and boys spread out along the edges of the tree line, settling in, making themselves comfortable, preparing to wait a while.
The dogs sniffed the trails of critters that lived in the fields where the doves would come in flocks to feast on the recently harvested field, scattered with fat corn kernels. They alerted the men before their human ears detected the muted sounds of hundreds of wings approaching the field. Birds called the landing signals in the bird talk common to their kind.
The men signaled the dogs to keep quiet and remain motionless. They raised their guns almost in unison, held their collective breath and sighted down the barrel of each gun. With each motion they ran the risk of breaking a twig or making a lot of unnecessary movements that could cause the nervous birds to fly over and find another field.
Then, suddenly, there they were! The shooting commenced as soon as the birds started to land.
All guns pointed upward, into the scattering, confused birds. They sought shelter from the bullets, but only until the echoes of the first volley subsided, then the lure of the grain below proved to much for them and they tried to reach the ground again
The hunters were ready. As soon as the second flock grouped and circled overhead the shots rang out again. Nick held his breath, waited until the beak of a dove entered his sight and gently squeezed the trigger. The bird dropped almost instantly.
Volleys of shots rang out, over and over. Birds littered the field, their small bodies convulsing, the dogs eager to get to work. The process was repeated twice more before the birds moved on to other pastures.
The dogs were sent to retrieve the birds. The men waited for them to return while the boys worked the edges of the fields, gathering dozens of birds. All told, when they had time to count, over 200 birds were divided between the men.
The day was a success. One the men pulled out an old 16” cast iron Lodge skillet and a one- pound tin of lard. Someone produced a sack of White Lily four and dented aluminum salt and pepper shakers.
About 50 doves were field dressed and the meaty scraps thrown to the dogs, minus the bones. The breasts were coated with flour , salt and pepper, thrown into the boiling lard, kept scalding hot in the iron skillet and stirred the deep frying birds with an old oar used expressly for this purpose.
Done to a mouthwatering golden hue, the birds were removed from the skillet and left to drain on paper towels and old newspapers. But they didn’t stay there long. The men prepared their paper plates quickly. The only accompaniment they needed was a couple of slices of Wonder bread.
Someone offered a quick blessing and the hunters dug into the crisp, tender breast meat that was only a mouthful or two but was such a perfect way to end the first day of hunting season.
Nick slept all the way home, his gun in the rack behind his head. Queenie in the bed of the truck, curled up below the tool box to keep warm. For years, he would tell the story of his first hunt to his friends, his cousins, and later to his own sons.
It had been a good day. Nick would remember it for the rest of his life.
