By Charlie Benton
Though I don’t have anything to compare it to, I don’t think my first dove hunt was normal. I went with my buddy Zack and his daughters (one of whom ended up in the game warden’s handcuffs at the end of the day), a fish-hippie who hunts and is stringently committed to following all game laws without the slightest deviation, several dudes whose names I don’t remember, a couple of guys named Ted, and one of the Ted’s friends who is afflicted with Tourette’s syndrome.
Over predawn coffee and donuts that morning at Ted’s farmhouse, my stranger companions cast not-so-subtle side-eyes at the Kent Fasteel (designed for waterfowl) that I’d brought along to slay some doves. By the time the glazed crullers were finished, they’d worked up the nerve to openly chastise me for my choice: “That’s a little much for doves, don’tcha think? There ain’t gonna be nothin’ left of your birds to eat.” In response, I espoused my general hunting mantra: “There’s no such thing as overkill,” set down my now empty but still steaming mug, picked up my Mossberg 500 Retrograde, and walked out to the truck.
We took our respective positions around the central Georgia dove field just before sunrise. The fish-hippie made sure we all knew the exact minute of “legal light,” the clear implication being that he expected us to grant safe passage to any dove flying even seconds beforehand. I did not verbalize agreement.
The Ted who owned the field took up a position to our 10 o’clock, at the point of a pine tree outcropping. His friend Steve sat with him. An old-school, single-pole powerline ran the 300-yard width of the field from Ted’s position clear to the woodline. Other than a scrubby tree at our 12 o’clock, we had open field in front of us spanning the full 500-yard length to the woods on the other side.
Kent Fasteel Afield
I broke my gun in by taking a shot at a dove about 70 yards out. A bit ambitious? Sure, but like I said, this was my first dove hunt. Unsurprisingly, I did not hit him. The fish-hippie smoked one over in his area of responsibility. A few minutes later, another single appeared, flying left to right 30 yards in front of me. For a dude who sucks at sporting clays, I followed him perfectly and folded him up in a way that made it look like I knew what I was doing. Zack’s daughters eagerly followed me out to retrieve him before the fire ants had a chance to swarm the body.
About the time I returned to my seat, Zack and I observed Steve walk from his spot with Ted out into the field and sit on the far side of the scrubby tree 80 yards directly in front of us. For the next hour we watched with growing rage as piles of doves flew from the woods at the far side of the field directly towards us, then cut hard diversions either right or left about 20 yards before reaching Steve, staying well outside of our range. This wouldn’t have been as big a deal if Steve was doing his part and blasting them—but he wasn’t. In fact, he never fired a single shot. After a particularly large group took this same course and Steve still didn’t pull the trigger, Zack walked over to Ted and had him politely call Steve back to the pine trees.
I didn’t kill my limit, but I bagged a few. My count could’ve been higher if I’d followed my heart and shot the red doves (allegedly cardinals) and blue doves (allegedly blue jays) that continued to fly temptingly close throughout the morning. For the birds I did shoot, I made a point to keep them separate from everyone else’s, so I could see if there was any truth to my companions’ warnings about my shotshell choice unnecessarily destroying meat. After breasting out all of my doves, I can confidently say that they were wrong. My birds died quickly, and no meat was wasted. I’m clearly no expert when it comes to wingshooting, but the Kent Fasteel cycled smoothly, performed reliably, and dropped birds effectively when I did my part. I’d definitely run them again on my next dove (or duck) hunt.
Tics and Doves
A number of morning hunters planned on returning to Ted’s field for an evening hunt, but I had other obligations back home and needed to leave after a hearty country lunch at the local meat-and-three restaurant. It just so happened that Steve sat next to me during lunch. This was my first time meeting him, and I planned on asking him what the hell he was doing on the other side of that tree to scare away all of our birds and why he didn’t shoot them. As I crafted my appropriately insulting inquiry, I noticed Steve twitch, then twitch a couple more times. Now distracted, I kept my mouth shut and observed him out of my periphery.
There it was again—a seemingly involuntary spasm. Steve spoke first and, after a standard introduction and pleasantries, offered that he suffers from Tourette’s syndrome. Not the variety that compels the afflicted to spontaneously blurt out obscenities and racial slurs, but the kind that manifests as uncontrollable physical tics. Well, that explains why the birds kept getting freaked out near him, I thought, but it doesn’t explain why he didn’t shoot them. I ultimately kept that second question to myself. I was headed home with plenty of meat from other hunters who happily gave me their birds to avoid having to clean them themselves, so I had nothing to complain about.
Shortly after I got home, I got a text letting me know the game warden showed up and shut down the evening hunt. Apparently, the field wasn’t satisfactorily plowed under, resulting in citations for several and warnings for others. The fish-hippie, rule-follower that he is, was mortified to be reprimanded for running afoul of the law. I’ve taken great pleasure in reminding him not only of this encounter, but the fact that he is now part of DNR’s permanent database of ne’er-do-wells, a position of great shame and disgrace. Despite the enforcement action, this particular game warden wasn’t all business. He obliged Zack’s 9-year-old daughter’s request to be placed in handcuffs and posed next to his truck for a picture to send to her mom.
All in all, it was a great hunt—eventful and a bit weird, but great nonetheless.
Cost: $340 for a case of 250.
Pros: Dependably effective shotshells at a reasonable price.
Cons: Can’t overcome adverse effects of a hunter with Tourette’s scaring away your birds.
