Men with Guns

The sun was just starting to come up as I shifted in my position against the small tree. I felt the smooth, wood stock of my shotgun--the barrel was still cool. I could smell gun oil, and I anticipated the bitter smoke from the gunpowder that would float in the air once the gun had been fired a few times. Under my feet was the powder-dry, foot deep, rich, brown dirt which had been recently turned over in the field. Discarded ears of maize were scattered among the rows--I wondered what it would be like to go out into the field and pick up an ear--what would the grains feel like? Could I peel them off the cob?

The shotgun started to feel heavy in my arms. It was loaded, and it was unsafe to set it down, but eventually I balanced it across my lap. My fingers absently moved the safety switch back and forth as I waited in the dark for the sun to come up. Incredibly, one of the guys had already popped open a beer.

For some reason, I had a little time getting "into" the hunt this year. I just felt detached and distracted. I even sat still, watching the sun come up, and questioned, for the first time in years of hunting, whether I was perhaps doing something unethical. I decided to put those people who would say so in the same category as those who object to shopping at Wal Mart--unless you don't eat meat and have a full understanding of migratory patterns and carrying capacity of ecosystems...well, you know what I'm getting at. I guess I never resolved if it was indulgent to shoot animals for sport.

My goal for the trip wasn't to effect maximum slaughter--I wanted to catch a cup of coffee in the cool air--just so happens that in Texas in early September, you can only feel cool air at about 5:30 AM. And if you pay attention, you can sit and watch the transition of a starry sky to an orange sunrise. You've got a couple of hours to be alone with your thoughts as you spread out from other guys--you can see them lined along the field, but you aren't close enough to carry on a conversation.

My luck was wonderful--I had lined up in a natural break in the field, and the majority of the doves that flew across the field went to my little corner in a predictable pattern. I have an unexplainable gift for seeing that area on a field, and I always have from the first time I went hunting when I was younger. By midmorning, I had the most birds by far and I started to slow down and take only spectacular, show-off, high-percentage shots in front of amazed onlookers who were starting to hate me because I left nothing for them to shoot. I finally stopped shooting and went over to stand with friends as they continued hunting. Little did I know that things would slow down and this would be the only productive time of the hunt.

I touched spirits, briefly, with my inner Hemingway and recharged myself a little in the outdoors. Is that so dangerous that it requires firearms?