Saturday, the opening day of dove season, will go down something like this:
I'll be at Ratcliffe Farm, probably after missing a turn and driving about 5 miles into the hinterlands before I realize my mistake.
I do it every year. A mistake like that can put you in a bind if you surf the crests of time, as I often do. I had plenty of cushion last year because Scott Hunter recommended I arrive sometime around 5 a.m. That seemed too early, but he's done the Ratcliffe Farm hunt for 19 years. It was only my fourth time, so I deferred to experience. Scott and I have been friends for 30 years. By now you'd think I'd know better.
I found my way to the farm as Adam Ratcliffe unlocked the gate. That violated my unwritten code of never being the first to arrive at a party, and never being the last to leave.
As soon as I exit the truck, I'll spray mosquito repellent in my hand and knead it like aftershave into my neck, hands and face.
Murmurs will become increasingly festive as more and more hunters pull into the space in front of Ratcliffe's equipment shed. Old friends will trade introductory barbs before catching up on each other's lives since they last saw each other.
Gravel will crunch under truck tires, and Thermos bottles will squeal as their owners break their vacuums, releasing the aroma of coffee into the sweet ester of bug spray hanging in the thick air.
Young hunters, some on their first dove hunts, will stand in anticipatory awe. Their oversized camo will hang from their shoulders like drapes, and they'll be welcomed into the fraternity with good-natured ribbing.
When the group is complete, Ratcliffe will explain the field layout and announce the rules. Then we'll board trucks and trailers for the trip to the dove field. We'll disembark at our designated rows and trudge across ankle-twisting furrows toting coolers, shotguns and chairs.
The sun always rises over Ratcliffe's fields like a shimmering orb of molten gold. It glows through a silvery haze that makes it seem hotter and more humid than it really is. I photograph it every year, and every year it looks the same. There is some comfort in the timelessness of the image, but I always wish for clouds, if for no other reason but a different look.
Doves arrive right about the time everyone settles. They come in singles and pairs, easily evading the first shooters in the gauntlet that are caught unprepared. It's been eight months since most of us have fired a shotgun, so it takes awhile to shake off the rust. These first doves often make a full circuit through a curtain of lead before settling unscathed among the sunflowers to enjoy a leisurely breakfast.
If it's a slow flight, the birds will come and go in an unsteady trickle. It doesn't take long before hunters abandon their stations and join friends for a few slugs of cold water and some friendly conversation.
We'll talk about our shotguns, pistols, food plots, bucks we've seen on game cameras, Razorbacks football and how our college-age kids are faring in school. A few armed services members are usually in the group, and their stories of distant adventures are always a treat.
Ratcliffe, with his signature wide-brimmed hat, will visit every station with his Drathaar, a retriever with a full beard and mustache that makes him look like Gen. Paul Von Hindenburg's canine doppelganger. For him, dove season is a kind of pre-duck season training camp.
About the time everyone gets distracted and lets down their guard is when doves will surge into the field. If it looks to be a sustained flight, we'll filter back to our original stations and hope the action lasts.
The heat and glare soon become oppressive, and we guzzle water to replace the sweat pouring down our faces and drenching our shirts. We'll utter obligatory complaints, but we're well aware that heat is an integral part of a dove hunt in Dixie.
We'll break for lunch around 11 a.m., and reconvene at the equipment shed, where we'll clean our birds before washing up and settling down for a feast of smoked brisket, pulled pork, beans, iced tea and relaxed humor.
No matter how the birds fly, the hunting is secondary to the fellowship when dove hunting in Dixie, or anywhere else, for that matter.
For us, it's the opening day of autumn, and we'll savor it like honey.
Sports on 09/01/2016