Arizona Is Melting; Dove Hunting Report

Just got back from beautiful Dateland, Arizona, where I partook in our annual Labor Day Weekend dove hunt, and all I can say is: "Good God it was hot!" Of course, one expects a bit of heat when venturing into the Arizona desert on the first of September.

(Saner minds, such as my wife's, might question the wisdom of being outdoors in 117 degree heat just to fire our shotguns, in a largely futile manner, at speeding little gray missiles. To that I say: hogwash. Any day firing the lightening stick is a good day, even if it's hot enough to melt glass. Besides, as my Dad put it, "at least it was a wet heat.")

Well, we got our birds, although it was a challenge because Arizona has this arcane and indefensible rule that a hunter may only shoot six white-wing doves per day, reserving the rest of his or her ten-dove limit for the usually more populous mourning dove. Except that the place we shot was populated almost entirely by white-wings. So hunts that might have ended after forty-five minutes were extended to two hours -- in the searing heat -- as we let bird after bird fly by, looking for the lone mourning doves who had "integrated" themselves into the heretofore exclusive white-wing family.

This annoying habit of letting perfectly shootable birds pass produced much consternation in the dogs. I'm used to the look; I've seen the same facial expression on my dog when I fail to shoot at the hen pheasants she's so fond of flushing.

But, as I said, we got our birds and then immediately repaired to the swimming pool, surrounded by beer coolers, where we waited out the afternoon heat, sunk up to our necks in warm water. By the time the bright orb in the sky finally sank, the young ones among us were so shriveled they looked to be fifty, and the older ones looked like corpses. Just another three days in paradise.