On a Good Day for Hunters, No Peace for Doves

Bob Poole calls Culpeper "Dullpepper," but it was anything but dull on Labor Day, particularly if you were a dove.

It was opening day of hunting season in Virginia, where thousands of doves have been feasting unmolested on wheat and sunflowers on a pretty patch of meadow leased by the Cedar Mountain Hunt Club. Those birds were in for a long afternoon.

"They've been coming in here like locusts," said Chris Cobb of Alexandria, a club member who tills the fields on weekends all summer. "This is what I do for fun," he explained, waving an arm at 75 acres of grain and weed strips he voluntarily oversees in the midst of a sprawling corn farm. "This is my big day."

Cobb, a transplanted Texan, was rambling around in Bermuda shorts and hiking boots on a little green tractor, greeting guests and club members arriving for this annual rite of the season. Across much of the South, dove hunting is as much a social event as a sporting or food-gathering one, particularly on opening day as old friends come together to celebrate a cultural marker that's connected them over decades and generations.

Since we were first-timers, he handed us a sheet of paper outlining the rules, which are the same wherever doves are hunted. It comes down to common sense: Don't shoot at low birds, mind where the muzzle of your shotgun points and don't set up too close to somebody else.

Dick Cheney was not coming, but with a big crowd of 65 or 70 expected on a postcard-perfect, sunny day, Cobb took the extra precaution of driving tall stakes in the ground at likely outposts to keep folks separated. A few were reserved in advance by club members; otherwise we were free to set up next to any stake.

Recommendations? "To be honest, any place is good as the next when the birds start flying," said our host. "If I were you, I'd look for a spot with some shade."

By law, dove hunting starts at noon, which can make for a sweaty affair on a hot September day. As for quitting time, Cobb pointed to a wooded glen where a barbecue was lined up for about 5 p.m., by which hour he expected most people would have had their fill.

Poole and I set off across the fields with Nellie the Wonder Dog leading the way. It was half an hour to shooting time. Here and there, clusters of camo-clad gunners gathered in shady spots, puffing cigars or sipping cool drinks and reliving past exploits while waiting for noon bells to chime.

Where to go? Every place looked promising, with strips of bush-hogged sunflowers and wheat interspersed with plowed ground, plus plenty of tree lines where birds could go to roost.

I asked Poole, a Virginian, which way he reckoned the sun was heading, so we could pick a spot where shade wouldn't abandon us. "How would I know?" deadpanned the former executive editor of National Geographic. He's a funny man.

But neither of us was laughing three hours later as we surveyed our dwindling supplies of ammunition and a pathetic bag of two birds, one for each of us. It's like this every year: You leave the shotgun moldering in the gun cabinet for eight months, then haul it out on Labor Day and expect to shoot like Daniel Boone.