The heat in central Kansas during the first weekend of September doesn't just sit on you; it presses down like a hot wool blanket. By mid-afternoon, the thermometer on the truck dash hit a brutal 90 degrees, and the sun bounced blindingly off the cracked dirt of a harvested wheat field.
It was my first official dove hunt. I’d brought along what I thought was an embarrassing amount of ammunition—twelve boxes of 12-gauge target loads. A buddy had laughed when he saw the heavy canvas bag tearing at the seams. "Planning on fighting a war out there?" he’d joked.
By Sunday afternoon, nobody was laughing. They were just amazed.
Day 1: The Learning Curve (and a Sore Shoulder)
The action started the moment the decoys were set near a lone, dead cottonwood tree. Doves didn't just fly into the field; they blurred past like gray rockets fueled by a tailwind.
My first shot was a complete miss. So was my second. And my tenth.
I quickly learned that a dove doesn't fly in a straight line. They dip, they dive, and right when you think you’ve matched their lead, they catch a breeze and change zip codes. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon on Friday, the barrels of my shotgun were radiating heat, my right shoulder was already turning a deep shade of purple, and the ground was littered with empty red hulls.
I managed my daily limit of 15 birds, but a quick tally of my empty boxes revealed a horrifying truth: I had burned through nearly four boxes of shells just to get them.
Day 2: The 90-Degree Grind
Saturday morning brought zero relief from the weather. By 9:00 AM, the humidity felt like a sauna, and sweat was stinging my eyes every time I mounted the gun.
The birds were flying even faster, spooked from the previous day's opening salvos. I found myself swinging too fast, pulling my cheek off the stock, and shooting well behind the erratic targets. Dust kicked up in the distance as bird after bird flew away unscathed, leaving me standing in the sun, listening to the agonizing clink of another empty shell hitting the dirt.
"Keep your face down and lead 'em double what you think!" came the shout from across the tree line.
I slowed down, breathed through the heat, and started finding a rhythm. Still, for every spectacular, puff-of-feathers hit, there were five or six clean misses that had me shaking my head in disbelief. I scratched out my second limit of 15, but my ammo bag was looking dangerously light.
Day 3: Closing the Tab
By Sunday, the bruising on my shoulder had its own zip code, and my thumb was raw from shoving shells into the magazine tube. The goal was in sight: 15 more birds to hit the three-day possession limit of 45.
The afternoon flight was fast and furious. Doves were pouring into the sunflowers, and I was determined to finish the job. I stopped overthinking the math and just shot on instinct. When the final bird of the weekend dropped cleanly into the stubble, I let out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since Friday.
The Final Tally
Back at the trucks, while the dogs rested in the shade of the open tailgates and iced water bottles were passed around, we did the final math.
Three neat piles of 15 doves sat on the tailgate—a hard-earned, 45-bird possession limit. Then, we counted the empty boxes.
Twelve boxes. Exactly 300 shells fired.
The Math: 300 shots divided by 45 birds averages out to about 6.6 shots per dove.
In the world of upland hunting, it wasn't exactly sniper material. But looking at that limit of gray birds, thinking about the blinding Kansas sun, the relentless speed of the wings, and the sheer, unadulterated fun of the weekend, I wouldn't have traded a single missed shot. My shoulder would heal, but the memory of that first chaotic, exhausting weekend in the heat would stick around forever.