The Catch

There are moments between a father and son that don't seem important when they're happening. Years later, they're the ones you remember best. My son was ten when we headed out for an evening dove hunt near Arbuckle, California. It was one of those late-summer Sacramento Valley evenings when the heat hangs around until sunset and everything turns a dusty shade of gold. We were hunting a newly planted almond orchard. The young trees stood in straight rows, too small to offer much shade. Sprinklers were running throughout the field, throwing long arcs of water across the dusty ground. Fortunately, the orchard next door was older. Its mature almond trees gave us a shady place to stand while we watched the young orchard. And that evening, the doves were flying. They weren't trickling in one or two at a time. They were pouring into that orchard like something you'd expect to see in Argentina. Singles, pairs, little groups—they came from every direction. For a ten-year-old boy hunting beside his dad, it was quite a show."Here comes one."Then another."Over the top!"Doves have a special talent for making shotgun hunters look bad. They'll come straight at you, then change direction as you shoulder the gun. They'll dip, climb, twist and catch a breeze that carries them safely past your shot pattern. I reminded my son of the basics: pick one bird, swing through it and keep the shotgun moving. Dove hunting is great wingshooting practice because the birds rarely give you the same shot twice. Then a single dove came across just right. I raised my shotgun, swung through the bird and fired. The dove folded cleanly. Instead of falling among the young almond trees, it was dropping almost directly toward us. I watched it tumble. Twenty feet. Fifteen. Ten. Without really thinking, I kept the shotgun safely in one hand and reached up with the other. The dove dropped right into my hand. I caught it. For a second, everything stopped. I looked at the bird in my hand, then at my son. His eyes were wide. I probably should have said something profound about hunting or the outdoors. Instead, I said, "You better remember this because you probably won't see that again anytime soon."He stared at me with the expression only a ten-year-old can give his dad—half amazement, half disbelief. I did my best to act like catching falling doves was something I did all the time. Then another bird came over the orchard, and we went right back to hunting. Today, I don't remember how many doves we brought home or how many shells we fired. But I remember the sprinklers crossing those young almond trees, the shade of the old orchard and my son standing beside me when a dove fell from the California sky and landed in my hand. A father only gets so many years when his son believes he can do things nobody else can. When one of those moments falls out of the sky, you'd better catch it.