If you own a shotgun then there is a chance that September 1 is one of the highlights of your year.

It is around my house, anyway.  Starting in April, The Boy (my son) starts asking “how many more days until dove season?”  He’s 11 and has no patience, he takes after his granddad (my dad).

For better than a dozen years I’ve spent the opening day of dove season with 40 other men, in a three room cabin that has bunk beds, four showers, a couple bathrooms, no television, and no cell phone service.  There isn’t even a radio in the cabin.  The only forms of entertainment are dominoes and making fun of missed shots.  We look forward to it all year.

Every year it’s the usual gang of suspects at the cabin.  Oilfield workers, retirees, construction managers and a man nicknamed Red.  I’ve bunked and hunted next to Red for over a decade and still don’t know his real name.

Over the past few years there has been a slow change going on at dove camp.  We’re getting old.  The conversations now revolve around cholesterol counts, diabetic socks, and the drink of choice is Diet Coke.

I’m sure that at some point the dove camp won’t be here anymore.  The property will change hands, hunters will move on, and the younger hunters might lose interest.  But as long as I’m able, The Boy and I will be at dove camp.