In the glorious, long ago days of my youth, nothing quickened my pulse or excited me with anticipation like hunting and fishing. Of all the variations that were possible within these two broad categories, the undisputed first choice was dove shooting. In the South, dove shooting is a social function enjoyed mostly by men but not totally foreign to the ladies. The host and guests would meet at a pre-determined time and then spread out around the field where the birds were expected to come.

Spaced around fifty yards or so apart, the hunters would open their little camouflaged stools and get ready. On a “good shoot” the birds would fly fast and furiously and it was not uncommon to hear twenty five or more guns firing in an irregular staccato of thunder. A distant 12 gauge pointed in my general direction, would make a sound like “POOOM!” From another angle, the report might sound like a loud, flat “Pow!” The varying distances, angles and sizes of the guns being fired was a beautiful cacophony that thrilled me to the bone. The smell of gun powder and the gleam of blued steel were wonderful signs that autumn had arrived!

So, way back around ’79, it was with high anticipation that I planned to go on the first shoot of the season. It happened to be at good ole Woodley Road, the paradise of farmland and swamp that has been the source of a lifetime of outdoor joy (and alternately quite a bit of misery) for me. The other hunters who were more patient and mature than I would not go before three o’clock or so but in my crazed state of mind I could not wait to get there! (I was not bound to the pre-set time rule since our family had part ownership of the land.)

I had invited my buddy, Marlon Atcheson to go along and he rode with me. I don’t know what time we got there but it was a good hour or so ahead of anyone else. The weather was hot so I drove my truck across the field and down an old logging road and parked in the shade of a giant oak tree. We got our gear and walked out to the field to find a good spot. I sat up at the end of a row of trees and Marlon took a position behind me near the remains of an old shack. He was not on the field itself but had a good angle on any birds that approached the field from the swamp or headed back that way for cover.

It wasn’t long before a few doves came in and we got to shoot some and had several “in the bag”. Eventually, more folks arrived and scattered around the perimeter. I saw Dad and Ross and others well across the field from me but they would not have recognized me from that distance. The birds began to flood in and the shooting became intense. Shouts of “Coming to you! Over the trees!” and “Nice shot!” could be heard amidst the bedlam.

Then, I saw my cousin, Gary Woolard’s truck come around the trees across the way, followed by a dark green Chevy sedan. Gary got out of his truck at the same time as the game warden emerged from the car. Together they walked out into the field and the game warden stooped to scoop up something in his hand. There was a brief discussion and though they were much too far away for me to hear them, I understood what was said when Gary began to wave his arms and shout for everyone to quit shooting! I didn’t know it at the time, but Gary had gone beyond the legal method of spreading wheat on plowed ground and had thrown a liberal feast of corn, beans and who knows what all out on the field.

Oh no! Busted! The last thing I needed was a fine to pay! I grabbed my dove stool and ducked behind the trees as I ran toward Marlon.

Since he was further from the field, he could not hear or see what was going on and I barely got to him before he could fire another round at the birds who were really flocking in by that time.
“Stop! There’s a game warden out there!”

By this time, the whole world had gone silent as the other hunters had laid down their guns. As we stood there, it occurred to me that no one had seen me duck away and Marlon had never been in their view to begin with since we were on the far side from where everyone else had come. I further realized that my truck was not parked with the others so no one would know to look for us.

“Come on, Marlon! Let’s go hide in the swamp until they leave!”

Away we went. The swamp was only another hundred yards or so further back from our side of the dove field and once we had dropped down the grade into the basin, we turned north and walked a little ways until we came to our senses enough to realize that there was no need to go anywhere. All we had to do was wait until dark and sneak out to freedom!

The swamp is an incredible sauna of still, humid, fiery heat at that time of year and in a matter of seconds we were pouring sweat and fighting off the giant mosquitoes that began to assemble for a “shoot “ of their own. It didn’t take long for us to abandon that “wait until dark” plan and decide to just give the game warden a little while to pass out fines and go on his way. If time flies when you’re having fun, I can assure you it comes to a screeching halt when you are trapped in an Alabama swamp in September! There was no way to win against the hordes of bloodthirsty insects and soon we were alternating between flailing our arms and scratching the growing number of welts on our simmering skin.

In a little while, I decided that the dirty business up front should be concluded. I told Marlon that they would either be gone or else we would know that we had not escaped unnoticed and would have to face the music. (Bless his heart, Marlon had not been a part to a single decision since accepting my invitation to come on the hunt. He simply followed my lead.)

We left our guns and gear behind and eased up through the overgrown pasture that separated the swamp and the dove field. Sure enough, there they were! A dozen or so men gathered in a little group with the game warden in the middle. The jig was up. We stood up and walked on out to join the circle. It took only a quick glance at the astonished faces for us to realize our mistake! No one had any idea about us. They were just chatting since there was nothing else to do.

My baby brother Ross would have been about ten years old and it was he who broke the silence. “Where have you been?” he asked in innocent wonder.

“Back in the swamp”, I replied.

“Doing what?” asked the game warden.

“Oh, just messing around.”

Again, it was Ross who took up the inquisition. “Where are your guns?”

“Yeah”, said the game warden, “Where are your guns?”
“Back in the swamp” I continued my glib game of verbal dodge ball.

Meanwhile, Marlon said not a word!

Growing a little irritated, the game warden asked, “Were you shooting birds out on this field?”

That was it, a simple, point blank question that could only be answered with a “yes” or “no”. Every eye was locked on me. Everyone there knew we had to have been on the shoot since not even I was crazy enough to wander off into that dreadful swamp for no reason at all. What could I do? I would not have lied to the man even if my Dad were not standing before me as a mute witness to my moral dilemma. There was my sweet innocent little brother as well as his older siblings and cousins, Fred and Gary, all staring at me to see what I would say.

I just stood there writhing on the inside! But as the seconds ticked by, a strange thought came to me. I could not be forced to incriminate myself. There was no judge present to order me to answer under oath. I did not have to say anything and I didn’t! Tick, tick, tick……it seemed like forever. The faintest little hint of a smile flickered briefly across the warden’s sunburned face. He was acknowledging defeat.

“Well”, he said, “I didn’t see you boys out here so I can’t write you up, but I’ll tell you this. Whatever you were doing in the swamp, I wouldn’t do it again if I were you. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

So, my silent partner in crime, Marlon and I escaped the long arm of The State of Alabama Department of Game and Fish Enforcement agent. I would like to tell you that I have never engaged in any illegal activity from that day to this. I really would! But…….maybe that’s another story for another day!

Hal F. Leary