I'm not sure how it could have been a lovelier afternoon, unless it could have been a little longer.

One thing and another kept me from heading out Saturday as dove season opened. When we got off work early on Monday, there was little doubt in my mind of what I'd be doing before the day was out.

With a quick kiss to the Missus and a change of clothes, I headed down the road a couple miles to a place I've been itching to visit since last year. Although there is no corn field nearby, and little but sand and tall trees to attract the first birds of the year, the place called to me as I headed for a deer stand last winter.

I'd thought about it often since then: a wide, fallow field with tufts of weeds here and there and the blackened stumps from the last controlled burn. The burn made a natural flight path between a couple of water sources. The still green walls of trees on either side offer plenty of places for a roost when evening rolled around.

Duke was offended that he couldn't come along; he wiggled and smiled and was on his best behavior, hoping to spend the rest of this bonus day with his human, but he's no hunting dog.

Work kept me away from dove shooting last Indian Summer, but the year before, The Biscuit was ecstatic over going to a big cornfield. He became so excited that he got lost that afternoon, necessitating a search and rescue mission that ended in a cloud of mosquitoes and his refusal to understand why we were so upset.

Of course, the Biscuit went on to that great cornfield and pine forest in the sky this summer. None of the other dogs, even Duke, have any birding potential, so it was just myself and a fowling piece on a long sandy road in the setting Indian Summer sun.

I initially wondered if there would be any birds about, but my doubts were soon put to rest as they whistled across the field, wings beating burnished and bright against a friendly sky.

While there were plenty of birds, they stayed far out of range. Slipping into the edge of the woodline and carefully stalking through the shadows was as fruitless and frustrating as it was when I first tried it more than 20 years ago.

There were a handful of us that day, and since the birds didn't want to fly straight across the field (into the sights of a quartet of teenagers with good eyes and better instincts) we resorted to creeping through the edge of the woods.

We refused to believe that the birds could see us better from the top of the trees than we could see them from below. Many innocent pinecones and gumballs died that day, and we took just enough birds to make the practice debatable regarding effectiveness.

We took our birds home at dusk and went fishing that evening, catfish poles dodging and bobbing in the dark as the Cape Fear muttered past. Dixie and Dudley, my semi-retrievers, had spent the day lying in the sun (Dudley) or chasing lost birds when it was convenient (Dixie).

By nightfall they were tired. The dogs were content to flop in the shelter and snore while we, in that way of all teenagers yet to really face anything daunting, solved the world's problems, conquered pretty girls and generally shaped the world to our own designs.

I wondered Monday what ever happened to all the members of our pack of young wolves.

I thought how I could have used one of those companions Monday, especially the one who was rather trigger-happy. He seemed to take pleasure in keeping the doves flying than actually bagging one. I remember one time he fired off three boxes of shells and never dropped a bird-but the rest of us did when the birds were distracted by his shooting.

But Monday, since stalking wouldn't work, and I had no companions to keep the birds flying, I found a seat on the edge of a fire-break, where the sun would be at my back but in the birds' eyes, and my outline broken up by the bushes behind me.

Mr. Woody showed me that trick-or was it C.A., or maybe Larry?-back during my first dove season. I disremember now who taught many such important lessons.

I do recall how important and grown-up we felt that adults would let us use their first names-and how mortified we felt when we did something to betray the trust they placed in us.

I doubt I took a half-dozen critters of any kind that whole year, but by the time all the hunting seasons were over in February, I had enough safety and shooting lessons drilled into me that I would pass up a shot if everything wasn't perfect.

All along the path I hunted Monday, I spotted the tracks of deer and turkey, fox, raccoon and not one but at least two bears.

I thought about the pains gone to by another of those mentors from years ago to teach me the difference between a buck and a doe, and how to look for the little things that make each critter's track individual, just like a human footprint, and what other sign to look for. It took me years to relearn those skills after being 'cityfied' for a while.

I also remembered-somewhat ruefully-how I used my newfound knowledge to track one of my own dog's prints for over an hour. She ran ahead at first, then circled and dutifully trotted along behind me; but that's a column for another day.

As the sun dropped behind the trees Monday, and the birds became mere glimmers in the sunset as their wings flashed and wheeled, I began trudging my way back to the truck.

For just a moment, I saw The Biscuit slinking into a cornfield to play hide and seek. I saw Dudley looking like an artist's rendition of the perfectly faithful Golden Retriever, until it was time for him to actually pick up a bird. Dixie rocketed out of a woodline without waiting to see if a shot connected with a bird.

I remembered Mr. Woody's long double barrel was broken open, unloaded and handed across a fence ("You don't want to get shot, do you?"), while Larry reminded me to lead my birds and C.A. admonished me to watch where my shot would fall.

My game bag was empty Monday, but I didn't care. I spent part of an afternoon with some old friends, some good dogs, and doves that whistled in the sunset.

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