Every once in a while, my brother (I call him Mantel Man in my writing) will write something for me to post on my blog, Foolery. I haven't posted his work at Bumpkins yet (have I?) but today is the day.

Oh, and don't be fooled: Mantel Man may now live in the wilds of Phoenix, Arizona, but he's a Bumpkin, through and through.

(Photo stolen from this guy)

“Poor Sports,” or, “The Swilling Fields”

September 1: dove season opened today.

Long before dawn, we pulled off the freeway south of Phoenix and parked the truck at the Cracker Barrel restaurant and waited for our hunting partner to arrive. Nearby, men stood next to other pickups, apparently for the same purpose. It was way too early for the restaurant to be open. We all might just as well have met outside a wine bar. Wouldn’t that be a picture, now?

A Ford pickup appeared, and soon the three of us were driving down the dark highway past the small town of Maricopa, to a property they had purchased for future construction of homes. For now the land was still covered with palo verde trees and other flora. This morning it also hosted an unusual amount of uninvited fauna.

Turning off the country road, we drove into the property and searched for a spot to park among the pickups owned by trespassing hunters. They were either standing around loading their shotguns in the predawn twilight or relaxing in lawn chairs drinking beer. At six in the morning. Drunk trespassers. With guns.

“Oh. Uh, I didn’t know.” We heard this lame response numerous times as we informed the men that this was private property and thoroughly posted. Even in twilight, it would have been hard to miss all the reflective NO HUNTING signs that we had put up two days before, assuming their trucks’ headlights worked. Moreover, given the number of empty beer bottles on the ground, some of these clowns would have seen twice as many signs.

I haven’t hunted since I was a kid, but I remember the rules: if you want to hunt on someone else’s property, find the owner and ask permission. Offer to share your game with him afterward. And don’t just offer dead birds: give him something plucked, cleaned, and ready for cooking.

The season officially began at sunrise. Half an hour before the sun appeared above the Superstition Mountains, the world around us sounded like a combat zone. Evidently shotgun shells are as underpriced as mass-produced beer. Panicked doves were flying in all directions, and by the time it was legal to fire, the vast majority were long gone.

Returning to our truck an hour later, we noted the trespassers we had asked to leave, still on the property and cleaning their birds. They left us all the parts that were not suitable for cooking. I strolled around their gatherings with a gun over my shoulder, hoping to look slightly menacing while not actually provoking any actual confrontations. I was sober, but I was outnumbered.

Whatever happened to sportsmanship in hunting? Driving home, we pondered our options for next year. The best idea was a barrier across the driveway, with tire-popping devices hidden under the dust just behind it. Now there’s sport! For that I would hide in the bushes with a video camera. The footage would be far more entertaining than the hunting could ever be. Even the doves might laugh.