Return to the “Golden Age” of Dove Hunting

Some 150 miles south of Texas, where Mexico’s Sierra Madre Mountains slope toward the Gulf Coast, lies the heart of white-winged dove country, a region long famed for offering some of this hemisphere’s finest and fastest wingshooting. “Ten-box hunts” are the norm here during a typical morning shoot.

At the center of this blizzard of migrating birds lies a wingshooter’s oasis — Aztec Lodge.

“It’s really something,” says a frequent guest, Minnesota’s Bill Wingerd. “The shooting is awesome, the services and facilities are superb and the bacon-jalapeno dove breasts they prepare are alone worth the trip.”

Indeed, the region is home to millions of doves fleeing winter in South America. The birds are attracted by the mild weather and an abundance of their favorite foods — sorghum, sunflowers and corn. A prolonged drought in the region caused a substantial dip in the whitewing population during the mid-1990s. Since 1997, however, the flocks have rebounded and their numbers are approaching the size seen during the “Golden Era,” 25 years ago. For ardent wingshooters it means that world-class gunning no longer requires expensive, long and wearying air travel.

A hunt at Aztec Lodge during the season, from mid-August through mid-October, starts with an early departure to reach the shooting fields by sunrise. Guests do not head out hungry, though. Liveried waiters deliver juice and coffee to the well-appointed rooms of each guest every morning. A hearty breakfast is just a stroll away, along tiled paths winding among shade trees to the Spanish-style main lodge.

From there, small groups of hunters load up in air-conditioned vehicles for the average 45-minute drive to Aztec’s many fields. Use the drive time to mentally practice your swing and follow-through, because the action — and plenty of it — begins quickly. Head guide, Juan, sees to that. Bilingual and bright, Juan is one of those rare guides who can intuit what each hunter wants and he sees to it that he and his staff guides deliver.

At the field, bird boys (one per hunter) escort you to your shooting position, which is already equipped with a customized shooting stool containing drinks and snacks. Shotgun shells are stationed nearby (I hope you arranged a case for each hunt).

The first rays of dawn have already warmed the air, and you’ll probably be shedding a fleece pullover when the first birds rocket overhead. “Dove, senor,” you’ll hear your bird boy say while you’re in the middle of the maneuver. Not to worry. Millions of birds are about to pour out of their roost and fan out across the countryside, perhaps hundreds of thousands into the field you’re gunning.

With your lodge-supplied Beretta semi or over/under 12 or 20 gauge, you are ready. The next flight comes in and you swing through and pull the trigger when the bead’s on the beak. How did that bird do a 90-degree turn just as you shot? Yikes! The next dove spirals down like a whirligig at the shot. “Bueno!” the bird boy shouts as he runs to retrieve it. Your mouth is dry and you’re amped up to the max as the next flight comes in like miniature A-10s. You won’t feel your bruised shoulder until your après-lunch soak in the pool, in preparation for the evening hunt.

It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.