Overrun at the Battle of the Gully

Ouachita Baptist and Henderson State universities have the Battle of the Ravine.

Alan Thomas, Pete Hornibrook and I have the Battle of the Gully.

One is an annual game for supremacy in the Great American Conference and for football dominance in Arkadelphia. The other is - for us, at least - the most eagerly anticipated dove hunt of the year.

It takes place on a lonely, sun-scalded sand spit on the Arkansas River. It has a couple of trees and some tall grass clumps, but its main feature is a small gully that connects the uplands to the river. There are humps at both ends, and doves love it.

We only hunt it in the afternoon, from about 4 p.m. until the end of legal shooting time. During this time, doves light in the gully to loaf.

“Sometimes they’re on that high hump, and sometimes they’re on the low hump. Sometimes they’re on the slopes of the gully, but they’re always right in this little area,” Al said. “If we just bracket the humps and the gully, it’ll get crazy.”

Within seconds of anchoring Al’s boat, the fourth annual Battle of the Gully began as three doves zipped down the shoreline and cut a hard turn overhead. Al and Hornibrook downed two to get us off to a fast start. Then, Hornibrook advanced toward the gully. As soon as he crossed an unseen threshold, doves ascended from the grass in waves. The first bunch rose behind Hornibrook. He spun to shoot, but he was too late. The sound of his gunshot cleared the field, but the birds always flushed behind him. Nary a bird fell.

“There must have been 40 or 50 birds in there!” Al exclaimed. “They’ve all flown to the treeline, but they’ll be back. We just need to get in position and sit tight.”

Indeed, wads of doves lit on gray, leafless snags and live trees well above the high-water mark. Hornibrook continued his journey down the beach and shot a pair of singles that flushed from the grass. He cut his walk short and came back.

“I’m already out of gas,” Hornibrook said as he reached for a cold bottle of Gatorade.

The temperature was 100 degrees, and the air was still and humid. The sun beat down like a trip hammer. We were already soaked, and sweat dripped from the bill of my cap and flowed under my shades into my eyes. Doves love this kind of weather, but it certainly makes hunting them difficult.

I stood under the shade of a low tree. Hornibrook and Al took stations on the humps that allowed us to form a triangle around the gully.

Within about 35 minutes, birds began to filter back toward the gully, first as singles, then in doubles and triples. My tree seemed to be their navigational beacon because they flew right over it, or slightly off to the sides. With my Remington 105 CTi 12-gauge autoloader, I quickly amassed a small pile of birds.

Then, as always happens at the Gully, two big flocks of birds staged full frontal assaults. They came over 20-25 at a time. Limited to just three shells, I had to be choosy. I doubled on both waves. Al and Hornibrook exacted their toll on the rest. Ruth, Al’s elderly chocolate lab, helped us find our birds.

We ended the day with 22 doves, which wasn’t bad for a short shoot on a sandbar. I got 10. If not for some poor shooting at the outset, I should have easily had a limit.

Al and I returned Monday for a rematch. I waded into the Gully straightway and flushed about 50 doves. I took my station under the tree and promptly forgot how to shoot, despite two massive full frontal assaults. Using an over/under 20-gauge, I could have gotten a limit but ended with only three doves. Al shot 10. Our two-day total was 35.

The Battle of the Gully is usually a two-outing affair, but we’re thinking it might hold up for one last hurrah.