DAN SIMMONS Sportsman's Quest MORE COLUMNS SPECIAL TO THE PVT Outdoorsmen follow specific rituals on the hunt, as J. Adam Bedard reports in this special outdoors story today. Advertisement

Dan Simmons is taking the week off, but he didn't want his loyal readers to miss out, so, for your reading pleasure ...

It occurred to me on a recent shooting trip to Amargosa Valley that there are times when hunting transcends pulling the trigger, and the thrill of the kill is not the height of the experience. Dove hunting in my family is not only a hobby, it has become something more.

I come from a Catholic family and the opening day of dove season has become as big a day as Christmas or Easter. We begin planning as soon as the last season ends, and as the weather begins to cool down just a degree or two during the last weeks of August, the anticipation of the shoot begins to intensify. We will be sitting out on the patio in Las Vegas and begin to notice dove sitting on the wall, or flying over in pairs and we begin to line up ghost shots of singles and doubles, commenting on how astute we are in our observations of dove acrobatics and how our new insight will make this year's shoot the most impressive yet.

My dad is three-star Marine Corps general "Buck" Bedard and his marksmanship is legendary in our house.

It is for this reason, that during the last week of each August, my brother and I sneak out to the Las Vegas Gun Club to brush up on our skills so as not to embarrass ourselves during the first shoot of the season.

More times than not, we come home with bruised shoulders and battered egos and the feeling that we got most of our bad shooting of the season out of the way. My dad sits with a bemused look on his face as we come over to the house with just the faintest wisp of gunpowder on us. Not much gets by the old man.

We begin packing for the trip at three days out and by the time we are to leave we look like a gypsy caravan. Though the entire shoot will cover not more than two days, we will be at the Longstreet Inn and Casino, with restaurant and snack shop, we pack like we are going on a three-week safari.

I undoubtedly will take all of the camouflage clothing I own as well as two pairs of boots, three guns, cleaning supplies, two coolers with assorted beverages, GPS devices, radios, books and a camp chair. All of this will come into the hotel.

One percent of it will get used and I will stuff it all back in the Jeep Liberty at the end of the shoot. My brother will pack nearly as efficiently, and my dad will throw his one duffel bag and gun into the car, shaking his head at his boys.

On the last day of August, we are like settlers waiting for the gun shot that will signal lands to the west are open for business, and our lead feet will barrel us over the mountain and into the land near Death Valley where flocks of teaming dove will be waiting to meet us in the morning.

We strive to get there before dark, to case the dove hunting grounds, and plan our strategy on paper napkins at the bar. We will concoct shooting lanes and created "corridors of death" that the dove will have no chance of surviving. But, always, we stop a bit too long for gas and ice, and hit traffic and get to Amargosa just as it gets dark, and we resolve ourselves to getting checked into the hotel and meeting up with those who have come to meet us. My dad does recon while my brother and I unload.

At this point in my story, it must be noted that I am a grown man with a wife and two kids. My brother is also married.

But from the moment our boots touch down in the dust outside of the hotel, which is now base camp, we are ten years old again, every year.

We fall into a rhythm that has been established from the time we were indoctrinated into the hunting culture by our father. We unpack the Jeep. We setup the hotel rooms. We prep the guns. We are the last to get to the bar.

Once all has been set, we meet my father at the bar, where he has met up with those that will hunt the next morning. From this point on, my brother and I are flies on a very interesting wall.

We hear all tell stories that begin at the hunting grounds around the world and then mutate and shift into stories of all kinds.

I have learned more about women, poker and the terminal velocity of a '57 Mercury at times like these than I have anywhere else. There are many punch lines and twists as each storyteller, to the man, attempts to one up the other.

From time to time my brother and I are allowed to chime in, but mostly we stay quiet, hearing the hunting gospels according to those older and wiser men among us. It is a privilege to tell a story, and an honor to tell a good one. My dad always has a captive audience.

The next morning, through a slight mental haze, we get up and get out to the dove fields before first light. Sleep has been fitful with visions of huge flocks of birds. As the sun sputters and then lifts above the horizon we wait to unleash on the dove and then a funny thing happens -- the doves don't show up.

The reason is not clear. Perhaps they haven't made the migration yet. Maybe they have found water somewhere else. Or maybe they are feeding across the valley. Whatever the cause, the birds are not here.

We wait a couple of hours. The great shooting we anticipated for months has not happened. My dad walks over to my brother and me and says, "It's a beautiful morning. I'm really glad we did this."

There is more to the dove hunt than pulling the trigger. Sure it's fun to shoot the fast darting bird, but there is so much more to it than that. It is the months we have spent talking about the hunt, the preparation, the shooting on the range with my brother, the time we get to spend with our dad and the stories that we share before and after the hunt that brings a sense of communion to my family.

It is the rituals we follow, the traditions we pass down that keeps us coming back year after year. That is why we hunt. That is why we are already planning next year.

Dove hunter's essentials for the new shooter

Though there are times I like to bring out the 12-gauge when I'm feeling a bit less confident than usual, I generally go with a 20-gauge. My gun of choice is an over/under Ruger Silver Label with modified and improved cylinder chokes that I have been using since I was 15 years old.

I also enjoy shooting my very lightweight Charles Daly semi-automatic with an improved cylinder choke. I use Winchester 2-3/4 inch, 7-1/2 shot rounds. I find them to be a great load and very reliable in the field. Don't forget to use hearing and eye protection. I use a vest and put a camel back underneath to stay hydrated in the warm desert air, and I also bring sun block and bug spray (the flies can be really bad).