We were sitting around the vehicles trying to find some shade.

It had to be 99 degrees in the sun; and, unfortunately, the spot we had picked to hunt was angled so the only relief we were going to find wouldn't come until late in the afternoon.

My old duck hunting buddies had joined me for the weekend to hunt one of the South's favorite game birds, the mourning dove.

Opening day of dove season is the most social hunting day of the year, and we did it up right, starting at my house on Friday evening with a barbeque of baby back ribs and all the trimmings.

My hunting partners came from all over the state and were really looking forward to the next day's outing with the Southern Pines Shooting Club. I had played the club up for a whole year knowing that the hunt we would have opening day would make me either a goat or a hero. With these good friends, it didn't make much difference, though. They would always find something to joke about.

After a hearty dinner, the guys drifted out to the arbor for a final nightcap before retiring, and the ladies relaxed in the sunroom, making plans for shopping the next day.

"What do you think, Tom? We gonna wear 'em out tomorrow?" Art asked as he leaned back in an outdoor chair.

"If anybody knows where the birds are, it's Randy Greene," I replied. He's probably spent the past week scouting the field where we're going to hunt."

Randy, president of the club, loves to dove hunt, as do all the officers of the SPSC. The club was started back in 1965 by Retired Army Colonel Leon Baker and has held forth every year since, hunting during the season on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons.

Our conversation drifted back and forth as a waning moon slowly floated up out of the pines. We remembered past hunts and good friends who had hunted with us and had gone on to their reward.

"Were you on the hunt with old Mr. Brown when he shot that sparrow hawk thinking it was a dove?" Jim asked.

"Yeah, I was there," I chuckled. "Remember, he hollered over at me, 'Did you see me get that one, Tom?' And when I shouted back I thought it was a sparrow hawk, he said, 'Well, the rascal shouldn't have been there.'" We all laughed.

Mr. Brown was from the crusty old school and had passed away years ago.

"All that old crowd is gone," John said. "We're at the end of the list now. Wonder how many more years we're going to be able to do this before they mark us off."

"Somebody get John another scotch. He's getting maudlin on us," Jack said.

"That's right, John. You know they all say, and I don't know who they are, but I've read that 70 is the new 50. If that's true, we've got several seasons left." "I don't know about that, but I do know I've got to get some sleep if I'm gonna outshoot you miserable reprobates tomorrow. I'll see y'all in the morning."

The next day the hunting club provided a great brunch before we convoyed to the field to hunt.

Randy and his boys didn't let us down.

Doves were everywhere and were very plentiful late in the afternoon. Jim's golden retriever, Bentley, got plenty of work, although Jim had to be careful not to run him too much in the heat.

We shot okay, nothing spectacular, and decided to head back so the guys could get home before too late.

The ladies were waiting for us when we got to my house, and we joked with them about spending money in the Sandhills. "We need the cash down here," I laughed. "Y'all come back anytime."

All too soon, they were loaded up and gone, and another opening day was history.

As I got my gear out of the truck and prepared to clean doves and shotguns, I remembered our conversation from the evening before. Like John, I wondered how many more seasons we'd have.

Too weighty to think about, I thought. Really all that matters is we've got this one.