Dove hunt lacked the charm of a day gone right

8:04 p.m., Tuesday: Send my final message of the day to the office, quit working, shut down computer. Throw clothes together. Go to gun safe, pull out old 20 gauge double barrel, removing from in front of it a timeworn 16 gauge Model 870 that my father-in-law gave my sons before he died this spring. "Maybe I should take Grandpa's gun instead,'' I say to the boys. "That way, at least his gun will get to go hunting this year.'' The boys nod, "OK.'' And I grab the 870.

8:45 p.m.: I walk out the door. Before I do, I look at my hunting license and realize that while I had purchased the small game license needed to hunt doves, the license makes no note of that. "Huh,'' I say to myself, and drive to the nearest Wal-Mart where the kid behind the counter says, "Don't know why it's not on there, but here you go,'' and prints a duplicate license showing the small game license.

9:30 p.m.: Drive to the newspaper's office in downtown Minneapolis to drop off some equipment before driving another two-and-a-half hours. Check into a motel after midnight and climb into bed at 12:30 a.m. Wednesday.

4:10 a.m. Wednesday: Alarm rings. I shower and meet hunting buddies for coffee and breakfast.

6:10 a.m. Dove season would have opened about now, except that everything is blanketed by thick fog. My goal is to shoot photos, then hunt, believing there will be time for both. But fog keeps everything under wraps until after 7.

7:10 a.m., approx: Finally set camera down, load Grandpa's gun with three cartridges. Stand in field. My expectations are low: Few doves are in the area, and only two have fallen to my partners' shots. I have three other shells with me, in a pants pocket.

7:20 a.m., approx: DNR conservation officer approaches in pickup, stopping on road 30-40 yards from where I stand. I don't know him. He shows no indication of knowing me. I unload my gun. He's very pleasant. He checks my license, then asks for my gun to see if it's plugged — meaning that it can only hold one shell in the chamber and two in the magazine.

7:23 a.m., approx: I say to myself, "Surely Grandpa had a plug in his gun.''

7:23:30 a.m., approx: Turns out, Grandpa didn't have a plug in his gun. I explain the part about Grandpa's gun, etc., and could kick myself for not bringing my double-barrel instead. And for not thinking to check for a plug in Grandpa's gun. "I'll write you a warning,'' the officer said. He was very pleasant. He wrote me a warning.

7:30 a.m. I return to the truck, plug the gun with a tire gauge I find in the glove compartment, and case the gun, having not fired a shot. The officer said I could plug the gun and keep hunting. He was doing his job. But I had lost interest. Anyway, no doves were flying. Maybe a photo would present itself, salvaging the day, I thought. I picked up the camera.