On a picturesque bluebird Saturday morning, I pull off State Highway 162 onto an unassuming gravel driveway with a simple cattle gate propped wide open, beckoning me to roll down my windows and breathe in the fresh air. My truck tires crunch the gravel underneath as I slowly meander down the road, which eventually opens into a large expanse, with an old, red farmhouse sitting against the tree line.
Nestled deep within the Black Belt, situated along the Alabama River just across from Millers Ferry, sits Sturdy Oak Hunting Club at Midway Plantation – 6,600 acres of meticulously managed pine stands, hardwoods, hunting fields and trails. The area is bustling with activity as caterers unload hot pans of wings, chicken, pulled pork and all the fixin’s, while fellow hunters are offloading their utility vehicles and gathering their equipment, gear and provisions. Smiles and warm handshakes are abundant as more people arrive, eager for the hunt ahead. As I exit my truck and walk towards the house, a familiar face, Marc Childers, approaches, his hand extended to welcome me to their 56th annual dove hunt.
Marc’s great grandfather, Benjamin Meek Miller, a native of Wilcox County and a former governor of Alabama (1931-1935), put the property together back in the 1920s. He named it Midway Plantation because the spot where the property was located used to be called Midway but doesn’t show up on any maps anymore. In 1969, Marc’s father, E. Roy Childers, renamed the camp Sturdy Oak Hunting Club in honor of Governor Miller. Miller earned the nickname “Sturdy Oak” as he would never waiver from what he believed in, which earned him quite a reputation in Montgomery as a politician going against the Ku Klux Klan and other corrupt interests.
Preparation
As the parking area around the farmhouse fills in with trucks and utility vehicles, all the guests begin to pack into the large gathering room, surrounded by the smell of good, old-fashioned country cooking. Marc welcomes all of us with a quick safety chat, followed by a blessing, before we all dig in to the feast set in front of us. Paper plates overloaded with steaming food float around the house as sweet tea is generously poured into Styrofoam cups. As we eat, Joe Geil is sitting on the front steps holding court and telling stories. “Some of them are even true!” he says.
In between bites, Marc pops in and out of conversations, with a map and list in hand, providing each group of hunters with instructions on where to go and when they should head out. Even though Sturdy Oak is very large, the farmhouse and dove fields are clustered together on the north-side of the property, which makes managing this group of almost a hundred hunters easier to manage. I ask Marc how many usually participate in the hunt, and he responds, “We have a good number of die-hard folks who show up every year regardless, but many rotate through every two or three years. It all depends on weather, and which college football games are being played!”
This group of hunters is an eclectic mix of folks: local neighbors from Wilcox County, family members from Atlanta, fellow Mobilians and friends, and even college classmates hailing from both Marc’s and my alma mater, Sewanee: The University of the South. Some are first timers, but most have been coming for many years.
Winton Blount, another Sewanee graduate and native of Montgomery, has been coming since 1986. “I know our fellow Sewanee guys and a few of the Mobile folks, but year over year, I always get to meet new people who come through. It feels like being part of an extended family.” Riley Copeland proudly beams, “I’ve been coming to this hunt for 36 years. Marc puts on a great show.”
There are entire families participating: husbands, wives, children, along with furry companions. Dogs excitedly dart in and out of the house, under legs, hoping for scraps but ready for the hunt.
As we ease into early afternoon, the crowd begins to disperse and the sounds of vehicles firing up begin to fill the air. Smaller groups form around truck beds, as hunters load their gear, laughing and bragging about how many birds they plan to shoot out of the sky. Marc is busy giving final instructions to each group, promising that the birds will show later in the afternoon. I hear someone yell out, “I don’t care where you put me, Marc, just put me in the shade!” Marc chuckles and shakes his head, “I’ve already heard that multiple times today. I just want to put them where the birds are.”
As the dry dust kicks up behind the trucks as they head out to the fields, Marc lingers behind to ensure everyone is taken care of. “It’s a labor of love. I spend all year keeping up with the property, cultivating the fields and maintaining the roads,” he says. “It isn’t something that just happens, but it’s something that I want to share with others. It’s good for the soul.”
The Set Up
It’s mid-afternoon, and the farmhouse has grown quiet. I grab my gear and hop into the front seat of Marc’s truck. His beagle, Bob, hops into the back seat and promptly sticks his head and paws out the window, ready for the ride. The truck bed is loaded with some coolers and a few of the wives, including Marc’s wife Margaret, perch themselves on the toolbox with cocktails in hand.
Marc doesn’t hunt himself anymore; his enjoyment comes from riding between the fields, conversing and watching others shoot. He also enjoys bringing his two daughters, Bebe and Skinner, up. “They’ve been coming up here since before they could walk, and love bringing their friends,” he says. Just as he’s bragging about them, the girls roll up next to us in a Polaris Ranger with two of their close school friends. The girls are laughing and telling jokes, even as Marc is attempting to direct them to a field to check on some of the shooters.
As we bounce down the dirt road towards the fields, Marc explains that the property used to be utilized for farming and raising cattle. “My father actually went to school to be an engineer, but felt called to come back and manage the farm. He spent years clearing the property to support farming and cattle operations. As he got older and I started to take over the property, I decided to plant more trees and develop it for hunting and wildlife enjoyment. I don’t think he was very happy with me when I started to plant and undo all his hard work!”
As I look out the window, the tree line gives way to the dove fields, beautifully tilled and turned over. The fields extend out over several acres, with a few majestic oaks left behind and hay bales strategically placed for the hunters. Several of the trees are much older and dying, which saddens Marc. “These are special places where multiple generations of family members have shot doves in the exact same place.” He points out a father and son sitting under one in the distance, “That’s Dr. James Allison and his son, James. Dr. Allison has been hunting here since 1969 in the exact same place, under that oak tree.” Marc has already planted new saplings next to the ones that are dying, hoping to replicate and capture the magic that’s been happening here for almost 60 years.
Further down the road, we approach a cluster of trucks, utility vehicles, and hunters milling about off the far corner of the last field. As we get closer, Marc and I realize why everybody has congregated here. A resourceful hunter brought his big screen TV and stuck it on the tailgate of his truck, playing the Auburn vs. Texas A&M football game. Marc laughs, “I told you I always have to worry about which college football games are being played this same weekend!” It’s still only mid-afternoon, so the doves haven’t fully begun their fateful descent into the fields yet, a fact being taken advantage of by these football fans. Elsewhere, other hunters are setting up their blinds, unfolding their chairs, and setting out their guns in preparation for that magic word to be yelled through the fields, “Bird!”
Meanwhile, in the bed of the truck, the wives are enjoying the ride, laughing, conversing, enjoying their cocktails. Mary Geil is among this group of wives and proudly exclaims, “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be!” At that exact moment, we just so happen to pass her husband Joe in the field. He has just finished hammering down the stakes for his blind. He sees us, flashes a big grin and gives an enthusiastic thumbs up. Everybody waves as we continue our trek around the field.
The Payoff
As the afternoon wears on, it becomes obvious that the birds are starting to come in. Shots are echoing off the slowly swaying pines, puffs of smoke are exploding out the barrel of the guns, and pellets begin to rain down over the freshly tilled dirt, as we all start to hear the shouts. “Low bird!” “Coming over the treeline!” It’s chaotic, yet inspiring listening to these hunters scattered throughout the fields continue to call out birds, even for other shooters. It also wouldn’t be a proper hunt without some good, ole fashioned ribbing and chest thumping. “I shot that bird – it’s mine!” “You couldn’t hit the broadside of a barn!” “How did you miss that one?!” “That’s a $25 bird if I’ve ever seen one!”
After we complete our final loop, Marc is emphatic, “Grab your gun. We got too many birds and not enough hunters.” I dutifully and excitedly obey, and make my way around the tree line to find a good spot. I end up sitting my chair next to Robert Jones, who is Marc’s third cousin and a Wilcox County native. Sitting next to Robert at attention is Miller, his 13-year-old Boykin Spaniel whose namesake is Marc’s great grandfather. Robert remarks, “It’s a miracle that this dog made it to another season. Many Boykins don’t last beyond 12 years.” Within a few moments, a few doves dive into the field from the pine stand behind us. BANG! BANG! Bird’s down. Within a few seconds, Miller responds like a seasoned veteran, finds the downed dove and enthusiastically brings it back to Robert.
“One year, I had to drive 1,300 miles across the country to make this hunt, but it was worth the drive. I wouldn’t miss this hunt for the world.”
Celebration
The sun dips behind the trees as dusk approaches. The sounds of vehicles trekking back to the farmhouse fill the air. As we approach the house, shouts of “How many did you get?” ring across the parking area. A few tailgates have been lowered, the legs of hunters dangling over the edge as tales are weaved regaling those clustered around on the day’s events. A few cold beverages have been cracked open, as a band warms up under the pavilion behind the farmhouse.
The hunt has now become a celebration. It’s a celebration of a successful hunt and a picture-perfect day, but it’s mostly a celebration of quality time spent with family and friends. As I load my gear back into my truck, Nancy Lansing, Marc’s sister, approaches me, “Growing up here changed my perspective,” she tells me. “It’s a special place. Instead of going to the beach for Spring Break, my kids always choose to bring their friends here.”
It’s dark now, and the band is about to start their first set. Marc, our gracious host, works the crowd, smiling and laughing. “I’m already starting to plan for next year. I hope you can join us.” I look at him, shake his hand and tell him, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
