Ever since I started chasing mourning doves in the 1980s, the first day of September has always served as hallowed ground on my annual calendar.

In fact, I can only remember two times in the last 20 years or so that I haven't been out on Sept. 1 when the law comes off the first hunting season of the fall here in Texas.

One of those times occurred during my health crisis a few years back and another when I was in Colorado vainly trying to tag an archery bull elk a year later.

So it shouldn't surprise anyone that knows me well that on Sept. 1st this week, I found myself in an extremely muddy harvested grain field in northern Collin County with my much weathered Remington 870 in hand.

Along with my two sons, Zach and Will.

Readers of this drivel might remember a different type of opening day dove hunting "storm" that I wrote about a couple of years ago when the three of us enjoyed one of the most epic days of wingshooting I've ever seen.

All as a hot, dusty blast furnace-like wind blew across the blistered Lone Star landscape.

This year, however, our presence on the biggest hunting day in Texas came despite the weatherman's best attempt -- not to mention my job's best effort -- to drive me from opening day for only the third time ever.

That was thanks to the soaking thunderstorms that dropped copious amounts of rainfall on the Red River Valley, more than 10 inches in some places.

Enough H2O where we were hunting to necessitate the use of 4WD low as we traversed a greasy slick quagmire masquerading as a dirt road.

While Dad kept a nervous eye to the dark sky as one huge thunderstorm skirted south of our location and another slipped by to the north in southern Grayson County, my two boys paid no attention to the inclement conditions.

Instead, they eagerly scanned the skies for the swooping form of mourning doves on the wing.

"Dad, here comes one!" each cried more than once.

While I'd like to tell you that we limited out, that simply didn't happen.

Some of that was due to the flighty nature of mourning doves on the wing, some of that was due to our own shooting efforts.

And while I had a few moments of wingshooting brilliance, I also had more than a few times of scattergunning that proved anemic at best.

But what mattered most was simply being there again to soak it all in -- literally, I might add.

All the while as I watched the excitement of my two sons hunting doves with an unbridled passion that looks like a familiar chip off the old block.

While our hunting companions -- Delbert Vest of Denison and his son Toby -- had arrived much earlier in the afternoon when the shooting was much steadier, the three Burkhead boys stuck it out to the bitter end.

Killing a few doves here and there.

Before finally being rewarded for our patience as we turned back to the east and witnessed one of the most awesome sights any of us will ever see while hunting.

That sight -- a brilliant double rainbow -- came courtesy of the wet atmospheric conditions we had previously bemoaned and the welcome late afternoon sun that finally began to show its presence beneath the western edge of the cloud cover.

While our dove bags were somewhat meager as the minutes of legal shooting ticked down, the three of us stood in silence witnessing the phenomenal display.

The thumbprint of God, if you will, in the eastern sky.

On an opening day that none of our trio will ever forget.

Even if it left us all shivering and soaking wet.