The first time my buddy Taz volunteered to take me into the woods and teach me how to turkey hunt, first-hand, my introductory lesson was postponed. I remember the day very well, April 16, 1990.
My wife had the audacity to start having labor pains the night before. I already had my camo and boots laid out, my shotgun in its case, parked next to the basement door, my shells and an old Lynch’s box call tucked away in a pocket, waiting for its 4 a.m. wake-up call. My wife delivered the news, I shrugged, then called Taz to cancel.
Katie Grace, who will finish her freshman year of college next month, wasn’t born until the next afternoon. After a fitful night’s semi-sleep, the phone woke me at around 7:15 a.m. It was Taz, calling from a scenic overlook where the highway came across the top of the ridge that marked the eastern continental divide — the first place he could pick up cellular service. He reported that he had a big gobbler on the floorboard in front of the passenger’s seat — right where I was supposed to be sitting.
I missed out on that hunt, but I have made up for it ever since, rarely missing the opportunity to stumble into the woods before dawn, to climb a mountain or walk a logging road, finally stopping, listening to my own heavy breathing and pounding heart, waiting for a gobbler to announce that he was awake and ready for business.
The first nine years, I made every mistake possible. I missed one bird because it was Big John’s turn to shoot, and I sat with my gun across my lap, a slate call in hand, waiting for him to squeeze the trigger. I realized too late, when the bird turned to leave, that a stump in front of Big John obscured his view of the turkey, and I saluted the tom with a futile load of No. 4s as it trotted away. For several years, you could see the peppering the load of shot left on the trunk of a downrange beech tree.
Several times, I passed up marginal shots, waiting for better ones that never presented themselves. I sat in front of one tree and called for 15 minutes, waited another 15 minutes in silence, then got up to move and flushed a gobbler that was standing just over a rise, 30 yards away.
It got so bad that every time I screwed up, I figured that was my one chance for the season. Then, one day, something strange happened — I didn’t make a mistake; the bird did. I squeezed the trigger, almost ripped my pants leg crawling through the strands of a barbed-wire fence to get to him and put my tag around his leg.
The next year, I did it again. And the next year, I did it again. I decided, “Hey, I could get used to this.” That’s pretty much how it’s gone the past 10 years. I’ve killed a bird every year except one, filled more than one tag several different times and was lucky enough to call in my son’s first gobbler three years ago.
I start looking forward to turkey season around New Year’s Day. Once in a while, I clear a day in April to fish for crappie or bass, but I almost always regret it — even if the crappie filets are tasty. The three or four mornings a week I’m not glued to the front of my computer, getting this magazine ready to go to the printer, I’m glued to the trunk of an oak or pine, waiting for the monarch of the forest to come into view.
My heart pounds every time one steps out; I hope that never changes. Why do you think the photo that accompanies this column features my biggest tom? Because there’s no 8-point buck or 10-pound bass out there that can match a big longbeard. At least, I haven’t met one yet.
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