I went for my first lone turkey hunt Sunday morning after getting a late start on the season for various reasons, partly due to a sprained ankle.

In choosing where to hunt, I looked for one accessible from a hardball road to accommodate my passenger car, and readily accessible on foot since I am not ready to take off on one of my typically brisk cross-country walks.

I called the night before to check in and learned that three hunters were already checked into one of my chosen areas, and none in the other. Good. Plenty of dirt left for me.

I arrived at my chosen area about 6:10. After organizing my gear and grabbing my shotgun, I stepped out and closed the car door. I was alone under the light of a bright crescent moon. I froze for a moment, then remembered that man is the most dangerous predator in the woods, and that this wo-man was carrying a shotgun with a hellacious round in it.

So I listened to the night.

A whippoorwill announced the coming dawn. I crossed the road and waited a moment for the darkness to swallow the sound of my footsteps.

I bit down on my new crow call and blew, three times, loud and long.

Nothing.

Again. And again nothing.

Off to my left an owl hooted.

Nothing gobbled in response. This was not a good sign. I waited a moment and crow called again.

After a couple more minutes, I crossed the noisy gravel on the shoulder of the road to walk more quietly down the asphalt.

After another couple hundred yards, I stepped into the grass, waited, and crow called again. All I got was another hoot from the same owl, now farther to my left.

Daylight was coming up fast. I decided to repeat my walk and call routine once more then set up. About that time I saw headlights. A vehicle turned off the road about a quarter of a mile away. Too close. I returned to my car and drove well past where I estimated the other vehicle had turned off, then parked, got out, crow called again, and again heard nothing.

By now I no longer needed a flashlight to walk into the woods. There was a lot of fallen timber, which means a lot of habitat for rattlesnakes. Ever hear of timber rattlers? Although I was wearing 16-inch snakeboots, I didn't want to risk a strike higher on my body, so I looked before I stepped.

The dawning light was casting shadows directly towards the creek bed I hoped held at least one gobbler, so I looked for a tree whose shadow was wide enough to hide mine. For some reason most of them leaned downhill, which would make for uncomfortable seating, but I finally found a good tree, flipped down the cushion that is attached to my turkey vest, and settled in with my calls and my gun. I practiced sighting in on the paths I thought a gobbler would be most likely to take, and then practiced switching sides in case one surprised me and came in from my right. For each route I estimated 40 yards out. I knew my 3.5 inch round would likely kill a bird at a greater range, but I might be estimating the distance wrong, so I stuck to the 40 yards.

I sat still for a few moments before striking up with a borrowed glass call. The sound I made with it was awful, inconsistent. Horrified, I realized I should not have sanded it again--it had been calling great before that. I should have left well enough alone. Finally I found one sweet spot, and called until I felt like I had a successful series of yelps. I have heard that turkeys respond to the last thing they hear, so if you make a bad call but follow it with a good one, they might still come in. I hoped that was true.

No gobble. No yelp.

I clucked with my favorite mouth call and felt the tape slip completely off the metal. I figured it was done for, so I just shut up and waited, hoping for one of those gobblers who just comes in silently.

After 45 minutes, I figured he wasn't coming, so I got up and moved back to the road. I drove another quarter mile or so. Before I got out of the call, I managed to get the tape back around the metal of my mouth call and prayed it would hold up for the rest of the morning.

I stepped off into the woods and crow called. I waited a few minutes, then I yelped, cackled, purred. By then I was thinking, what the heck? I shut up for a few minutes and set up on another tree. After calling then waiting another 45 minutes or so, I moved down the road twice more and set up two more times. The fourth time was the only time I heard what might have been a kee kee and a purr. That might have just been wishful thinking. I responded with some friendly encouraging clucks, then after a bit, a yelp and a little purr of my own. I tried to remember not to call too much.

I did see a pair of small red headed woodpeckers. Several years ago I saw a HUGE red headed woodpecker, clearly of a different species. I don't know which, if either, is the protected "red cockaded woodpecker," the small or the large.

The only tracks I saw the whole morning were mine and those of a dog. The dog tracks were fresh since the rain the day before. I saw them while walking in to where I set up last.

At 10:00 I called it a morning and headed out. I stopped for a photo of the Eagle Point obstacles on 2d Armored Division Road. As I eased my car through the Sand Hill checkpoint at the required 5 mph, one of the men checking IDs turned, saw my access pass, saw my camouflaged clothing, and frowned and stared at me. (Wonder why?)

All in all I consider the morning a success. I made it out there, I got out of the car, I called, I moved, I remembered what I feared I had forgotten, and I thoroughly enjoyed the sounds and smells of the woods.