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 As a student who is passionate about hunting, I often become frustrated when my time must be consumed by volumes of literature, theses and lab reports. The sheer thought of a double major in biology and philosophy seems nothing short of insane at times. Nonetheless, I value the opportunity for quality education, and know I will ultimately better myself with this balancing act my obligations constantly force me to master. I wasn't able to welcome spring turkey season as warmly as I would have liked, and only had four Saturdays free in which to crank up my calling, hone my "turkey-flirting-skills," and harvest a gobbler or jake for table fare. But making the most of the time God allows me, whether through charity or hunting or writing or what-have-you, is like a gift within a gift that blossoms in newfound meaning with the beginning of every blessed day. I am determined not to take it for granted.
I planned on doing a partner-hunt the first Saturday, my dad joining me under the agreement a trophy turkey-well, any male bird for that matter-would be my target. This arrangement was stated only to humor me; it is an unspoken father-daughter law that I always get first dibs (even if Dad does jump to the plate rather quickly when I decline). I arose that morning with an ease that is never present during the weekdays. It was dark and I was feeling chills; I suppose this early-bird program was stressing my system! The cold subsided as I put on layer upon layer of hunting gear, and folded the "good luck" picture my dad drew me inside my back pocket. The thick, coal black ink ran across the length of the paper. I had accidentally washed that drawing with the laundry one too many times and its substance had gone from fibers of durability to a more baby-soft texture with weak wrinkles, but its meaning was indelible. Thoughts of that awaiting outdoor haven lifted with the steam from my hot cocoa as my dad and I walked briskly out the door before day broke. My arm cradled my 12-gauge shotgun while my slate calls kept rhythm with swift strides of two eager adventurers.
The creek bottoms were finally upon us, and I hastily brushed away the crisp leaves to reveal spongy soil that would be less likely to betray our presence behind the blind. Time passed. A lone ray of sun danced on the dull surface of a sapling near me, and acute silence was broken by the resounding "gobble" of a mature tom. After an endless wait, two birds revealed themselves, crossing from left to right about one hundred yards in front of me. They remained comfortably out of range as they circled behind our setup and crossed the creek trickling behind us.
The damp woodlands were drenched with God's peace, and I had not the slightest idea that hours, and not merely minutes, had elapsed. Another noise, behind me and to my left, hinted of the returning turkeys in close proximity to our blind. An oak tree completely blocked my view, but Dad was in an ideal position to see them, so he narrated their actions faithfully until they reached an opening. Only then did I realize Dad must have been going crazy, as that set of game birds was nothing at which to sneeze. The largest jake's beard was long, and though not exactly sweeping the ground, it was displayed proudly. The others had thicker, stubbier beards and spurs that had not yet attained sharp points and the smallest jake had a head covered in feathers. That's right. The supposed jake was actually a bearded hen hanging out with two younger bachelor birds. The dominant jake led the others around in front of me, and soon they were within easy range. The birds, however, employed another subtly antagonistic move, staying close together so as not to allow a clean shot at a single bird. How aggravating that was! My sensing that something was not quite right interrupted the mode of serious application of the responsibilities of the hunt I had entered. I did not need to look at Dad to know the questions his anxiety had raised: "Take either of the two, they're both nice," "If you wait any longer they'll surely be gone," and "Why aren't you shooting?" Of course, I realized that as a seasoned pro, he also understood that an admirable hunter conscientiously waits for only the perfect opportunity for the cleanest kill, and he knew that I could do nothing less. That said, I narrated everything before me which was now blocked from his vision, whispering why I chose every second not to fire after holding aim so long.
 The moment did come for me on this hunt, the larger jake separating himself for the brief instant allowing me to squeeze off a charming shot. I had cleared the blind in an instant, with my gun over the bird that was now ignoring the beads of scarlet blood and flapping wildly. Avoiding powerful wings and wicked spurs, I tried in vain for a half of second to reach for the turkey's neck; my dad beat me to it. I was no stranger to hunting, and I knew the commonness with which a perfectly dead bird yields to nerves as this one was doing. Likewise, I also realized that on the flip side, a suffering animal was nothing I ever want a part of, so I acted accordingly. While I still wanted to put some more lead into him for insurance, Dad twisted his neck and was satisfied that he had grounded his daughter's prize. As the hunter, it was still my responsibility to quiet the situation, even when my shot itself had been perfectly placed. Good or bad, we had gotten caught in the moment and ended up breaking the bird's broken neck thrice. The seriousness with which we undertake our hunts will never be lost. I knelt with my harvest in this cool and beautiful paradise and lifted my gratitude and praise to God for this blessing. I had honored God by taking one of His very creatures for the nourishment of my family, possible only with His grace, love, and pure doing. The tidal wave of mixed emotions caught me yet again, and after fervently thanking my Father, I arose and celebrated with my dad, a high-five and embrace, together admiring the beauty of spiritual and neighborly concert.
I love my dad's way with me. While I'll always be his "little girl," I am an adult to the rest of the world, and he is careful not to be lenient or shallow with me. What exactly do I mean by this? He has respected my passion for political science before I was able to vote, and has always met my heartfelt social deliberations with sincere intelligence and stamina, intensifying and empowering this worldly enthusiasm of mine. During my childhood Dad did not hesitate to let my tender finger feel the slippery scales of a fish or the burrs of a contoured antler for the sake of guarding femininity. It is clear to me that the strength and spiritual repose of the woodlands preserve more than femininity in the huntress. The very relationship between God and His children is sealed when we commune with Him in the serene beauty away from hectic schedules and relentless obligations. But back to the hunt. I shot a funny look at Dad as he handed my turkey to me with a little smile. I am positive that he enjoyed my having to struggle with a heavy turkey, a heavy gun, and two cumbersome seats while he traipsed around freehanded and jolly. Thick mud almost sucked my boots off my feet as I led the way out of the creek bottoms. My "problems" were appreciated by the one seasoned hunter who chuckled knowingly behind me. If only he knew how my solo hunt next Saturday afternoon would turn out...
To be continued in Time for Turkeys, Part II
Kimberly Kanapeckas © 09 February 2003
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