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 The morning came quickly, yet the hours passed so slowly in the blind. I was without a hunting partner, and my mind drifted to those times before when my dad and I would almost get "bush-delirious" in each other's presence, comparing stomach growls like trophies and laughing at a squirrel barking with an awkward, pathetic whine. My grin would spread wider and wider, and Dad could not keep from giggling when his head slowly turned in my direction. Heading home, we laughed even as we sloshed across the spring that harbored cool algae and clear bubbles, chuckling at whatever struck us the right way. Continued seriousness that kills the fun in hunting is not an issue with the two of us. I smiled at these recollections and packed up to head home for lunch.
The next morning I woke up a minute before my alarm sounded. It is amazing how we hunters set our internal time to coincide with hunting season. Well, then again it may not only be for that, but also because of so dreading the shrill and annoying tone of the inconsiderately rude alarm clock. That beep, beep, beep just has a way of waking me up on the wrong side of my bed. So I looked at the illuminated digits: five twenty-five. I promised Dad I would go out with him this morning, but it was a Saturday and that desire for a few more hours of sleep prevailed. I walked downstairs and told Dad he would have the woods alone this morning, and sleepwalked back to my room, my head finding the pillow soon after ascending the stairs.
Twelve o'clock noon found me giving my second yawn of the morning, and I felt rested enough to conquer the rest of the day. I made some lunch and as I sat down at the dining room table Dad came rushing from the basement with the look of a young boy in the midst of adventure. He excitedly relayed a heart-pounding story of a huge gobbler answering his call behind him across the creek paralleling our property. Stopping my dad mid-sentence, I calmed him down so he could be understood. He fervently tried to coax the tom over the bank but was unsuccessful. The turkey would only come so far, seemingly beckoning for his "darlin" to come to him instead. So Dad asked me if I was going out this afternoon. I looked at my watch. It was after one, so I could run errands and make it out to the blind before four. "Sure," I said, "I'm up for it this evening." "I'm gonna get 'im, ya know that, right? Gonna getcha bird, Dad, show ya how it's done!"
I unlocked the gun cabinet and took out my 12-gauge, put my favorite slate call in my pocket, strapped my seat to my back, and pulled on my knee-high rubber boots. Routine preparation, but I recall noting just how much preparation occurs when readying for the hunt. Unfazed, I flipped my netting over my head and left. It was warm for mid-April, and the sun rays darted lazily from the oak trees to the cedars, speeding up only when bouncing off the metal door to the utility shed. The forest was alive with sounds as I slowly made my way deeper into the hardwoods.
I arrived at the absolute perfect spot, and like a Spanish conquistador, ground my decoy into the yielding earth. I got myself situated in the blind, rested my shotgun and back on the tree behind me, and took the call from my pocket onto my lap. Taking a deep breath and letting the netting fall over my eyes like a veil, I prepared to get comfortable so as to make several hours of silence most beneficial. Unfortunately, a nice sharp rock happened to be right where I chose to sit. If I moved to the left or right I would have to give up the vantage point of high ground, and if I moved forward I would be unable to see behind me on either side. Additionally, the rock was deeply embedded in the soil, and had no plans of being uprooted to accommodate a finicky lady. The writing was on the wall: "get used to it." The rock - and I - were there to stay.
As the hours passed, I saw several songbirds stop on low-hanging branches and chirp little melodies to encourage my decoy to add to their conversation. She wasn't talking; I decided to talk for her. Picking up my call, I gave a few seductive purrs that led into a soft putt. Of course, I was hoping that a handsome bachelor would show his interest. Amazingly, not a minute later I saw a little red shape bobbing up and down far in the distance. I strained to make out whatever it was, although I already knew. He was absolutely huge, and looked as if he was on a mission. Dad's bird was coming my way.
As the old tom closed the distance between us, a blocking tree allowed me to raise my gun without his knowledge. He walked down a ravine, and I knew when he came out he would be within range. An eternity seemed to pass and I began to wonder whether he decided to walk the ravine parallel to the creek and deny me a chance at him. Finally, that lovely little featherless head popped back up. I rested my cheek to the gun, took my shooting breath, and leveled the beads onto his neck. But a branch was preventing a clear shot. No, this just could not be as close as I was going to get, it just couldn't. I flipped the safety back on and waited. The turkey walked right past my decoy at a ridiculously brisk pace, and I wanted to grab him by the neck and tell him that he needed to stand still for one moment.
 He soon directly behind me; I could not see him. I heard the flapping wings that told me he thought his lover was calling from across the creek. I gave him time to walk a few steps, and then cranked up my calling louder than ever before. In my mind I could just see his eyes light up, but he wanted her to follow him. He moved a little to his right and displayed a beautiful fan, an iridescent spectrum of color I cold see only out of the corner of my eye. I spaced my calling and watched him present himself from all angles, awestruck by this bird's beauty. One more time I used my slate call; he deflated his fluffy-feather self and after a little hesitation flew back to my side of the creek. I eased my back all the way flush with the tree and cursed the mossy rock beneath me. The gobbler used his same robotically fast pace and positioned himself for an ideal shot at thirty yards or so. I wasted no time shooting, and was on him before he stopped flapping. I really worked for this one, and the feeling upon harvesting him was wonderful. The blessed experience was a lesson in perseverance.
I put the shotgun's sling over my shoulder and took a strong grip on the tom's legs upon tagging them. I walked through deep standing water and soon got a true picture of just how heavy he was. My college was enjoying a spring concert when I drove the gobbler to the local check station. If only they knew what else could make a spring day even more beautiful! This trophy bird weighed in at over twenty pounds, with a 7/8 inch spurs and a decent beard. While I will never know for sure, I am quite certain that turkey I harvested was the same one that never offered Dad a shot early that same morning. I'll never forget that solo hunt.
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