As we scoot along into June the fishing season is in full swing and I already have stories to tell. Before I do that, it’s last call for the spring turkey hunting season. I actually have a couple of good stories but in the interest of time and space I will slice that down to just the best.

Like all turkey stories this one starts out in the morning darkness. Over the years it has become a simple pleasure of sorts to sit in a turkey blind to watch and listen as the new day comes into focus. I even make side bets with myself as to who or what is going to wake the turkeys up on each day. The usual suspects in that awakening are always the same: it’s either the crows, the geese, or once in a while it’s the owls. For reference, if you want to play the short odds, bet on the crows.

Right on cue, a crow called off in the distance which started off a gobbling domino effect. The first gobble seemed to be located below me on the hillside. That caused a tom to sound off across the valley which in turn caused a tom in the east to wake up. The tree gobbling continued as the grey morning gave way to shooting light. As fly down approached I was able to pinpoint six different toms. Some were off in the distance, but I figured half were close enough to possibly end my morning hunt early.

Now I could continue with that part of the story but I’m going to fast forward to the point where I had a tom gobbling and easing towards me. I guessed he was about 50 yards away when a hen slipped in between us and she lured him away. It was frustrating watching him follow her around like a puppy but in a way, it was also kind of interesting watching the scene play out. On one hand, if he chose me, he would end up being the guest of honor at dinner but on the other hand, if he chose her, well, he would choose wisely.

The last thing I saw was the tom’s fan dipping behind a brushite. Suddenly the woods were quiet and not as interesting as two minutes earlier.  That changed when I heard two more hens below me. The hen chatter suddenly stopped when a tom gobbled. My morning was about to get interesting again and in a hurry.

A hen appeared from behind a tree, and then another hen and another hen. I was at number seven but there could have been more because I stopped counting when a strutting tom eased into view. I don’t know what it is, but strutting toms give off a sense of cool. They also seem to know that about themselves. At any rate, they sure are pretty awesome to watch.

While the tom strutted, the hens walked right to me. I would never count my turkeys before they’re on the ground, but the odds were tilting severely in my favor. When two more toms slipped in behind the first one, I was in awe and a little nervous. I’m not sure how many turkeys I’ve shot over the years but this moment of the hunt never gets old. I remained motionless as I counted down in my head the distance that I guessed the tom was from me. When I got to 20, I knew it was time.

The feeling that I was trying to describe earlier, as the final seconds of the hunt unfold, is a special time. So is walking up to your bird. That routine is always the same in that the beard and spurs get noticed first followed by a quick hoist to judge the weight of the bird. That part of the hunt never gets old either.

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