Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
I believe O that turkey hunting is, at its essence, a solitary endeavor. The extra noise of two or more people, the near immoral temptation to place the shooter some distance in front of the caller, the sacrificing of the rejuvenating elixir that only comes with being alone with nature . . . for these reasons and more, spring turkey hunting is best experienced alone. But this day, ah, but this day was different. A love for the outdoors and everything in it had been a gift from my father to me, and today it was my turn to begin the process of re-wrapping this gift for my daughter Katie. I shudder to think how much less my life would be without this special gift, and genuinely mourn for those who were not as blessed in their youth as I, and for whom now, the full measure of this love is lost forever. I don't recall a day in the woods ever failing to thank God for his Creation, and my Dad for teaching me to enjoy it. My hope this morning is that another step will be taken on a road that will lead my daughter to many happy and fulfilling days spent outdoors. The steady banging from a loose piece of tin caused by a cold north wind had simultaneously awakened me, and somewhat lowered my expectations for my daughter's first turkey hunt. I believed she deserved that all three legs of the "perfect weather triangle" be present for her muchanticipated big day, but it appeared that "crisp and clear" would have to live without the "still." She may as well learn early on that perfect mornings are few, and maybe she would one day treasure them as I do. For an 11-year-old, 4 a.m. is the middle of the night, but Katie woke with an excitement that thrilled me. I was excited too, and in truth had most likely looked forward to this day more than she had. We gathered our gear mostly in the dark, and talked all the while in whispers, though I don't know why. One becomes accustomed to conversing in muted tones while hunting, and though I suppose (but am not 100 percent sure) a turkey couldn't hear us inside the camp house, we were taking no chances. Besides, in my mind, the hunt had already begun. As far back as I can remember, my daughter has been at war with her socks. Mostly, she went without, but for Sunday church, school and certain social occasions, nobody went anywhere until she got her socks to fit. I don't know why I thought that going hunting would be any different. Even though precious minutes were slipping by, I just had to keep reminding myself that today was about her – and for her – not me. Eventually, she took a few tentative steps in her new boots, pronounced the socks serviceable and we finally headed out. We got on the ATV, she wrapped her arms around me, and the questions began: "Do turkeys like cold weather? Why don't you turn the lights on bright? Will the gunshot be louder in the woods? Do you know where you're going? What if we get lost? Etc., etc., etc. . . ." S P O R T I n this particular morning, I didn't have much hope for actually killing a turkey. The only gobbling tom I knew about had already been called to by some good turkey hunters and had steadfastly refused their offerings. My main goal was for Katie to at least hear a gobbling turkey. To me, there are few sounds in nature that compare to this often heard but mostly unseen, mysterious and spine-tingling challenge. Could it, would it, or even should it affect her as it does me? Hopefully, this would be the morning I would find out. I drove as close as I dared, we uncased her shotgun and eased the final 200 yards toward a backwater cypress pond. According to fellow club members, our quarry had the habit of roosting over the water, and just as reliably flying down on the other side if he heard something he didn't like. Since the other side was across the property line, he was no one's favorite adversary. But since my goal was for Katie to just hear one, he seemed the most likely prospect. Maybe before he flew down he would give us the concert I so wanted Katie to hear. We picked out a spot under a big water oak and waited for daylight. I looked at the girl sitting beside me, and thought of the countless mornings I had sat next to my Dad waiting for a squirrel to climb within range of my .22, a deer to walk by or a turkey to gobble. Her eyes widened at the loud and scratchy squawking of a great blue heron, and got even wider when an owl began to hoot right over our head. I thought my Dad could do anything, and I wondered if Katie was as confident in my ability to protect her from all the critters we were hearing, to lure in the regal bird and get us safely back to camp. My reverie was broken by a lusty gobble almost directly in front of us. Katie smiled, gave me a little nudge and whispered, "There he is Daddy; now call him closer so I can see him!" I told her I would try, and stroked out as perfect a tree yelp as I've ever heard. Evidently the gobbler had heard better and said nothing. When he started gobbling again, I clucked on my slate (again a perfect call) and he hushed again. He responded to a lone gobble some distance behind us, and answered the prayer I had been mumbling for ten minutes by flying down on our side of the pond. Once on the ground, he began gobbling in earnest. No longer content to just hear one, now I want this turkey! When the time seemed just right, calling on all my years of experience in the turkey woods I gave him the best little series of calls I had; he didn't say a word for a full five minutes. A rookie my daughter may be, but all of this was not lost on her. "I don't think you should call anymore Daddy, he gobbles at everything but you." How could this sweet child, named after my sainted grandmother and loved beyond measure, utter such a hurtful phrase? Even though her words cut me to the core, they were, unfortunately true. Every crow, owl N G C 128 L A S S I C S