Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
and woodpecker had been dutifully answered. With so much gobbling, how could he not answer me out of sheer habit? I told my newly astute companion that we would just sit and listen for a while (that is, if he ever started gobbling again), and see what happens. Eventually, the tom recovered from the shock of my calls and renewed his efforts to assemble his harem. Katie leaned back against my chest, and I wrapped her in my arms to help shield her from the cold. A s we listened to the gobbler add his calls to the symphony of swamp sounds, my thoughts went back to exactly 20 years ago where, on this same property, my Dad and I went on his last turkey hunt. It was the last day of the season, and I put him on a gobbler that had fooled everyone in camp at least once that year. This tom gobbled so low you had to be within 150 yards to hear him. Every morning he was in the same general area, could be counted on to gobble, and could also be counted on to not come in. My father called mostly with his natural voice; and between that and his 1958 Model Lynch box (plus an amount of patience found in few hunters today), he was a real master. If Dad had been allowed to script a hunt that he knew would be his last, I don't believe it could have been any better than this one. It was a perfect morning, in the middle of some of the prettiest old growth hardwoods I've ever seen. Not long after the battle started, a longbeard snuck within easy range, but Dad let him go, because "big boy" was still hammering. I heard him shoot about 8:30, then listened for and heard his triumphant "yee-haw." The long-spurred gobbler turned out to be one of his best, and sadly, his last. Though Dad was only 52 years old and in fine health, his Continued on 198 Katie, the author's 11-year-old daughter, shoulders her "spirit bird." S P O R T I N G C 129 L A S S I C S