Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/116174
K First & Last My instructions were interrupted by a deadly accurate load of Number 6s. I must have jumped clean over her, because in later retellings Katie said in her highly animated way that I jumped over bushes and logs, tore off my mask and cap, and dove on top of the flopping bird. I'll never forget the look on her face: surprise, astonishment, and no small amount of pride for a job well done. To say that Papa was proud just doesn't do the word justice. atie whispered that "being a rock with eyes," as I told her she must become, was "making her cold," and "when was the turkey going to come in?" I agreed with her that something needed to happen, and suggested that she give calling a try. I grimaced at the un-rhythmic and squeaky sounds she coaxed from my box call. And then, to my utter amazement, a loud answering gobble rattled the leaves on the trees. Less than a minute after her first call I spotted his snowball of a head weaving and bobbing, heading straight for us. This moment is always the same for me. My heart begins beating at a racehorse pace, and all my senses are fixed on one thing. Everything to the side goes blurry, but that big beautiful turkey is crystal clear. In a very short time, a winner and a loser is going to be declared. You just never know. "There he is," I whispered. "Do you see him?" Katie didn't answer, but I saw her head sink down a touch lower on the stock, and her grip on the singleshot 20 got a little tighter. When he stopped at 18 steps and stretched to take a good look around, I said, "You better shoot him . . ." Continued from 129 love for game law enforcement would ultimately cause his death. He was a high school teacher by occupation, but served as a state deputy game warden for 18 years. He was very proud when I was sworn in as a fulltime officer four years earlier, and together we chased and caught our share of violators. But that next winter, on a bitterly cold January night, he was murdered while trying to arrest a deer-shiner. One blast from a 12-gauge loaded with buckshot took his life, and with it, the best friend I ever had. More than once in the years since that terrible night, while on this piece of property I'd gotten the feeling that somehow, some way he was here. Impossible, I know, and yet . . . In the early morning fog swirling above a beaver pond, or in the dark recesses of a canebrake, always fleeting, yet unmistakable and very real. Could his spirit be a part of this place? Why couldn't part of Daddy's heaven be here in these gorgeous river bottoms, where every morning is perfect, the dogwoods are always in bloom, and the turkeys are loud and long-winded. W hen all was quiet, the hugs and high fives began. I've no doubt that a passerby would have insisted that we both be put in strait jackets and hauled off, but I ask you: How many occasions are there in life that you can celebrate? I mean jump up and down and really celebrate? I couldn't stop grinning. I just couldn't believe the old boy had walked in like that. I'll forever cherish the memory of her walking back to the road, that first turkey slung over her shoulder, and watching pigtails swinging below her camouflage cap. I remember sorely missing my Dad, and wishing he could see the granddaughter he never got to meet. Back at the road we said a short prayer, thanking God for this day, for these woods, and I gave special thanks for the blessings of 11-year-old daughters. And I thanked my Dad, too. And why not? Wasn't it possible that his spirit was in this place? Wise old birds are not known for walking straight in and giving rookie hunters a can't miss shot. Dad was there all right, and I believe he approved of the way his gift to me was re-wrapped and given again. Since that time, the place has been sold, and my hunting days there are over. It's tough to lose a place like that after almost 30 years, and no longer be able to visit the site of so many wonderful memories. I can no longer walk on what I consider one of the most beautiful places on earth, but I'm pretty sure my father can. One day, hopefully a long time from now, we will have the opportunity to make a few more hunting memories together. T he author killed this old gobbler the very next morning after his daughter took her first wild turkey at the family hunting camp in Alabama. S P O R T I N G C 198 L A S S I C S