Issue link: https://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/299259
S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S 1 3 3 turkey hunter and wildlife biologist with whom I worked on his last book, Wayne's Turkey World. (Wayne is also the subject of a chapter in my tribute to the sport's icons, Remembering the Greats.) Arriving at Willow Oaks in mid-afternoon, I drove along a gravel road wending through a bottom toward a distant hill. The countryside had turkey written all over it, so it didn't surprise me when, topping a slight rise, I caught sight of a turkey's fan and a red head in the distance. Decoy was my first impression, and I chuckled to myself at the thought of Willow Oaks' owner, Arthur Dick, enjoying a bit of fun at the expense of first-time visitors. Then, to my amazement the "decoy" broke strut and eased away. One could scarcely ask for a more encouraging welcome at the outset of a hunt. When greeted by a turkey strutting within 300 yards of where you'll be staying, you have to reckon that fate has landed you squarely in a hunter's land of milk and honey. Of course, initial impressions aren't always accurate, and like any other turkey fanatic, I know too well how magic can turn into misery. Happily, such was not the case at Willow Oaks. That lordly longbeard proved to be the harbinger of a memorable hunt, although admittedly the first morning's outing, with scant action, produced hints of an old bugbear of mine: pessimism. A mix of soaring spirits and depths of despair are integral parts of many turkey hunts, and by noon, after an eerily quiet morning spent chasing a field tom (the bane of the turkey hunter's existence), my thoughts were at low ebb. A hearty lunch featuring gourmet leftovers from a wedding the previous day, along with a short nap (I've reached the stage of life where naps are sheer nirvana) somewhat revived my spirits. My gracious host had given me a solid feel for the lay of the land, and to my delight was willing to let me go it alone. An afternoon of walking and occasional calling, followed by a session of trying to wait 'em out near a logical travel corridor, seemed in order. Free to roam on my own, that's precisely the strategy I pursued. After some meandering I found a spot that seemed a natural crossing for birds easing toward their roost trees. There, I built a makeshift blind and snuggled down at the base of a massive beech for the duration of the afternoon. For an hour or more nothing happened, other than hearing a couple of gobbles so faint I couldn't pinpoint the callers' location. Then, half-dozing in late-afternoon warmth, I glimpsed a black form just before it passed behind one of the massive willow oaks that give the place its name. Since the bird was moving in my direction, I decided not to call. After what seemed an eternity (in reality probably less than ten minutes), the bird reappeared. It was a mature gobbler, grazing on grass and insects while showing no signs of strutting or any awareness of the mating season. If he continued in the same direction, he needed walk only 40 yards to be within range. He covered that short distance in turkey time – agonizingly slow. A couple of times the tom seemed to sense something wasn't quite right, for he upped periscope and halted for long periods. In all likelihood he had heard distant hens or perhaps another gobbler giving voice, because I had done nothing to betray my well- PhotograPh by mike gaddis