Free Post

          This weekend my dad and I stepped into the woods in pursuit of the wild turkey for the last time as the partakers in a youth season hunt. Next year I will be 16.
          The morning dawned overcast but not the ugly green of light so natural it is unnatural as in a storm of great force. Just simply grey. Grey like dusty cotton balls. Nevertheless The trees were relatively still and the bird calls rang well, but none of these bird calls was the gobble of a wild turkey, either on the roost or on the ground. So we sat. And sat. And sat some more, until Daddy cut loud and sharp on a call that made the trees ring and I'm sure that the gobbler nearly jumped out of his tree as he gobbled in shocked response. Minutes later, a hen turkey began to respond to the call. Daddy matched her tone for tone as she got angrier and angrier and the attitude behind her puts and clucks was not unlike that of an old church cat who left his tail under the rocker a hair too long. They cussed at each other until I could only imagine what was being said in the language of Turkeyism, the specifics of which I am not privy to. Anyhow, I listened to the proceedings of the unruly court and not long there after saw the big gobbler bust out of his tree to join the hen, still cutting up and moving away down the road.
          Some time later, Daddy switched calls. On any other day, this would have been the gobbler's undoing. The hen came in, followed closely by a Jake (one-year-old male turkey) who joined her in kicking, pecking, purring, and generally whipping the decoy set in the field. With our poor decoy, dubbed Henrietta some time ago, but that's another story, standing catty wampus on its stake, the real hen still pecking at it in blind rage, the jake nervously pecking the grass, and me dealing with the burning in my legs and tailbone that comes with sitting at the base of a tree for hours without moving at all, a great black ball capped with a white head erupted onto the scene. Elvis was in the building. He blew into the field as I eased my shotgun towards my shoulder, puffed into a proud strut as the hen caught me moving half an inch, straightened out as she putted at me, turned and launched into the air as I finally got my gun to my shoulder, too late to take the shot. All three birds were gone in the blink of an eye and there was nothing to do about it. They weren't coming back. But I had enjoyed the show while it lasted.