The Five Minute Turkey Hunt.

First off, the only time I actually go Turkey hunting is with the Turkey-crazed J.B. Irving. A master of the calls, he's always good to limit out year after year, and once he does, I usually invite myself along for a guided hunt. On the Irving spread, he is literally the pied piper of Turkeydom.

I know he's a master of the call for two reasons. One, he has about a thousand calls to entice an ol' Tom out of a tree. By shear numbers, he's bound to find one that'll work, although now, he's partial to the kind that fits in his mouth--a diaphragm call I think it's called. And two, his wife has been driven insane by the practice calls in and around the house. If you doubt this, hand your child a "box call" in the car and head out for a three hour drive--see how long you can take it.

So this year, it worked out that we'd meet on a Friday morning to go hunting. I say morning, but the funny thing about hunting in the spring is that the days are long, and the sun's up early, which means you have to get up in what feels more like the middle of the night than easily slipping out of bed to beat the sun to the horizon.

The good news is I have a good thirty minutes to drink coffee and shake the fog out of my head during the drive to Rockingham County. The entire ride is a study in expectations. Every dark, early morning ride to go hunting conjures up thoughts of past hunts and past dark, early morning rides--the kind every hunt seems to start with. They all seem to start quietly like this, but they never end the same way. There's always something to keep you coming back...

We met up at J.B.'s cabin under the growing eastern glow, and he suggested we try the property loosely called "the Tuttles'" by the Irving clan. So a short and (J.B.-induced) rather speedy jaunt later, we're pulling gear out of trucks quietly. Hmm, was my truck skipping during this dash?

We'd parked single file, but since J.B. has a real job, I parked kinda off to the side so he could get around me had I the shutzpah to hunt without him after he left for work. Of course, that put me in the briars, and I had to fight the snag as I passed back and forth from cab to bumper stacking gear and gun. J.B. lent me a Turkey hunting vest--something I don't even own--but as I slipped it on, I felt more like a Turkey Hunter.

We stepped to the edge of a huge clearing, and J.B. whispered, "Let's wait right here and see if we can hear one gobbling."

On cue, a quarter of a mile away, Thomas gobbled his affectations to the female Turkey world. J.B. laughs and he gives me the "Come on!" whisper and we're off. The Idea will be to set up way out of sight of this guy, and J.B., sounding like an amorous female, will call him over to us. So we're stepping off at what I call J.B. Speed--a half run, half walk that I'm used to, but I've seen his older and smoking pals huff and puff during Duck season trying to keep up. Whoever says hunting ain't a sport has never followed Johnny Bravo through the woods.

We're suddenly under pines and aren't making a peep or a leafy crunch, and J.B. pauses. We've been in this spot before a couple of years ago and I've seen J.B. sucker a scrawny Jake out of hiding and into our laps during the middle of the day so I'm hopeful about the distant Tom we hear. But as we step, we hear a hen!

We hear a hen, right overhead! We spook the hen, and she "flies" down to escape. And then we hear a gobble! Only this isn't the target Turkey, this Turkey is ten yards away! Right over us! I think we're screwed, and J.B., grinning says, "Sit down HERE!"  And that's what I do, as fast as I can, as quietly as I can against the closest oak.

J.B. dashes off behind me. I don't know until later that he sets up just on the other side of the same tree having no time at all to get hid--the Tom's that close! I don't know how much time I have, so I pull on my burlap poncho, hide my shoes, glove my white hands, and cover my face and look in the direction of the latest gobble! J.B. starts his call, I hear another Gobble, and then another crash from what could be the Tom "flying" out of his roost. I have no idea what "it" is at this point.

Then I see him. A big, black bird shows himself, but I'm still uncertain as to its sex until a fan of  "come hither" tail-feathers spread to J.B.'s calling. It's a boy. And in the shadowy dawn, even I can tell, it's a big boy. He's started our way right in front of me, right "under the gun"--I won't even have to move to draw a bead on him.

But, he quickly disappears behind some hanging vines and a sapling! He's still heading our way, but I can't shoot him. J.B.'s still calling, and I've always heard, if you call too much they'll bolt, but he's still right there. My heart is POUNDING. He's less than ten yards away, he's slooooowly coming out from behind the vines, and I'm having a heart attack. He spreads out his tail, he steps out...two more steps.

BAM! It's still pre-dawn, and under the shade of the pines and oaks, all I see is the orange burst at the end of the shotgun barrel. I don't feel the recoil, I barely hear the kapow, and I see the Turkey, my Turkey, laying on the ground twitching, giving up against copper plated shot. I'm still shaking as I stand up, but quickly recover. J.B.'s up too, laughing and smiling with me and we shake hands. Time from stepping out of our trucks to now? Five minutes, maybe.

"That's what I'm talking about!" J.B. says.

"That's too easy!" I say, "Gonna get spoiled."

"That's the way to do it!" He says.

So we go to the bird. We are joined by a camo'd neighbour who was probably after the same bird, but since we got him, handshakes go all around. Nothing like an early morning shotgun blast to bring people together, and of course, everyone is polite as well because we're all toting shotguns.

J.B. on the left, and me on the right. Beard, ten inches, spurs, one inch.

As we head back to J.B.'s house to "make some pictures" I look in my rear-view mirror. Is my truck smoking more than usual? During the picture taking moments, with Miss Karen (pronounced KAY-ren) holding the camera, J.B. hops in to move my truck, and it won't start easily. And then driving to Hardee's, as we have all the time in the world before J.B. has to go to work, my truck starts its death knells.

We eat our biscuits, but I know the awful truth to come about my truck out in the parking lot with the handsomest Turkey I ever shot in the bed. I thank J.B. as we part, and holding my tongue just right, I start the truck and limp home triumphant yet dejected.

Yes, the universe let me have five great, unforgettable minutes to harvest one of Mother Earth's finest creatures who was just out looking for love. But then the the forces of the cosmos turned a spiteful eye to my fuel injectors and made me bleed $1,400.00 the next day.

I guess the lesson is, if you get down out of your tree in the morning to get laid, be careful, because you just might get shot in the face.