It was a beautiful spring morning when I woke to the neighbors rooster crowing outside. The darn thing just wouldn’t shut up at all. All I had my mind set on was that wonderful gobbling bird that sat high in the Alabama southern pine down next to the swamp at old man Bannister’s farm. His farm was well know for producing me some of the largest turkeys I have ever killed in my entire life. And boy was they some big one’s.
I sure am glad I didn’t have to worry about a gobbler smelling me because I had spill my coffee on my cloths twice while driving down the old dirt path that led from the highway to the open field. I just had a gut feeling that this was going to be my morning. Two weeks into the season and still no bird what was happening to me I had no clue. But this morning was set in my mind that it was already good even if I had spill my coffee twice. “ I didn’t care I was still going.”
The first sound was a gobbler yelling out to me from a distance about a hundred yards away. He still was not the one I wanted. I was after the one that would gobble twice before fly-down and then shut his trapper before he made his last flight from treetop to the wet ground below him where I would be sitting thirty yards away. As soon as he hits the ground he will then be allowed to perform me a show of excellence by strutting before a hen decoy which I have placed out at twenty yards to help lure him in to gun range. This will be his last strut and steps.
He gobbles for the first time.
His thundering gobble shook all silence from all around the neighborhood. The sound of true spring is now here and is heard for all to hear. Daybreak has come and I can see him still sitting up high in a southern red oak about forty feet up. He has no hen with him but the hens from seventy-five yards out have already made their fly-down and is headed my way.
I set patiently as he stretches his wings and gobbles once more. He has now reached the ground and he begins to show his dominance as being the one gobbler that will defeat all others who face him head to head. I cluck and make a small soft series of yelps and he looks around to decide where the sound comes from. A hen yelps in the distance but the gobbler has no chance to answer as I pull the trigger on my Remington 870 wing-master and drop him with a load of number 6 shot.
There he flops around on the ground like all other gobblers do after a shot of impact hits them hard. My morning was great as to have harvested such a remarkable animal. The colors of the feathers are a beauty to withhold for a lifetime. It’s a memory that will never leave you once you harvest a turkey for the first time or even your fourth time. Your heart will beat fast for the first turkey as it will do for the second one. If this does not happen then you will never be a turkey hunter. They say once you start you will never quit.