The Hunt

The recollection of a turkey hunt in Tallapoosa County, Alabama, in the spring of 1996, brings some fond memories to my mind. These memories are not only of time spent with my grandfather, but also of the beauty, gracefulness, brilliance, and serenity of nature. All of these things combine to make the hunt a truly spectacular, almost moving, experience.

It is five forty-five a.m. when my grandfather comes to awaken me from my slumber on the couch bed in their living room. As I get prepared to leave, I camouflage my body from head to toe, making sure that my coveralls fit well as I will not be able to adjust them later on.

When we leave the house, the sun has not yet begun to peek above the horizon and the land is still engulfed in darkness.

The short trip in my grandfather’s 1987 Mazda truck is over quickly, and we soon find ourselves deep in the woods. I step from the vehicle and feel the bite of the twenty degree air against my face. We carefully load our guns, praying that we don’t spook some wary, roosting turkey with the click of the shells entering the magazine.

There is nothing exotic about the forest in the wee hours of morning. The trees are like skeletons looming in a gray sky, and all that can be heard are a few chirping crickets and a couple of crows cawing in the distance, agitating the silence created by night.

My grandfather and I begin to make our way through the woods, hoping that nothing notices us but the crisp leaves that may crumple under our booted feet. Our movements are slight, realizing that one false step could spook our prey. Only the grasp of a briar vine or the poke fom a low branch disturbs our path and we soon make our way on to a clear-cut trail.

While still in the cover of night, my grandfather lets out a few cuts on his mouth call, imitating the yelp of a hen so precisely that its sounds are like a symphony to my youthful ears. His brilliant performance produces a bellowing reply from a gobbler in the distance.

We carefully retreat to a spot hidden from his view. Almost an hour has passed and dawn is beginning to break, exposing the beauty of the forest around us. Rays of sunlight peer through the broad green needles of the pine against which I lean. In my mind, I imagine that God is taking his finest brush and creating this beautiful scene right before our eyes. The only humans present during this working of art are my grandfather and me, and somehow it creates, not only beauty, but also a bond.

Before us is a mist of fog escaping from a field of bright green being warmed by the sun. Only a creek running along the edge of the field produces any noise now. The crickets have gone away and the crows are resting in the trees. My grandfather cuts his mouth call a few more time. We wait in silence for a reply from the hot longbeard. His exploding reply takes my breath away and causes my flesh to become rough with goose bumps.

My heart races as I await the bird’s fantastic appearance. I feel as if I am awaiting the arrival of my favorite music artist upon the stage, only this time the stage is a large field. The tom finally makes his entrance and he is in full strut. Like a majestic king flaunting his arrogance over his subjects, the bird fans his broad, colorful tailfeathers. As he struts about the field, I admire his beauty.

The beautiful tom taunts us by staying just out of reach for my 12-gauge Smith and Wesson and I cannot get a clean shot. Even so, his mere presence before us is a great experience.

To finish the day in traditional fashion, we stop off at Tyler’s, a little restaurant not far from the house. Here we eat our sausage biscuits and drink coffee and tell our friends about “the one that got away.” Even though we did not bring home the bird with a 15-inch beard and 2″ spurs, I am very pleased that I have had this oppurtunity to be with my grandfather whom I love dearly. I look on this now and realize that I am blessed to have had this experience. I would exchange it for nothing.