“Cod, don’t move – that turkey is standing down there right where you were sitting.”
I glance over at my hunting buddy Randal. I am standing close to him but not facing downhill as he is. I’m a little skeptical because I figure Randal might be messing with me, but I don’t want to turn my head and look if the turkey is indeed close. I take a slow step backward behind a screen of brush and hope I am hidden from the alleged gobbler.
I watch Randal’s face as he stares downhill, and when he grimaces, I know the turkey is gone. We had been working on this turkey for the past two hours, and I was about done in. I had just now extracted myself from the place I had been sitting, and the hillside location plus the awkward position I was forced to sit in while calling to this turkey was near torture. After I could stand it no more, I dragged myself upright and walked uphill to where my buddy was located. After a few minutes of hushed conversation, he told me the turkey was checking out the place where I had been sitting for so long.
That, my friends, is turkey hunting.
And turkey hunting has been the basis for a friendship with hunting partners from West Virginia and Georgia for the past 43 years. Well, some of us think it is 43 years – it could be 41, and I will try to explain.