I wanted to go back to the old days. I was driving down a back road in Virginia, tired and footsore and feeling sorry for myself. We were hunting turkeys in the spring season, and it was beautiful and awful at the same time.
The morning was bright, the songbirds had started a hallelujah chorus at sunrise and the dogwoods were starting to burst out. The whole spring panorama just made you happy to be alive and in the woods.
The turkeys were having none of it, though, with the gobblers refusing to sound off much. They were tight-lipped and ornery, in a mood like they owed you money. They would offer only a few meager gobbles on the roost, or maybe answer a call just to get your blood racing and then walk away. After a few days, this gets old.
In truth, the turkeys were just doing what turkeys do, and I have seen this behavior a lot over the years. The thing is, when you have been getting up before the chickens every day, driving in the dark and walking the hills all morning, you start to take it personally.
I came around the bend in the washboard road, and there he was, walking at a good pace and slightly stooped over. He had a rusted gas can in hand and his white hair was blazing under a battered fedora. He grinned at me through the open window.