The turkey gobbled promptly at 6:37 in the a.m., or at least that was the first time I heard him. I sighed when I did, because it was one of those turkeys that you just don’t know if you can get there from here.
I will translate that for those lucky enough to be hunting in a place that has at least some level ground. Here in the Appalachian Mountains, it is one of those parts of the world where God stirred the wet ingredients for the land with an electric mixer and then let it dry. You might say it is rough and steep.
Getting from one place to another is really not like strolling across your lawn on a Sunday morning (in your bathrobe) to get the Sunday paper. (Do people still do that? I guess they do.)
(READ MORE: In Appalachia, the mountain turkey is one tough bird)
Anyway, you can sometimes be standing on one lofty ridge, and the smart-alecky gobbler you hear is on another ridge at least a mile away as the crow flies. Such was the case here. If I had access to a helicopter or a jet pack, I could be there in two shakes of a rattlesnake’s tail (of which I am sure there are several between here and there).