Well, here I am again. Turkey hunting out in the beautiful, lonely, and hauntingly quiet plains of Kansas and Nebraska with my son, Byron.

And what a weekend it was. Each of us, with the expert assistance or our guides, Mark and Mark of Beamer Guide Services, got two toms and two jakes. I already have a recipe, turkey piccata, in mind from my favorite hunting show, MeatEater. (I’ve quit watching the other phonies; they “always get their ‘man'”-even if it means doing everything short of the generally illegal practice of baiting a big buck onto a pile of corn spread on the ground beneath a tree stand.)

But Last Things First

Why? Because both of us got our one bird limit in both states by Saturday evening. And we were on our way home, Byron to Omaha, me to Denver, bright and early Sunday morning.

What Byron did on the way, I’m not in a position to report. But, at my typical, leisurely pace, I stopped first at the McCook Christian Church (the same place I stopped last time when I was out in these parts stalking the elusive turkey) to take in a service before going on to grab breakfast at the McDonalds on the west side of town. (Ugh! But it was the only place that seemed to be open. Not only was it Sunday, I suppose the dead hand of COVID also had something to do with the dearth of local eateries.)

The service was dedicated to honoring kids that graduated from the town’s Bison High School this spring. How many graduates were on the stage? Less than 10. Not surprising, given that the entire school staff numbers only 22.

Bushy bearded and bald headed, Student Minister Seth Bates, delivered the sermon. Like many websites, the church’s is not quite up to date, so the video of his sermon hasn’t yet been posted; check back-it’ll get up there eventually. But the title was “Gaining Grit.” Unsurprisingly, the theme was encouraging the graduates, and all of us, to remain true to Christ both during the good times and the inevitable bad ones. It was a humdinger.

But what sticks out in my memory was a story he told about the famous evangelist, Billy Graham and two of his equally fiery colleagues just as their stars were beginning to rise in 1945. The other two? Chuck Templeton and Bron Clifford. “Many people,” Seth told us, “considered Templeton and Clifford the most gifted of the three. But within a few years, Templeton had left the faith entirely. And Bron had lost everything: family, ministry, and health to alcohol. He died of cirrhosis of the liver in a flea bag hotel in Amarillo in 1954. In other words,” Seth concluded, “it’s not how you start. It’s how you finish.”

Alright Already! But What About The Turkeys?

“Okay. Okay. I get it,” I can just about hear you thinking, “But isn’t this post supposed to be about turkey hunting? So, tell us about the hunt!”

Trust me, I will. But believe it or not, the message at church did have quite a bit to say about the hunt. Why? Because patient endurance not only has a lot to do with success in life in general. It has a lot to do even with the kind of successful hunt that we enjoyed. True, we’re talking about hours as opposed to years. But when you’re waiting in a Double Bull blind in the pre-dawn chill, hours can seem like days.

Yes, the amazing variety of birds other than turkeys that sang as they darted in front of our blind just after the sun peeked over the eastern horizon helped pass the time. Of those, the red-headed woodpecker that came back time and again for some sort of breakfast snack was easily the most spectacular. But the gentle cooing of the hordes of mourning doves were not to be scorned. And, to our left, a spectacular cock pheasant occasionally whirred his wings in what I presumed was a mating display. In fact, the the little song birds were so entertaining that I was getting drowsy despite my distinctly less than comfortable camp chair. Because, despite Mark’s expert yelps, purrs, and clucks on his crystal and mouth calls from his chair just behind us, the big rascals we were after stubbornly refused to make their appearance.

Until, that is, Byron whispered, “They’re coming in from our left.” Sure enough: four jakes sauntering toward the tom and hen decoys that Mark had set out 15 yards in front of our blind in the pre-dawn gloom. One headed straight towards the decoys; the others took a hard right and made a beeline towards the pheasant. “Never,” whispered Mark just behind us, “seen that before!” as the pheasant defiantly stood its ground as his relatively gargantuan cousins menacingly approached.

The unsuspecting jake came to a halt in front of me. “Take him!” whispered Mark. “Boom!” He went down hard. But like these tough birds always do, he shuddered and flopped on the ground. “Shoot him again!” Mark whispered urgently in my ear. “Boom!” Another head shot and he was a goner. But it was too late-the other three jakes had taken the hint and disappeared.

Byron didn’t score in Kansas ’til mid-afternoon, after which, Mark, as he looked at me smugly lounging on the front porch of the hunting lodge, gave me the “thumbs up” as as the two rolled up in his Chevy pickup. But, as I compared Byron’s big tom next to my slender jake, his big fella took some of the shine off my smugness.

The speed limit’s 75. But you can drive 90!

I betcha’ didn’t know that’s one of Nebraska’s “Catchy Phrases.” But it is; I googled it. So, even brighter and even earlier the next morning (for heaven’s sake, I think my alarm went off at 4!), we were on roads greasy from the previous night’s downpour, making the short drive north across the state line to Nebraska.

But, had the downpour also been served up with a tornado? We were, after all, in Kansas: the land of Dorothy, Toto, and the Wicked Witch of the West. At about 2 a.m., Byron and I were roused from a sound slumber by the roar of a wind that made our recently built, stout hunting lodge shudder. And which came and went within a few seconds. In our skivvies, we peered out at the pitch dark beyond the front window. “Do you think that could have been a tornado?”, I asked. “No,” Byron answered, “but maybe we should head to the basement.” We didn’t; the commotion had died down by then. But you haven’t really lived till you think a twister might be roaring your way out of a raging thunderstorm in the pitch darkness. And all on the plains of Kansas.

The next day, at first I didn’t really appreciate the significance of the fact that we were hunting on the last weekend of Nebraska’s turkey season. Those birds that were still around were pretty well “educated;” they were survivors. They’d been shot at before. Probably a bunch. They’d seen plenty of fancy decoys. And what had those things gotten their relatives besides dead? Nothing. And turkey calls? Old hat; they’d heard ’em all.

But, like I say, I didn’t really understand all that as Mark set me up, all by my lonesome, on the edge of a big, emerald green field of winter wheat where I hunkered down in a strip of scraggly trees that had yet to leaf out. Sitting on a low-to-the-ground camp chair, decked out in my camo, I had nothing to do but keep watch. And think. “Only one decoy in this vast expanse of green? No Mark sitting behind me, singing his siren song to lure a gobbler to his doom? How good can my chances be?”, I mused with a hint of resentment. “And, now, there those two go, no doubt to happier hunting grounds than this unpromising spread.”

When What To My Wondering Eyes Should Appear?

A turkey? Hey, not yet. Be patient! I was; I had to be. Hour after hour of sweeping the tree line to my left, right and front. And battling the snaps.

Until, a sudden commotion no more than 20 feet over my left shoulder was rapidly followed by two bounding white-tail does (at least, I don’t think they were muleys that far east) that scared the bejeebers out of me before they bounced across the field where they vanished in the tree line a couple hundred yards in front of me.

Then? More scanning and an increasingly one sided fight with the snaps.

Until. Was that a gobble right behind me? Yeah. There it is again! But, twisting as far as I could to my right, I could see nothing beyond a little mound and thick brush. So, Three Stooges like, “slowly I turned, and combat crawl-step by combat crawl-step, and inch by inch,” I at last got to where I could see into the swale where I thought the gobble had come from. And a turkey? No. Nothing. At least that I could see. Other than a bunch of huge round bales.

So. Back to my low slung camp chair, hidden behind my tree which was still badly in need of a trim, swinging my head side to side along the tree lines, still stalking the wild turkey. And struggling to keep my 4 a.m. eyelids from slamming shut.

Until, sure enough, at about mid-afternoon, the star of this little drama emerged from the tree line, stage right (my left) about 100 yards out. The big rascal was meandering, first this way, then that, across that emerald green field. But sauntering, ever so deliberately, my way. Slowly closing the range.

Now, understand. I was in an awkward position. When it comes to shooting, I’m left eye dominant. But when I tried using that scraggly tree to my left as a rest to steady my aim, it blocked my left eye. So, ever so carefully, I transferred the gun’s butt to my right shoulder, closed my left eye, and aimed with my right. And closed my left. But just for practice; he was still well out of range. But, I could comfortably see him as he slowly kept wondering my way.

Except. Buck Fever!

But, as I followed that big bird’s slow progress at the end of my shot gun, another problem soon presented itself: the shakes. And not just your garden variety. Despite my tree-rest, the little bead at the end of my 12 gauge looked like it was dancing the heebie-jeebies around that gobbler. And the longer he took, the worse it got. But between my camo, being low to the ground, and concealed beneath the shadow of that tree, the bird never had a clue (fingers crossed!) I was anywhere near. So, on he came.

90 yards? 80 yards? 70 yards? 60? And there he was, his gaudy red and white head sticking out like a sore thumb against that bright green, 12 inch high winter wheat. What? Wait for him to get closer? And maybe spook him? No.

So, when I thought that happy dancing bead at the end of my gun was just above his head, “BOOM!” And, like these tough birds almost always do, he fluffed forward about 20 feet. And came to a stop, head up, again. “BOOM!” Again. Then? Nothing.

So, NPH or no, I struggled out of my chair, got on hands and knees to skinny under the raggedy branches of my trusty tree rest, and crawled forward, trying to keep the muzzle of the shot gun out of the dirt, to where, with some effort, I could stand up. Where I began hobbling across that sea of green to the spot I thought I’d marked where the bird had gone down. Now, mind you, it was a BIG field. With NO obvious variations in that emerald green sea.

So, when I got to what I estimated to be the right spot, I stopped. And looked around. At first, nothing. “And,” I thought to myself, “I’m done whether I find it or not. I’m pretty sure I hit it and it’s going to die eventually. Mark’s made it very clear that ‘A wounded bird is a dead bird; you’ve filled your tag.'”

But then, when I looked a bit further out again to my right? “Ah-ha! There you are!” Sure enough, there his gaudy head was, poking out of the sea of green about 20 feet out. And, not willing to let him jump up and start running (at a speed I couldn’t possibly match) I let him have it again. Right in the head. And guess what? He was still flopping when I went over to retrieve him.

And when Mark and Byron showed up and they scoped out the distance I’d marked with a stick out in the field where I’d picked up the bird with their fancy-dancie range finders? Around fifty five yards. Probably as long a kill as I’ve ever made with a shot gun.

Home Again. Home Again. Jiggety-Jog!

So, back to the beginning: home.

Where I’ve already taken my bird’s handsome tail fan, spur and beard to Wilderness Taxidermy to have them mounted. And to hang this symbol of manly manhood where? Wherever, of course, my wife will permit me to!