I have tossed and turned, eagerly awaiting the sound of an alarm and the arrival of opening day. I have walked the woods in the soft glow of dawn, my breath mixing with the mist that lingers in the hardwoods. I have listened to the first sounds of morning—songbirds chirping, leaves rustling in the breeze, and, if I am lucky, the distant gobble of one of your own, shaking the silence of the forest.
I have seen the world awaken in a way few ever do, waiting with patience and respect. I have felt my heart pound and my neck pulse as your gobbles grow closer. I have waited as silence falls over the woods—you carefully closing in. I have felt the power of you drumming, signaling your arrival.
The chase is never easy, nor should it be. You are wily, cautious, and keen. Your sharp eyes catch the smallest movement; your ears pick up the quietest sound. It is this challenge that makes the pursuit both humbling and thrilling.
To see you in your world, in full strut with the sun lighting up every iridescent feather, is a sight of rare beauty. To hear your call echo through the hills is to witness something wild and untamed, something older than any of us. Not every hunt ends with a harvest, but every hunt ends with gratitude—for the land, for the experience, and for you, the wild turkey, a creature worthy of the chase.
Dear turkeys, this week is dedicated to you. To the history of turkey hunting, to the conservation comebacks, and to the gobbles that bring us back year after year.
Until We Meet Again,
A Turkey Hunter