I’d climbed into the truck as if drugged. I felt totally, completely, drained; just stepping up into the truck was an effort and all that seemed to matter was going back to sleep right there in the seat. Only a stubborn, mulish obstinacy overcame my body’s desperate pleadings for rest; I was going turkey hunting no matter what.
The dash board clock flashed 4:30 a.m. and as if in a dream the truck moved down the driveway and onto Jackson Avenue, my sleep-deprived body on autopilot for it appeared I was watching myself drive so great was the bone weary exhaustion engulfing me. These elusive gobblers had ground me down into total exhaustion. Was this really the 31st consecutive day I’d arisen at 4 a.m. to hunt?
After a few miles my red rimmed eyes searched for the dirt turn off, my truck bouncing back the rough track. At the split in the road no vehicle awaited. Scott Neely wasn’t there. What? Scott was never late, always waiting. Had he had an accident? His cell phone rang and rang and after the fourth try I stopped calling, walking down a dim trail hooting like a barred owl. Only silence answered my efforts.
My phone buzzed and Scott’s panicked voice came on line. He’d put his phone on silent alarm, good grief, and was now hopping about on one leg throwing on his pants. He was so upset he could hardly handle it, but hearing this point was silent, told me to meet him at Turkey Y after he called another area. Hearing his SUV door slam I knew he was on his way.
Back to the truck and once on the highway my phone rang again. Scott was excited: he’d heard a bird gobble on Ankle Buster Point, get to our rendezvous ASAP. I did.
Hurriedly throwing my camo and shotgun in his vehicle we roared down the dirt track at breakneck speed. Scott was very distraught, upset and apologetic, but I was calm for some reason.

“Scott, relax, take it easy, all this may be for the good. You can’t control everything in life, maybe this was meant to happen, it may all be for the good.”

As you can see, six weeks of failure can make you philosophical.
Fighting the wheel as we skidded around a steep corner and in a very unconvincing tone he replied; “Yes, you’re right.” Our speed slackened slightly.
Thankful for our eventual safe arrival I grabbed my shotgun and we took off down the trail at a jog. Despite all the disappointments of the past weeks, hope always springs eternal in the turkey fanatic’s heart. My legs were like rubber, but kept going until the point. I hooted and below us a brazen gobble shot fire into our veins.
Creeping to the ridge edge Scott nestled against a cherry as I crept 25 yards further down the hill. I was sweating profusely, my glasses fogged over. Slowly I cooled as the turkey gobbled occasionally, a low, heavy cloud cover slowing the arrival of full light. Thank goodness, I couldn’t see.
A quiet cluck from Scott set off two booming gobbles and my body quivered violently. Time passed, it grew lighter. What would the next half hour bring I wondered, another disappointment?
A hen yelped below and the gobbler answered, then flew so far away one could hardly hear him gobble. I sighed dejectedly, not again!
The hen called and Scott answered, firing the old biddy up and she began moving toward us. Loud thrashing in the nearby trees almost made me jump out of skin as another gobbler and two hens flew out of the tree tops only 30 yards from us. The new bird gobbled and the distant gobbler answered, then gobbled again, much closer. He was coming!
Time crawled, then my heart leaped, 60 yards away a gobbler appeared in full strut. He moved within range, but a beech limb parallel to the ground prevented me from shooting. After five agonizing minutes he moved away, but the bossy hen, now only 15 yards to my left, kept squawking loudly.
Then as hope melted away the gobbler reappeared and ever so slowly moved to my left, stopping just behind those limbs. Take two more steps I pleaded in my heart, just two more steps. Unbelievably he did.
I aimed ever so carefully, squeezed and the magnum roared, knocking me backward, but not before the big gobbler went down. One leg painfully asleep, I hobbled hurriedly and comically toward him. There he lay; what a trophy. Finally, unbelievably, I’d bagged a gobbler!
The big Tom had a 10-inch beard and 1-inch, sharp pointed spurs, a beautiful trophy so long in materializing. Thankfulness flooded my soul and I thanked God for this beautiful creation and these maddening birds which hold such fascination for me. My hands shook violently: I actually thought I would get sick, but it passed.
Scott limped down on his twisted ankle and we shared that huge thrill of success so long denied; joy, pure and intoxicating filled us to overflowing and we took the time to savor the special sweetness of that so special moment.
Victory long denied has a special savor only those who have struggled so long and hopelessly are privileged to taste. Sitting beside that majestic gobbler we became silent, then glanced at each other and in our eyes each read how rare moments like these are in one’s short life. No further words were necessary.