Last Day for Old Tom

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Last Day for Old Tom

The earth resurrected after a long cold winter. The snow was melting leaving the streams billowing with runoff. The finches were exchanging their ashen plumes for their auspicious honeyed pompon. Spring had finally arrived bringing with it the spring turkey hunting season. For weeks, I had been sifting through my expansive collection of turkey hunting gear, setting aside my most reliable shotgun and shells and my favorites of camouflaged attire, decoys and turkey calls. Hunting a wild turkey requires the savvy use of a turkey call that mocks a sound that will draw a turkey to the hunter. Calling a male turkey or gobbler may mean sounding like another male, wanting a confrontation. It may also mean mimicking the sound a female looking for a mate. For many years prior to this one, I had spent many hours trying to hone the “art” of calling. Little did I know all of my practice for the hunt, my perseverance and patience were about come to fruition.

As the birds began their first blush melody and dawn peeked over the horizon, I sat out on what would become the most exhilarating hunt of the spring. The crisp, cool forsythia scented air met me at the front door as I left the house, carrying with me all of my necessities for a successful hunt. After filling my camouflage embellished Jeep to near capacity, I had thought of one more thing. Although I had never tried it before, I decided to pack my tree stand in the Jeep as well.

Tranquility and serenity filled the paths of the freshly hued forest. The leaves on the trees twinkled from the heat of the morning sun like lights on a Christmas tree. As I drove farther into the woods, contemplating the perfect spot to set up, I noticed a few sure signs...

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...ast that distinguishes it from a female turkey. Very rare are the gobblers that have two or more. To have killed a gobbler with these adornments was like catching lightning in a bottle. I continued to examine him and noticed that his spurs, bony spikes on the back of his lower legs, were that of a three year old bird.

My breathing was returning to normal and the rush had peaked as I packed my hunting garb back into the Jeep. With my head held high and pride in my gait, I returned to my finest fowl and slung him over my shoulder to take him home to weigh and check-in. I have found it difficult to put into words all the emotions I felt that memorable spring day, but I delight in fact that I earned the bragging rights of the 24 ½ pound gobbler. Today, the masterpiece decorates the wall of my den and I will forever enjoy recounting the story of Old Tom’s demise.

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