BLOOD ON SHIRLEY

The weather's been amazing. Every day dawns bright and blue. Except for a bit of a morning chill, the temps. warm to the low 70's by about 10:00 am. Perfect turkey hunting weather, right? Well, not exactly. For some reason, the same system that makes trudging through the spring woods, watching the trees bud before your eyes so pleasant, can shut the gobblers up. The woods become dead quiet. Yesterday I didn't hear a gobble nor see a bird all morning- totally skunked. Days like that, a week into the season, without a turkey in the freezer, start to wear on you. Your self esteem is at a low point. You question your ability to call, find birds, and when the chips are down, make the shot. I'm such a tool I tell myself.  I've said it many times before. In hunting, like art, you must make failure your friend. There's no getting around it. Your only choice is to set the alarm and face the music (or lack thereof) one more morning.
   This morning I turned on Mr. Coffee and he let me down. Nothing happened. He just sat there, clear water in his guts, dry grounds in his basket. I smacked and shook him to no avail. FUCK! Sadly I made tea and was in Diamond Dave's driveway by 5:15 am, maneuvering between the Porsche and high end trucks. The place looks like a millionaire's used car lot. No sooner had I loaded the gun, than I heard gobbles.....close by. My heart was racing, as I sat down against a maple tree, not daring to get closer. Then I heard a hen and leaves hit my head. She was roosted in the same maple I was sitting against! Two birds traded gobbles, maybe 100 yards out, as the hen yelped sweetly. I just sat tight, not calling and waited. Then in the dusky pre-dawn, the hen flew down. The gobblers lit up. It was on.
    I started softly scratching on my call, as a light drizzle began to fall. Now that the hen was out of the game, I had the boys to myself. They answered, still roosted in the trees. Calling sparingly, so as not to spook them, I kept waiting for that fly down. They sat tight. I flapped my hat and scratched the leaves. They roared back. Then......finally.....both birds hit the ground and disappeared. Then I saw a big white head and a fan. The gobbler strutted and stayed out on a flat, putting on a show, too far for a shot. Then another head appeared, neck stretched, looking for the hen (me). Slowly I swung the gun barrel. I had a shot....but no beard. It was a jake. Damn. I fingered the safety. Should I shoot or wait for the tom? The rain was now coming down harder, wetting my call, rendering it useless. I decided to wait for the tom.
    Eventually the jake gave up and headed back to the tom. Then all went quiet. Had I blown it? The bird in the hand had vanished. I was mentally kicking myself. Why had I not killed that jake? What the hell was wrong with me? You know, you don't get that many..........then I saw a head......and a beard. The tom was committing at last. He slowly walked towards me, the jake now trailing behind. When he went behind a tree I raised the 12 ga. When his head appeared i fired. He went down in a pile of flopping feathers.
    As I loaded the bird in the trunk of Shirley, his head drug against her silver bumper, leaving a bright red streak. I breathed a sigh of relief. My luck had changed. I not only had killed a big tom with one shot, I was still dry. The skies opened up and it began to pour as I headed for the gas station to get a cup of coffee, washing the blood from Shirley. Today I'll buy another Mr. Coffee. Tomorrow I'll sleep in. I am one happy man.