I was looking forward to this turkey season, but I knew it would be a time crunch. The season opens on a Monday, and I was far too busy at work to try to hunt on a weekday morning.  My mother checked into the hospital in Columbia for a double knee replacement that Friday, so I would want to stay around Columbia that weekend rather than go to the farm. 

Our goat-dairy friends, who aren’t hunters, offered to let me hunt at their place, so I jumped on that opportunity. It’s still 20-plus miles from my house, but that’s better than the 75 miles to the farm.

I was out well before sunrise that Saturday morning. It was frosty, which surprised me because it had been so warm during youth season a couple of weeks before. There was no need to wear a watch, because when season opened half an hour before sunrise, the other hunters with all hooters started sounding off like alarm clocks.

There was one turkey gobbling in the distance, not on the farm that I was on, but on a neighbor’s place. I tried to call him, as did a couple of other hunters, but he wasn’t interested in anything we had to say. He gobbled on for 45 minutes or so, then he was quiet. There was never a gunshot, so I’m sure he made it past our gauntlet unscathed.

The farm I was hunting on is probably 40 acres or so. As I walked around the edge of it, I noticed a proliferation of tree stands just across the fence. I think during firearms deer season the borders of the farm are more closely watched than any of the line between Texas and Mexico.

 On Sunday I was back out there, even earlier this time. It was warmer, and very windy. Despite ample hooting, there were no gobbles this morning. I saw one hen fly down off the roost right on the edge of the farm. I took a walk, and saw at least three turkeys grazing out in the middle of a neighbors field. I tried calling, but with the wind blowing they were too far away to hear me. None of them ever put their head up, they just casually grazed about, moving out of sight. I couldn’t tell if there was a tom among them, but again there was never a shot. I think the neighbor might have already quit hunting that morning.

The next Saturday I was back out there. I heard a little gobbling in the far distance, but he was too far away to hear me. The 40-acres I was on was starting to feel rather confining.

I was exhausted from a combination of early mornings and late nights, and I knew I was going to have to get up at 4:30 on Monday morning, and it was stormy weather, so with three excuses in hand I slept in on Sunday (meaning until 7:30 a.m.) and let the turkeys be.

This past week I’ve been in Florida. That might sound nice, but I didn’t seen anything other than the eight blocks of sidewalk between my motel and the convention center, so don’t be to jealous. And it was early mornings and late nights, every night. Right now it’s Friday and I’m about 11,000 feet up, traveling at 630 mph, somewhere between Tampa and Memphis. And I got an e-mail early this morning that said my Memphis connection would be leaving an hour late.

Nothing sounds better for the weekend than sleeping in, but it’s my last chance for a turkey this spring, so I’ll probably head back out. But if I don’t get into some turkeys on Saturday morning, I’m going to end up holding a grudge against the whole species.