It had been kind of a strange spring gobbler season for Paula, coming on the heels of the previous spring when she killed two birds in three days of hunting, including a double-bearded slammer that now sits in our living room, the only gobbler we've ever taken to a taxidermist.
This particular season, however, she hadn't hunted much. Her schedule dictated that she'd be out of town on two of the first three weekends of May, and her "other" job resigned her to a couple of quick off-the-roost efforts before heading up the road to work.
Toss in a couple of days lost when our eldest Lab Ben passed on, and there went about 10 days of the monthlong season.
Another factor – and a pretty major one – was that we didn't have birds in some of our traditional spots that spring. That's not to say the turkey population is down; they just weren't where we've worked them in the past. True, I did take a longbeard on May 3, but that was the lone bird I'd worked until Paula and I headed out the door May 16.
And I missed.
In the interest of full disclosure, I waved at a nice gobbler that somehow slipped past Paula's setup over to "my" side, where he strutted, spit, drummed and gobbled to just a very few soft clucks to get his attention off the roost.
I was stunned. Not because I'm incapable of missing; I've missed birds in five states, and it's been well documented that I lack only a miss on an Osceola to complete a grand slam of misses. I think I owe it to the turkey-hunting world to whiff on a Florida gobbler.
But this was an easy shot. Not one of those misjudged-the-distance misses. I simply rushed it, perhaps not in a predatory mode because I headed afield with the idea that Paula was to be the shooter.
I suppose I could have let him walk and tried to call him back to Paula, but sheesh, the season had been so slow up to that point, opportunities so rare, I decided one bird over the shoulder was worth two on the ridge.
And I blew it.
Still, I was confident we'd get another crack at this lonely longbeard. It's happened before, I reminded Paula. My first bird ever – and one of my biggest – back in the 1970s came a day after I missed the same gobbler in the same location.
We headed back out two days later, up the same logging road as the woods began to awaken on a calm, cloudy, remarkably blackfly-free morning in Essex County.
We stopped toward the edge of the woods and prepared to slide another 10 yards toward the roost site of the bird of two days ago.
Then, he gobbled. Not in the same spot, but within 30 yards of where we stood, a thunderous gobble that nearly knocked our hats off. How we didn't bump the bird, I can only thank the dense foliage.
We backed off and managed what I was sure was a perfect setup, against the base of a massive white pine, just off the logging road where I was sure he'd arrive after flydown.
I was toting the Mossberg 835, but it was only ceremonial. This was Paula's opportunity today.
I got in the game with a couple of soft clucks, and he cranked up with several gobbles, even facing our way to give us more volume. "This could, should happen," I thought to myself.
Paula knew how the scenario was likely to play out. I was confident he'd be in range when he pitched down.
And he was. But instead of hitting the logging trail and going into full display, he took up a position off the trail, on a bank behind some minor brush and a big pine.
And there he was, showing off for us, gobbling and then searching somewhat frantically for the hen. I limited my repertoire to just a couple clucks and purrs. At 30 yards, I didn't want him to lock into our setup.
I never heard Paula whisper, "three more steps," and eventually the gobbler took those steps. Paula, who handles these sunrise showdowns with more composure than me, made the shot count.
The numbers – 9 ¾-inch beard, 1 1⁄8-inch spurs and a run-down 18 pounds for this three-year-old bird – didn't mean nearly as much as the memories taken from the intense 30 minutes of the entire encounter.
We headed back to the truck, where the clock read 5:46 a.m.
I felt a lot better about my miss of two days prior.