By T. W. Norman

Growing up in the small town of Stockton in southwest Missouri, or “Missoura” as many of the old-timers still call it. I always considered myself to be one of the lucky ones. I had a dad that wanted to spend as much time as he could with his boys. I have always had a passion for the outdoors. I remember being four years old, and not being able to sleep the night before dove season opened. I was so excited for the chance to spend time with my dad, watching him blast those gray rockets zooming through the air. Now I don’t want to get into the old, “my dad can beat up your dad,” argument, but I will say I have never, ever, in all my years hunting saw anyone that could shoot dove as well as my dad. Every year we still get together at least once, and hit a picked cornfield, winter wheat field, or our favorite a field littered with dry sunflower seeds, and watch in awe as the master whacks those streamline fliers. There have been many occasions that I have watched a dove fall every time he pulled the trigger. Every year dad and I still make a trip to the dove fields in the early fall, but come springtime we’ll be chasing another type of bird altogether.

It was eight years ago when I went turkey hunting for the first time. Every spring from that point on I have been in the woods chasing strutting toms around open green fields, through timbered draws, wooded creek bottoms, and across the red dirt of western Oklahoma. Every year since that time I tried to persuade my Dad to let me take him. But he was always to busy with work during this time of the year to go. That was until three years ago when he finally let me take him on his first eastern turkey hunt. By this time I was 22 years old, spending every free moment I had either in a tree stand or chasing turkeys.

The morning started off slow. It was windy, and the birds were just not talking. However, I did see a group of birds cross a bottom field about 250 yards away from us. I knew where they were going, so we made our move, but on our way to get in front of the birds I caught another glimpse of them. “Get Down!” I said in a loud whisper. “Follow me dad, just do what I do.” We got on our bellies, and did the army man shuffle for seventy-five yards through the dew-covered ground. We made our way within shooting range of the grazing birds, and noticed that they were all jakes. Dad had positioned himself to take the shot, but he told me that he really did not want to kill a young bird. Which ultimately turned out to be a very wise decision.

We watched those birds walk out of sight. After they were long gone we got to our feet, worn out, wet, and a little agitated that we went through all of that for a couple of jakes. We were running short on time. So I told dad that we would go back and pick up the decoys and head back in for the morning. As we approached our original position a hen exploded out of the nearby timber. “Great” was the only word that I could seem to muster at that point. We crossed the old weathered beaten fence, and I made my way out to get the decoy’s that had been set up for the mornings hunt. I can’t lie, I was upset, because this was probably the only day that Dad was going to be able to come hunting with me, and it was a bust. I mean not so much as a gobble was heard yet this morning. I wanted so bad for dad to get a taste of what had gotten me so fired up about Turkey hunting, but I guess it was not meant to be, or so I thought.

“T.W. get down, I see a turkey at the bottom of the hill.” My heart immediately started hammering against the inside of my chest. Dad and I crawled to the corner, we were nestled in tight behind some bushes, and a hog wire fence. I quietly extracted my slate call from my vest, and tickled the walnut striker against the chalked up slate. A few purr, cluck combinations leading into some soft yelping was all it took. The old bird thundered off a gobble that could be heard in the next county. I came right back at him with some sweet yelping that I know made that ole bird weak in the knees. BOOM! Double gobble right back at us. Then a brief second later another bird sounded off. I looked at dad and told him there were two birds working up the hill to us. His eyes were wide in amazement, the birds made there way closer and closer between each one of their thundering gobbles. Dad and I waited patiently finally seeing the lead birds fan crest the top of the hill, like the first rays of the sun coming over the horizon. I told dad to get his gun ready, he slowly put his gun through a whole in the old hog wire fence. I told him to be patient. “Those birds want to be up here dad, they are coming in just wait, you’ll get a real close shot if you just wait him out.” Sure enough, both birds came right over the top of that hill. It was so beautiful; the sun was glistening off of their feathers, there wings dragging the ground as they both walked in circles. The dominant bird never came out of strut; he made his way closer with each step. Closing the distance, we could hear him spitting, he would circle, and then come in a little closer. I could hear dad’s breathing he was almost hyperventilating; I have never seen my dad so nervous. “Just wait, let him come,” were my instructions. The closer the bird came the more nervous I got. His beard resembled a paintbrush more than a turkey beard. I could see the bird’s spurs from thirty yards away. I knew this was a good bird. I let him come walk within ten steps of our position. Dad kept asking, “Can I shoot, T.W. can I shoot?” “Just wait dad, I’ll tell you when.” As soon as he raised his head, I gave the final command, “SHOOT!” KA-BLEWIE! The Mossberg 835 Ultra Mag. rang out. All that was left was a puff of feathers, and a twitching bird. “You got him, you did it Dad, you nailed your first turkey!” I honestly think that I was more excited than he was. I looked at Dad, and the only thing he said was “man, that gun kicks like a mule.” We crossed the fence, and made our way up to my dad’s first trophy, it was then when I truly realized what a great bird he had just harvested. The turkey sported an inch and 6/8’s spurs; he had a 12.5inch beard, and tipped the scales at astounding 26lbs.

Words cannot accurately describe how proud I was to be with my dad when he took his first turkey. I told him that I now knew the excitement that he must of felt when I killed my first deer. It was like we switched positions for a few hours that day. I have been blessed all my life. I have a very understanding wife, that lets me hunt almost as much as I want. I have been able to harvest several good bucks with my gun, and my bow. I have taken countless turkeys, a few wild boars, but not one hunt that I have ever been on sticks with me like the fist time I was able to take my dad turkey hunting. We have always said that “killin a critter” is just icing on the cake. Everything that we do, every minute we get to spend in the woods together is just another memory that we can share for the rest of our lives. There is nothing better than to be able to share those memories with the people that we love and care about. I look back through my life, and remember all the times dads helped me out of or prayed me through a tough situation. I’m so thankful to my dad for everything that he has done for me, and there’s nothing I could ever do to repay him for that, but I do know one thing for certain. Every fall that comes around we’ll be spraying bb’s at some fast flying dove, sitting in a tree stand in hopes for that big one to come through, and come spring we’ll be chasing those love sick red heads through the timber and across the fields as long as the good Lord allows.

Thanks dad, I love ya!