Turkeys are mean. Spiteful. Evil. They take pleasure in the humiliation of obsessive, ridiculous humans who get up long before the wild birds themselves and trudge across cold, dew-laden fields, through icy streams, even crawl through sopping, muddy branches and equally wet grass for a chance to see them. Turkeys gamble with their lives in a chance to have a good, long, hard laugh with their buddies at the absurdity of these stupid humans who think they can't be seen as they cower in the bushes and make silly sounds at them.
If they play it wrong, they get shot. But these critters are so hardcore and rough that it's a risk they're willing to take. If they play it right though, they laugh laugh laugh until they can barely fly up to their roosts for the night. There are a couple who will be chuckling all day today.
Me? I am cold, wet, and humiliated. And smiling.
Turkey hunting is a disease. Mine had gone into remission for a year. Not because I wanted it to. Yet it did none the less. I had forgotten how painful and injurious to the ego this game can be. Still, after muttering expletives to myself on the cold, wet walk of shame back to the truck, I had to smile at the beauty of the sunrise lighting the mist over the green hills, and thank God for the incredible privilege of being in the game at all. It hurts so good.
-- And here is a "Hi" from Perry, my 3 year old son who is looking on as I write. 
