Turkey Hunt by Anna Murphy illustrated by Michael Haynes I woke at 3 a.m. to the smell of eggs and bacon and the aroma of coffee. I numbly pulled camouflage overalls over my worn, green sweat suit, rubbed sleep from my eyes and stumbled down the familiar steps of my grandparents’ old farmhouse. My father sat at the kitchen table. He chuckled at the condition of my hair. I clumsily forced it into a ponytail and plopped down at the table for breakfast. A short time later, the brisk morning air flushed m cheeks when I hopped out of our van and glanced up at the early morning sky. The horizon was as black as coal, but trillions of stars confettied the sky. I shivered in the freezing morning breeze and pulled on a second jacket. It was 4 a.m. Dad organized his slate calls, and I pulled the gun sling onto my right shoulder. Though my 20 gauge felt weightless at that moment I knew that I would be shifting it from shoulder to shoulder numerous times before we reached our destination. I followed the flashlight beam and Dad’s silhouette to the edge of my great-grandfather’s 550 acres of land and waited as he unlatched the gate. We hiked for another 20 minutes then quietly kicked the leaves and stray branches from the base of a large tree before settling onto inflatable “bun savers” to wait. The hypnotic sound of rustling leaves, a gentle breeze and soothing fresh air can send any young hunter into slumber. Actually, my eyelids got heavy the moment my rear met the ground. It was 5:15 a.m. when the familiar sound of a turkey gobble woke me from repose. It was far away, but the sound widened my eyes and sent my heart racing. I bit my lip to contain the building excitement. Once more, a faint but definite gobble broke through the forest. I hoped the turkey would make its way by our little nest. We waited for about 15 minutes. I sat as still as I possibly could, but I fidgeted occasionally in the chilly air and once jumped at the sound of a small bird’s coo above our heads. I had given up hope when the turkey loudly announced his presence and set the butterflies in my stomach into flight. “Do you see him?” Dad whispered. I see not what my father, the best tracker and most cautious hunter I have ever known, sees, so I shook my head. He slowly rose a shaky finger toward a tree 20 yards in the distance. The gobbler was booming every ten seconds or so. Suddenly, a white dot bobbed before me, disrupting the green and brown collage of trees. I stopped squinting and raised my gun. The turkey was 15 yards away from our tree. He opened his fan, and early morning light bounced off his colorful feathers He strutted in circles waiting for his mate. He smoothed his feathers, lowered his head and used his beak to peck at the floor of the forest. As I waited for him to stop feeding and present a good shot, my cheeks filled with blood and the pounding of my heart echoed in my head. I closed my eyes for a moment and took a deep breath before I centered the small metal bead in the larger white sight. When the bird raised its head, I thumbed the safety off, focused my eyes, slowly exhaled and gently pulled the trigger. The ringing in my ears was no match for my father’s happy shouts. He jumped up immediately as I turned the safety back on and propped the gun against the base of our tree. I stood slowly, quaking, and tried to shake the shivers from my step as I ran by my father’s side. I looked at the bird, which had fallen immediately on impact, and then at my father. We both began talking at the same time and laughed, hugging each other. I was surprised when tears welled in my eyes. I brushed them quickly from my cheeks as Dad bent down to examine the gobbler. He grinned and told me to tag it. Dad took lots of pictures with his disposable camera as we walked back to the van. I beamed with pride each and every time he snapped the shutter. When I look at those pictures now, I can close my eyes and feel the joyous weight of the bird on my shoulders. The 25-pound gobbler grew extremely heavy as I walked out of the forest, but I don’t think my feet ever touched the ground. Young Hunters: A spring gobbler has red, white and blue on its head. Another hunter might mistake a sliver of white socks or the flash from your moving hand or foot for a turkey. If you choose to wear camouflage, cover yourself completely, including your hands and face, to better protect yourself from someone who doesn’t follow the safety rule of waiting to see the whole bird before shooting.

Click to Enlarge A gobbler caps a memorable day for a father-daughter hunting team.     Young Hunters: A spring gobbler has red, white and blue on its head. Another hunter might mistake a sliver of white socks or the flash from your moving hand or foot for a turkey. If you choose to wear camouflage, cover yourself completely, including your hands and face, to better protect yourself from someone who doesn't follow the safety rule of waiting to see the whole bird before shooting.