Old Tom's Last Day The land has risen again after a long, cold winter. The snow was melting leaving the streams full of streams. The finches exchanged their ash-colored feathers for their auspicious honey-colored pompon. Spring had finally arrived bringing with it the spring turkey hunting season. For weeks I had sifted through my vast collection of turkey hunting gear, setting aside my most reliable rifle and shells and my favorites of camouflage clothing, decoys and turkey calls. Hunting a wild turkey requires expert use of a turkey call that imitates a sound that will attract a turkey to the hunter. Calling a turkey or gobbler male can mean sounding like another male, wanting a comparison. It can also mean imitating the sound of a female looking for a mate. For many years prior to this, I had spent many hours trying to hone the “art” of calling. Little did I know that all my hunting practice, perseverance and patience were about to pay off. As the birds began their first red tune and dawn peeked over the horizon, I sat down on what would become the most exhilarating hunt in the world. spring. Crisp, fresh forsythia-scented air greeted me at the front door as I left the house, carrying with me everything I needed for a successful hunt. After filling my camouflage Jeep almost to capacity, I had something else on my mind. Even though I had never tried it before, I decided to load my tree into the Jeep as well. Tranquility and serenity filled the freshly colored forest paths. The leaves on the trees sparkled in the warmth of the morning sun like the lights on a Christmas tree. As I walked deeper into the woods, contemplating the perfect spot to set up, I noticed some sure signs... in the center of the paper... distinguishing it from a female turkey. Very rare are gobblers that have two or more. Killing a gobbler with these ornaments was like catching lightning in a bottle. I continued to examine him and noticed that his spurs, bony spikes on the back of his lower legs, were those of a three-year-old bird. My breathing was returning to normal and my rush had reached its peak as I packed my hunting gear into my bag. Jeeps. With my head held high and proud of my stride, I returned to my best cock and slung it over my shoulder to take home to weigh and record. I found it difficult to put into words all the emotions I felt on that memorable spring day, but I'm actually happy to have earned the bragging rights of the 24 1/2 pound gobbler. Today the masterpiece decorates the wall of my study and I will forever enjoy telling the story of Old Tom's disappearance.