How about a look at the illusions of turkey hunting; the hunter’s aspirations? For even as we suffer the demanding tasks of this sport beyond what reasonable people might endure we simultaneously envision the perfect hunt.

    The night is black and still as we tiptoe through the leaves made damp by the dew. The moon glistens on the dewdrops, lined in perfect rows in the spider webs in our path. A distant barred owl calls his eight hoot; Who Cooks for You, Who Cooks for YOU’?all? Another answers; so close it startles us and we are left with a shiver. We are tempted to answer back with our practiced reply from deep within our lungs, but decide just to eavesdrop.

    At last we are here, beside the big leaning tree whose easternmost limbs hang out over the creek bottom below its base. The sun is still hidden, but a yellow and pink glow is there to suggest its arrival.

    The owls are having at it now. A cardinal peeps quietly and then louder. A brown thrasher calls sharply from a low bush off to the left. Momentarily a crow calls and then flies overhead. Before we can dwell on the moment a thousand birds are singing and the sun seems about to reach the horizon even though thirty minutes remain before it actually will.

    Suddenly, a throaty, violent gobble tears the air apart and we feel the chill all the way down into our boots. He is near the creek 200 yards out on the flood plain. A quiet has returned. The birds are still singing, but their songs seem subdued. The king of these woods has spoken.

    We drop down into the bottom and angle 20 degrees away from the roosted monarch. We make our way to the tall, broad oaks and pines some 50 yards closer to him. He sounds off again, shaking the ground it seems. This time his call is demanding; an insistence that any hens within earshot answer and declare their availability. We stop briefly and listen to his echo.

    The big pine there with its natural seat of deep pine straw at its base will be just right. We can see 40 yards in every direction. The bark feels as good as a chair back. The giant bird screams again and we hear no hens reply. Our hands shake as we get out the calls and lay them within reach. Mask down, gloves on, we are ready.

    A light, shy yelp on the slate brings a moment of silence and then a booming gobble. We wait. Another gobble and another. Quickly we hear the great wings flap and spurred feet crash into the leaves. We cackle on the mouth call and follow with a bold yelp. The tom gobbles lustily.

    All is quiet now. We are quiet. The gobbler is quiet. An eternity is underway. Silence; silence. We begin to notice the birds calling again. An ant crawls across a knee. The sun peeks over the horizon. Then a tiny sound is there; one that seems out of place. Next a step is heard in the leaves and another. More silence. Then, there he stands; tall and majestic, silently painted on the wooded landscape by muted brush strokes.

    Without another sound, the huge gobbler has simply appeared. Very slowly he fills his breast with air to the bursting point, swelling to twice his size. The long, thick beard swings slightly as he steps forward. We dare not breathe as his eyes search every spot for the hen we told him was here. He breaks his strut with a loud pop followed by a low drumming sound which seems to encompass the whole scene.

    Tall and majestic now, he steps forward and a tree briefly shields his vision. Our gun comes up. His next step brings him into the clear and the gun roars. There is flopping and thrashing as we dash toward our prize. There he lies in the filtered sunlight of a new day; black and red and blue and bronze and pink and tan, in an iridescent glow, taking our breath with his gift of excitement and beauty.

    We sit down and look at him and catch a breath and feel the success and the sadness and the awe. Then we close our eyes and wonder if the moment is real or just another of those recurring dreams.