I’ve always likened the opening day of turkey season to what it must feel like as a player in the minor leagues when he’s called up to the majors.

 

When the first hints of daylight appear in the eastern sky, the sounds of the night birds, whippoorwills and owls, transition to cardinal and crow and, if you’re lucky, the raucous gobbling of a wild turkey. Welcome to the show, you’re in the big leagues now!

 

Another turkey season opening day and baseball analogy that holds true is that of spring training and the regular season. Rookies and veteran players alike need to knock the rust off each spring and get in shape for the regular season.

 

In my experience, a lot of turkey season “rust knocking” takes place on opening day, especially on opening morning.

By that point, I’ve tuned my calls, packed my vest, checked my gun, and organized my camo; however, inevitably, I find myself running a few minutes late or realize, too late, that I have forgotten something in my mad scramble to get one last gulp of coffee and get out the door.

 

While I am certainly no longer a rookie when it comes to turkey hunting, opening morning usually makes me feel like one. Case in point, about a mile into our 2.5-mile walk Saturday morning, I realized that I had forgotten the decoys.

 

With the minutes ticking down until “gray light” and gobbling time, Dan and I would just have to make do without them.  At least that’s what I reasoned as we walked.

 

Standing in the gloaming at our listening spot in a beautiful South Florida oak hammock, we were greeted with a frenzy of gobbling from four different longbeards, two near and two distant.

 

We crept to the edge of the creek bed over which the closest tom had roosted with his harem of hens and set up underneath a large oak. The vantage point gave us a clear view across the sand of the creek which was dry except for one small section on the far side.

 

From our location, we hoped to lure the Sultan of Spring into gun range. It was the perfect spot, or at least it would have been if I had only remembered those decoys.

 

When the gobbler pitched down, he made his way in our direction, hugging the far side of the creek. He passed directly in front of our loaded guns at 80 yards and, seeing no hen, proceeded away down the creek in search of the love interest that had given him the slip.

 

I feared it would happen just that way, and I knew what I had to do. I needed to walk back to camp for the decoys.  I leaned over and whispered my intentions to Dan and set out immediately on my perambulation in that direction.

 

I made the 2.5-mile walk at a brisk pace in 35 minutes. Back in camp, I grabbed the decoys, made a couple of salami and cheese sandwiches, put two extra bottles of water in my turkey vest, and headed back up the trail.

 

In no time, I was resuming my position next to Dan’s side after having placed the hen and jake decoys about 30 yards from us on our side of the sandy creek bed.

 

We quietly ate our lunch and then settled into a routine of calling every 15 to 20 minutes.  As yelps, clucks and purrs drifted out and into the swamp, we watched and listened intently for the sound of any approaching hens and gobblers.

 

On a side note, there may be nothing better than a nap in the spring woods, which we both managed to get in during the afternoon. The pleasant temps in the low 70s and the Seminole wind made those naps even sweeter.

 

Around 3:15 p.m., the yelps from my yellowheart crystal call were greeted with the clucks and yelps of an excited hen, followed by the palmetto-piercing gobble of an Osceola longbeard. Rounding the bend in the creek, the gobbler beelined toward our position.

 

When the “King of the Swamp” saw the decoys, he became enraged, strutting, gobbling and sidestepping into the rogue, albeit fake, jake that had invaded his kingdom and usurped his throne.

 

With a cluck from the crystal pot call, the monarch raised his head and that was all Dan needed to send a magnum load in his direction.

 

Kneeling together in the dry creek bed, we placed our hands on the majestic tom and offered up a prayer of thanksgiving for the life that had been taken, the life it would, in turn, nourish and sustain, and for the time we had together that day in the swamps of South Florida.

 

Dan’s walk back that evening was a bit heavier — 19 pounds to be exact — but mine was much lighter. It felt as though I was walking on air.

 

I would end up logging eight miles on opening day, and it was worth every step.  However, you can bet your best turkey call that I didn’t forget the decoys the next morning.

 

On our way back to camp we rendezvoused with our buddies Steve Brown and Chris McElroy to share the story and take pictures in the last remaining light of day.

 

It was an epic opening day, one that I will never forget, although I seem to forget a thing or two each opening day.

 

Until next time, here’s to South Florida sunrises, gobbling swamp turkeys and friendships that last a lifetime, and here’s to seeing you out there in our great outdoors.