I felt a tingly sensation creep up my neck and stiffen my neck hair. I had witnessed something that perhaps no turkey hunter had ever seen. Of course I never made a sound on my latex yelper that lay trembling on a dry tongue inside my mouth. After a long wait, the gobbler repeated his trick, turning around, bending low to the rear and emitting a gobble muffled by the ground and its misdirection, and then turning back around craning his neck to listen and look.

My friend, Ricky Sullivan, had invited me here to his place for a hunt. He had mentioned a certain gobbler whose gobble was very, very low in volume. Those who hunted him misjudged how far away he was and usually spooked him when he appeared unexpectedly.

The bird was within gun range in sparse cover as he repeated this strange hoax several times without moving a single step forward. By now he had set the stage to defeat me. He had gotten into my head.

It seemed like an hour that he stood there, waiting for a hen to reply or appear. I expected him to eventually continue on the trail and give me a clear shot. I had rotated my eyes left along the trail and found an opening clear of weeds some 30 feet ahead of the great bird. If he ever advanced that far he would be mine.

At long last the gobbler took a cautious step, completely clearing the ridge line. Then one more step and eventually another. He was nearing my clear spot, but he had by now stretched my anxious anticipation to the breaking point.

Curiously, he carried his head very low to the ground, seemingly getting a near-sighted view of each measured step. As the front bead of my shotgun slowly followed his red head, suddenly the head cleared the weeds and appeared in a small, low opening I had not noticed.

My jittery brain processed the information; GOBBLER, WITHIN RANGE, CLEAR SHOT, SHOOT! And I pulled the trigger!

The great bird wheeled, gathered himself and ran back down the trail. I dashed behind him to where I could see the valley below and he was nowhere to be seen. Ricky and I searched all the hiding places in the valley. Then we checked the scene and found where my shot charge had cut off three small twigs between my hiding place and the gobbler.

End of story, except for the lesson I learned so very well. The lesson, of course, is patience. Just a few more steps and the old monarch would have been in the clear spot. But my patience had fizzled because this smart bird had taken it to my limit.

Patience. Spell it with a capital P and stamp it on your forehead. It is the key to successful gobbler hunting. How well I now know!