Is it time yet? Is it almost here? I see them everywhere lately. A big one just crossed the road in front of me; he had a nice long beard. It’s so warm lately, it’s gotta be time to go!

These were my thoughts for the entire month leading into May. May meant one big thing for a guy named Hunter. Spring turkey season. Turkey season is one of those seasons I think Pennsylvania does right. It’s a month-long, perfect weather, and it breaks up the spring with a major game animal before the long summer months give rest to large game hunting. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love having the summer time to fish and garden and do all the other things that I love between hunting seasons, but spring turkey has got to be one of my favorite tags to fill. I’ll definitely credit some of it to my dad, who manages to find an adventure no matter what plan we start out with. Thanks to him, I’ve hiked my share of marathons over miles of beautiful Pennsylvania hill country. We’ve seen all kinds of things I wouldn’t normally have witnessed had we not been pushing the bounds of our exploration. 

More than once, we’ve silently come across a wandering black bear sow, only to watch her chuff and turn away on her own pursuits. A few times while sitting for a bird we were calling, we’ve had uninvited guests try to sneak in as well. Coyotes looking for an unsuspecting turkey to eat probably thought we would be an easy meal until they saw the flash of a muzzle. 

Most years, we hike to seek a quality group of longbeards, not settling for the first jakes that might cross our path. After all, the sportsman in us wants a trophy, but not just for a trophy’s sake. Conservation goes hand in hand with trophy hunting. By culling the oldest, most mature animals, you make room for younger adolescents to mature and fulfill their roles in the life cycles of their species by breeding and cycling genetics. 

There are those instances, however, when all good thoughts about conservation and skill and sport go out the window and the biggest issue left on the table is what dinner is going to be. 

My dad and I are both pretty athletic guys; we don’t mind a hike, a long hunt or difficult conditions. Trust me, we’ve hunted in all of ‘em. But sometimes the thrill of the hunt is equally enjoyed without taxing oneself. Who says you have to pay your dues every time? That’s why this year we started our hunt on a spot where Dad had watched some turkeys go on roost the night before. We got out before daybreak and found a nice spot to get ourselves comfortable, shotguns balanced over one knee. As the dawn broke slowly over the foggy hilltop, light slowly began to fill our view of the line of hemlocks bordering a wet field. At the top of this field in the trees, our prospective quarry thundered out the announcement that he had awoken for the day. A few subtle clucks from us were enough to keep him talking for quite a while. As we sat and waited, we listened to him gobble, echoing through the fog and even heard another from far across the valley behind us. After what was likely an hour of this, he finally descended from the tree and promptly stopped talking. In an effort to goad him into visiting us, we called again, only to be met with a cacophony of clicks and clucks from hens in his immediate area. After this, he trailed off, having been immediately occupied with girlfriends that, let’s be honest, were better for his health. 

We quit that bird and went to the gas station for a couple of coffees, one of the pleasant pastimes between hunting spots. And as we were heading a few miles from there, we came across a rather oblivious flock of jakes in a field my dad leases. 

After debating whether or not to move on to find a tom, we ultimately decided that these birds looked about as tasty as the next ones. We pulled the truck over, stepped out and loaded up. A quick hustle into some cover and a chirp from the mouth call was all it took to be overrun with a gaggle of goofy young birds. I centered my sights and pulled the trigger, only to brace anticlimactically against my gun, which did not go off. The safety was still on. But. The turkeys saw me move. Off they ran in three directions. Fortunately for me, the largest one I had been aiming for ran into an opening between trees I still had available. Click went the safety, and down went the bird. I ran over to it quickly and made sure the shot was clean and it suffered not a moment. Never before had my hike back to the vehicle been shorter.

The way out here we hunt to have fun, we hunt to conserve, and we hunt to eat. In this instance, we conserved our knees most of all. But if I know my father, he’s planning a trek already for next year.