It was the second Friday of the 2006 Spring Gobbler Season, May 5th; a cool, foggy morning in Greeenbrier County, West Virginia was awaiting us as the alarm clock rang-in the arrival of 4:30 a.m. I would be accompanying a new hunting companion, my fiance’s Father, Dave Keadle. We would be hunting a piece of prime real estate known for lots of wild game, especially long-beards. This hunt marked the first opportunity I had to experience this gently rolling pasture land surrounded by hilly, hardwood hollows. Over a quick bowl of cereal that morning, we discussed plans to set-up before daylight at the edge of a large cattle grazing field. “This field”, Dave said, “is visited by Hens hoping to catch a slow-moving grub or insect for an early morning feast; and strutting Long-Beards hoping to corral a lonesome Hen.” The set-up also provided a great location to listen for the ringing echoes of early morning gobbling.

It was a set-up Dave was very familiar with. The morning before, Thursday morning, as I was preparing for work, my phone rang. It was Dave calling just minutes after ending a successful early morning hunt from this same ambush spot. He proudly spoke of how he ended his two year drought by out-smarting a monarch four year-old Tom that weighed an impressive twenty-pounds, had 1 ¼” spurs, and a 10″ long-beard (see photo). A true trophy for these West Virginia Mountains that frequently experience hard winters. Needless to say, Dave had piqued my interest for the next day’s hunt.

We were greeted that Friday morning to cool temperatures and a slight chance of scattered thunderstorms but that didn’t dampen our enthusiasm as we abandoned the Chevy Blazer for a short hike to our intended set-up. The ambush spot selected, at the edge of the field, consisted of an old Walnut tree with a fallen, leafless tree beside it that would provide a comfortable back rest, good camouflage, and adequate back-drop for concealing us from our intended game. We could see for nearly three-hundred yards in one direction of the field. Obviously, it was a good vantage point for eyeing unsuspecting approaching game evidenced by the presence of several droppings left by a wily coyote around our Walnut tree.

For whatever reason, perhaps it was the dense fog or perhaps Dave’s shotgun blast from the previous day, but the birds weren’t very vocal that morning. Only one squeaky attempt at a gobble from a Jake no doubt, and a couple of faint, distant gobbles up a hollow from the left of our set-up; too far to move on them, we chose to be patient and stay put. The only excitement of the morning came when, due to our heightened sense of anticipation and awareness, we caught a glimpse of something black moving through the thick fog; we both thought for a fleeting moment, “there he is”, only to be disappointed to find a newly born calf moving through the mist.

So, after a couple of fruitless hours on the stand, we concluded that the Long-Beards must be enjoying the company of Hens; perhaps that’s why they weren’t gobbling, we surmised. Besides, it was approaching 8:30 a.m. and the fog hadn’t lifted so, we decided to use the cover of the fog to slip into the woods and re-position ourselves in an area Dave felt a cruising Gobbler may visit, an area he’d experienced some success in prior years. “It was time to make something happen”, Dave suggested and I, being the impatient one, agreed.

But, just as Dave and I were entering the wood-line I noticed a pick-up truck driving through the middle of the field heading in our direction. Dave suggested it was the owner of the property, Joe, probably checking on his cattle. We waited to greet Joe and thank him for extending the invitation to hunt his beautiful farm. When Joe finally approached in his red Ford F150 pickup he was grinning from ear to ear as he stuck his head out the window and said, “You’re hunting in the wrong spot!” Dave, looking confused, responded, “What do you mean?” Joe, still grinning, said, “As I pulled into the farm there was a big one strutting not fifty-yards behind your vehicle. He was walking slowly up the hillside where that spring is!” With a look of disbelief, I turned to Dave as he raised his eyebrows, smiled and said to me, “I know where he’s heading, let’s go!”

Dave explained that he felt the big Tom that Joe had pushed out of the valley would either return or keep climbing that hillside and show himself on the opposite ridgeline (also a field). Dave quickly suggested that we move to an area that provides a good view of the valley floor and the opposite ridge so, we eagerly moved to a brushy fence-row that would conceal us while we scanned for the big Tom. I clipped a few shrubs and over-hanging branches to give us better visibility and we settled in. While waiting patiently, we quietly discussed a strategy for a stalk in the event the old Tom showed himself again; knowing he probably wouldn’t come to a call after being pushed. Our wait wasn’t long.

Only thirty minutes had passed and the fog quickly disappeared allowing better visibility when I caught movement on the opposite ridge. I pointed to the spot where I last saw the movement as Dave slowly raised his weathered binoculars for a closer look. I could hear the excitement in Dave’s voice as he gasped and softly exclaimed, “Yeah, that’s him, a nice one with at least a ten inch beard. That one is bigger than the one I shot yesterday!” The big Tom was five-hundred yards away and moving away from us, right to left along the ridge. We had considered that scenario and all we could do at that point was to wait for him to move behind some cover so we could move in on him. As he slowly disappeared behind the foliage of a tree-line we quickly but, quietly began our stalk.

We moved about two-hundred yards when Dave realized that if we went any further the keen Tom may spot us. So, Dave eased up closer to the top of a rolling knoll to gently peek over the hill to see if he could locate the Long-Beard. After a few seconds, I saw Dave’s head quickly duck down; a sure sign he saw the Monarch, I thought to myself. Dave turned to me as he squatted, nodding to confirm the Tom was still there, and motioned for me to move forward to his position. Dave said the big Tom was still feeding slowly on the other side of a ravine and that he just moved behind the cover of more trees. “Now is the time to make another move before the Tom is in the clear and will spot us for sure”, you could hear Dave’s urgency in his voice as he quietly began giving instruction.

Dave noticed a log lying on the ground along a tree-lined fence-row about thirty-yards ahead of us, as he pointed he said, “That would provide a good ambush point if you can get there.” He anxiously encouraged me, “belly-crawl to that log, set out a couple of decoys if you think you won’t be seen.” I immediately began my belly-crawl, taking it slow and keeping low. I tried to keep the cover of the tree-line between me and the Tom in case the Long-Beard moved into the clear and could have possibly picked up on my movement. The grass was still soak-and-wet from the dense, foggy mist that, until thirty-minutes earlier, had choked the morning’s sunshine. The cold, wet grass soaked through my Mossy Oak camouflage and down to my bones giving me a slight chill.

Dave set-up thirty-yards back, slightly down the hill, behind a couple of thin shrubs. I didn’t worry though because Dave’s camouflage blended in perfectly with the landscape; “there’s no chance of the old Tom making Dave out”, I thought to myself as I turned to get approval to continue my crawl. I was able to set-out my Jake and Hen decoy, enough enticement I thought to bring the Tom to within range if he spotted them. I was in position, settled with the gun resting atop the log. All I could do now is wait. “That Long-Beard can’t be too far away”, I thought anxiously.

As I lay there, prone, scanning the horizon looking for that red-head to appear anywhere, I couldn’t help to think what a privilege it is to be a sportsman and experience this rush of adrenaline while taking in the peaceful serenity of God’s wonder. And to share and create life-long memories with friends or family members from trips afield just caps off the experience. If everyone could experience this once, only once, it wouldn’t be so misunderstood, I thought to myself.

It seemed like forever that the old Tom feed through the ravine. I worried, “maybe he’ll keep feeding away from me and head to the safety of the woods, or perhaps he’ll pop out of the ravine and be out of range.” These nervous thoughts raced through my mind as I waited, patiently scanning for any slight movement. However, just as Dave had scripted, the monster Tom, with his long-beard skimming the ground, swinging side-to-side with his every step, was suddenly there, quartering away from me. The old Tom took his time feeding through the ravine, just out of my sight, for nearly thirty-minutes but, now, seemingly out of no where, he was right in front of me. My heart seemed as though it would jump out of my chest; you’ve been here before, I said to myself in trying to calm my nerves. It’s not about the kill for me; it’s about the feeling that overcomes me at that very moment.

Still on my belly and hidden behind the log, I froze. I needed to swing the barrel to the left to take the shot. There was the stump from the fallen tree that was shielding me from the Monarch, when he goes behind that stump I can re-position for the shot, I suggested to myself. The big Tom cleared the stump, and after a few pecks to grab some clover or butter-cups he stopped and stuck his head into the air to survey the landscape. This is it; steady yourself; relax; breathe; don’t jerk the trigger; and whatever you do, don’t jump the shot and peek; keep your head down, I barked to myself repeatedly in a matter of seconds. As the adrenaline rushed through my body, I patiently placed the sights on that tuff of hair that I wanted to hit and I slowly began to squeeze the trigger. Then, BOOM!, it was all over; no need to call to him, no need for the decoys. The shot found its mark. The majestic Tom went down instantly, a quick, clean ending to such a deserving foe (see photo).

Two days, two trophies, two memories that will last forever. I can’t wait to try it again tomorrow. It really doesn’t get any better than this!