The morning of our hunt started out quiet in the woods. The week before, the turkeys had been hammering on the roost, but this morning we heard maybe three gobbles from what we suspected were the same two birds. After a while of not hearing anything else we headed their direction.

Being in rugged north Alabama, we had to hike up a hill where we sat, waited and called. For about an hour, we heard nothing. It was a chilly morning, which I took for granted at that point in the season. It was one of those hunts where you are waiting for the sun to hit you and warm you up. I had just gotten partially into the sun when Dad looked over at me with wide eyes.

“Did you hear that?” he said. “I think it came from above us on the road to the right.”

I replied, “Let’s get a little closer,” figuring a tom was probably henned up above us.

We were turning a corner when he motioned for me to get down right as we walked up on two hens in the road. Surprisingly, we hadn't bumped them too bad so we waited them out until they eventually walked into the woods. 

Many have said that the ability to sit still and be patient defines a good turkey hunter. During my time as a turkey hunter, I’ve learned that statement is very true.

After practicing more patience and hearing nothing, we decided to walk the tree line to the edge of the hill at the end of the road to see if we could hear or see anything. I crow-called, and then I heard a faint gobble, probably 200 yards away. I looked at Dad to see if he heard it too or if I had gotten to the point of imagining things.

"I didn't hear anything." he said.

"Well call again, I think I heard something," I said. He called again and sure enough he heard it that time.

Given it was the only bird we had heard in a while, we decided to go after him.

We walked across the field into the woods to the area of the gobble and called again. We had a slight disagreement about where to sit because I thought the tree I picked was far superior to his. He said I would regret it. Spoiler, I did. We heard a double gobble and then a separate gobble higher up. With Dad on the slate-call and me set up on a tree above him, we sat and waited for movement.

Dad called. They gobbled back. He called again. They gobbled back again. This dance went on until four birds came in with beards swinging. They were across from us and then walked into a ditch below us, probably 40 yards away, before ending up right below Dad. It was in that moment that I regretted my tree choice. They walked past him into some brush, and we couldn’t see them for a few of minutes.

I thought to myself, “Did I really just lose my shot over being stubborn about what tree to set-up at?”

We hadn't heard anything for maybe three minutes, but it had felt like three hours. Dad called again, and all of a sudden we heard multiple gobbles. I slowly turned and saw, through a sliver of brush, four dots in the field. I belly-crawled out of the woods to the edge of field (my tree was closer so I chalked it up to me being right about my set-up spot). I had my new TriStar 20-gauge that Lt. William (Bill) Freeman from ADCNR’s R3 section had recommended, and I felt pretty confident I could get a shot.

Two gobblers were in front and two were in the back. I waited until one finally stepped into a clearing between my cover of brush and pulled the trigger.