I had to call it quits last weekend. The trip out and back to the Honey Hole aggravated the leg, which had been the reason I spent the early part of last week in the ICU. I did not mind it much. Sunday thru Wednesday was cold or rainy– or both. I’m on blood thinners so 35F no fun whatsoever. I stuck around town until Thursday so I could hear what they have planned for me in the way of chemo-therapy. After that, all I wanted to do was get back out to the farm. They start pouring the bug juice into my veins in a week or so.

Friday morning was 49F with a half-moon barely peaking through pea-soup fog. I got to the Honey Hole with plenty of time to spare, only to catch a near-constant drip off the trees. The humidity made most of my calls sound crappy, but I’m not going to it as an excuse. I’ve spent most of the last month stuck in my recliner. I was fagged out, damp and in about as foul a mood as I’ve been able to muster. Legal hunting started with a couple of perverse gobblers that seemed to be answering everything except my calls.

The closest of the two flew down after about a half hour and wandered off. The furthest away– about half way back to the cabin– started gobbling at nothing and this persisted for some time. It at least allowed me to keep track of him. After fly-down, he wandered over to the little pasture at the top of Virginia, and stayed there for a good long time. I did not start the recorder until I had a half-inking that he might be turning down the road towards the Honey Hole. It took him the better part of another half-hour to make it to within 75 yards of my position. By this time, I had moved so that my back was to a large White Oak that afforded me a good shot at him, should he make it all the way down the road and out into the field. Shortly thereafter, he crossed through the fenceline on which I was positioned, and went back out into the other pasture. He hugged the tree line all the way, occasionally gobbling.

Despite a commanding view of the whole scene, I did not see him until he was less than 10 yards from where I was sitting. I gave him a load of #4s full-on at the base of the neck and laid him out without a twitch.

Now came the fun part. The Honey Hole is about a half-mile from the cabin. It is all slightly up-hill, and having a 23 pound bird on your back makes that a poignant reality. I spent the next hour schlepping the bird in 50 yard increments back to the porch, pausing to sit down and rest in between. Mind you, I feel great, but I can tell there is something profoundly off. Normally that is a 15 minute trip.

He was a nice fat two year-old. He weighed 23 pounds, had a 9.5″ beard and 5/8ths spurs.

I’ve got audio from this morning, but I will hold off and bring it to you later. I figure pics will suffice for now.