CONTENTS:

Chapter 1: Turkey Hunters: "Often talked about, are men who have gone crazy on behalf of this bird. Rarely mentioned, are those whom only this bird makes sane. Somewhere in the ricochet of each, normality is redefined for a turkey hunter. The rest of the world, if it is still there when he returns, is forgotten."

Chapter 2: Peggys & Cemeteries: “In their respective tenures, I learned all I needed to know about the value of a dollar and even more in the lack thereof. I learned that money cannot buy happiness, but broke won't buy you anything. The same principle applies for turkeys—more accurately, turkeys to hunt. You do not necessarily need an abundance, but if you are going to hunt them, you at least need a few.”

Chapter 3: Ceteris Paribus: “Turkey hunting, as I know it to be, is handled between a man and a bird. The two exhaust themselves in sanctified warfare until they reach an indisputable conclusion. The results these battles produce are as inevitable as they are absolute. They are clear, profound, and positive. Whoever wins, does so by outlasting, outwitting, and outperforming their opponent. Both the victor and the defeated leave no doubt, when all is said and done, for who is who.”

Chapter 4: Legends: “In their accumulation, lousy turkey hunters become good ones, good turkey hunters become great, and great turkey hunters are reminded of just how lousy they still are, some mornings. I confidently believe these birds occasionally die as legends, if they die at all.”

Chapter 5: Little Things: “The iridescence of their plumage is nothing short of marvelous, and their demeanor is that of a grown man walking directly at you with a sternness implying that you owe him money. In these moments, your mental state will surpass the point of consumption and veer well into the realms of minds having been lost. Not only do calm and collective motions flee from your motor skills, they cease to exist at all.”

Chapter 6: Calfkiller: “These times of wild turkey voodoo are as sure as death and taxes, and they bookend all terms of favorable blessings. All a turkey hunter can do, once a run of good luck has reached its end, is buckle up and hold on, because they are coming.”

Chapter 7: Is or Isn’t: “If the bird is responding to you, and you know that he is, you must then assess whether he is or isn’t coming to your calls. When a turkey gobbles with intent, it is primarily to let you know where he is. No differently than he might be telling you to stay put, because he is on his way, he will gobble to tell you to hurry up, because he is on his way. The difference, obviously, is which way.”

Chapter 8: Chess Not Checkers: “Not if, but when a gobbling wild turkey hangs up out of range, the bidding procedures of stockyard cattle auctioneers shall ensue between the stagnant bird and the anxious caller. These bouts can last for hours to no avail, or they can end abruptly in either’s favor. There is an opportunity here, to either take control or ride it out, and I do my best to drive the boat I am on. If the sail proves to be unsuccessful, at least I get to pick where the ship will sink.”

Chapter 9: Unshouldered Arms: “I decided to bite the bullet and fight my way through the thicket and intertwining briars, early enough that the gobbler might simply presume that I was a deer; or if he became aware that I was a human, it would be one who lacked the cognitive ability to know how dumb of an idea this actually was, much less one who posed a legitimate threat to his wellbeing and safety.”

Chapter 10: A Bird in the Hand: “The sacred moments you will spend in the aroma of gunpowder, as it blankets that of damp moss and honeysuckle, will be the last recollections to fade a weary mind in due time. You only get so many. Hang onto them. Talk about them. And relive them every chance you get.”

Chapter 11: William: “One day, presumably soon, a headstone will convey proper clarity for those who might otherwise pass it by; but in the meantime, a collection of barred feathers stands worthy in place of the rock. Repetitious patterns of black and white barring weave seamlessly through the wilted stems of a once-colorful bouquet, left accordingly on the first Sunday in April. The arrangement of these wild turkey wing feathers leaves no doubt for whom the shade of an overhanging oak limb was intended.”