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Started by saverx, April 25, 2017, 10:04:46 PM
Quote from: saverx on April 25, 2017, 10:04:46 PMMy season is over. I tagged out which is good, but It's 365 days till next season. I've been turkey hunting for many years and I go through this every year. I don't know how I'm going to make it this time. This forum is helping so guys still hunting keep posting your stories. It's funny the older I get I learn that I get tired or bored with some activities that used to bring me joy. Turkey hunting, however is not on that list. I love it today as much or more than I did when I was young.
Quote from: tha bugman on April 26, 2017, 05:45:12 PMThe Boss Hen is as excited as I see her all year the day after my last day, but she seems to really enjoy smacking her lips on those fried nuggets to complain too much! Whether tagged out or not last day always tolls that another year has past. I got to see it one more time. Lessons learned and memories made. I happened to visit the grave of my dear turkey hunting mentor last Sunday afternoon. I never did attend the burial portion of the services over a year ago and this would be my first time there. A quiet country church sat lazily empty outside the cemetery gate, still standing as a testament of faith to a congregation gone long ago. As I searched for his marker in this lonely piece of ground, I passed by those who once pioneered and settled the area many years before and thought what it must have been like for them then. It was so serene and quiet as I approached the grave. My first impression was that this was the perfect place for his rest, as it overlooks a beautiful hardwood bottom. I said out loud "Well I bet you can even hear one from here my friend." I smiled but at the same time, this plot reminded me that everything has an end, even more so than just the last annual day of turkey season, but life itself. I thought back to all the times listening to hunting tales under the oak trees of his home, his catalog seemingly endless. He so wise a woodsman and me the bumbling fool. For this man, turkey hunting was like breathing itself, a necessity, a compulsion, an obsession, but now the lifetime of sunrises and sunsets he carried in his mind, of his days afield with success and failure would now lay so solemnly still in this place.My little poults were with me, I saw them there, climbing over the tombstones meaning no disrespect, because to them death seems so foreign now. I tried to express to them how much he meant to me, how I longed to hear just one more story. Of how he had made with his own hands the very crib that they had slept as wee ones, but every word seemed so mute and fall to the ground with such heavy thumps that I stopped, my heart pounding with hurt. They would never know him. They would never understand the relationship that I shared with him, of how our lives had intermingled if only for a brief time. Even this moment held together by such delicate a thread, would pass and carry us like a stream to the unknown destinies of tomorrow, gone in an instant, just like my much respected elder. I closed my eyes, exhaled then took in the beautiful smell of the nearby wood and as a parting goodbye hooted, yelped, and gobbled over his mortal remains. Taking my children by their little hands we walked quietly away together in peace.
