Morning began in darkness. Not the empty kind, but the kind alive with anticipation. Stepping outside, the air held that unmistakable spring chill, cool enough to see your breath, but more gentle than the bite of winter.
The day started long before sunrise. It was 4:00 a.m. on a Spring morning in 1982, and I was driving to Grafton, West Virginia for my first ever turkey hunt. Armed with nothing more than ambition and an invitation from my cousin, I had no turkey calls, no “turkey gun,” sparse camouflage, and most importantly…no real understanding of what turkey hunting was all about. I was nervous but excited and not quite sure what to expect.
You see, at that time, turkey hunting was just starting to gather momentum in Greene County as the number of turkeys started to increase. West Virginia had a smaller but more established population of turkeys already, and it was a wonderful place to learn the art of turkey hunting.
Being a novice turkey hunter, the plan was for me to be the “shooter,” and my cousin would do all the “calling.” After meeting up, we started a long walk that would wind us through the woods to the very top of a ridge. It was a cool, cloudy morning, and the woods were quiet and dark. This was familiar terrain for my cousin, retracing paths worn down by years of traditions. He seemed to glide through the dark like a silent predator. Keeping up was no easy task. I had not anticipated the climb, and I was very overdressed. Sweating profusely from the long steep walk, I was struggling to keep my glasses from fogging up. A fast-paced climb through the woods, in the dark, with foggy glasses was not how I envisioned the morning unfolding.
Still dark, we finally reached our destination at the top of the ridge, and I was able to catch my breath and relax for a few minutes. As my breathing slowly returned to normal and my glasses cleared, I vividly remember sitting in the tall grass of that dark field. The clouds were starting to thin, revealing a small patch of still sparkling stars. Every sound seemed louder than usual, and there was the unmistakable smell of spring blossoms hidden in the dark.
As the sky slowly began to lighten, the forest seemed to wake up. Birds started chirping, crows started calling, squirrels were stirring, and then we heard it…a gobble echoing through the trees, like thunder contained within feathers!
My heart started pounding. It was real now. We quickly maneuvered across the open field to “get into position.” I was instructed to “Sit by that tree and point your gun that way.” I tried to stay still, just like I had been told, and listened carefully as the old gobbler sounded off time-after-time.
My cousin was considered an “expert caller” and hunting with him was both a privilege and an education for me. I listened as he serenaded the gobbler with soft purr’s, clucks, and yelps. Each gobble seemed closer and closer. The anticipation of the gobbler’s arrival was the hardest part. Every minute stretched out, and I had to fight the urge to move my now numb legs. Then, finally, I saw it. A tom stepping cautiously into view. Its giant tail fan and feathers catching the early morning light. It was both beautiful and intense, and for a moment I just watched in awe.
When the moment came, I froze as if the bird could sense my presence. I focused, took a breath, and followed through. Afterward, a mix of excitement, respect, and gratitude washed over me. My first turkey hunt wasn’t just about the harvest…it was about patience, learning, and experiencing the outdoors in a whole new way.
Some 40 years later, it’s not the number of birds taken that stays with me. It’s the feeling of those mornings, the chill in the air, the sun rises, the echoes of a gobble rolling through the hills. Now, the first real warmth of spring always carries a promise, and for me it’s still the promise of turkey season.
Long before the woods turn fully green, before the fields lose their winter-worn look, there is that quiet stretch of mornings when the world seems to wake up slowly, and I thoroughly enjoy waking up with it. Personally, there is not much I would rather do in the early hours of spring than hunt turkey…so much excitement packed into a brief period.
There were many more hunts with my cousin over the years, and he taught me countless things about hunting turkeys before his passing. Even now, years later, what lingers isn’t just the hunts themselves, but the feeling of being there, of sharing those quiet spring mornings with a family friend.
However, what I remember, what sticks with me the most, is the ritual: getting ready the night before, testing my calls, the way the house felt different knowing I’d be leaving it long before sunrise. Sleep usually came lightly the night before with half-dreams of distant gobbles echoing through the timber.
One of my favorite memories of those early hunts with my cousin was gathering morel mushrooms while hunting. We would swing by his house when traveling between hunting destinations to drop them off. When we returned at the end of the hunt, for lunch, we were always treated to fried morel and bacon sandwiches with fresh rhubarb pie and ice cream for dessert.
Turkey season isn’t just something you do. It’s something you return to, year after year. It sends a quiet thrill through your chest when you hear that first gobble, no matter how many seasons have come and gone. It reminds you of how to listen, not just for the call of a bird, but for the quiet language of the woods. In that moment, you are connected to every hunter who has ever stood still in a half-light morning, listening for that rolling thunder contained in feathers. And in those moments of stillness, you often find more than what you came for.
This article is dedicated to Pastor David E. Maley…he always had time to take me turkey hunting!
