Mountain bluebirds. Scruffy muleys shedding gray for brown. Standing ovations.
Colder than I expected; seeing my breath, rubbing nipped ears, stretching complaining toes. End of April. Weather in the Rockies is quixotic, if nothing else. “Don’t like the weather? Wait 15 minutes.”
Last day of the limited entry turkey hunt. Turkeys are up 4-0. Four mornings I’ve staked out this strutting ground. Four mornings I’ve fired up the toms. Four mornings the clock strikes 8:30 and the turkeys vanish. Completely. No more yelps. No more gobbles. Nothing. Each morning I set up where they went yesterday. Each morning they go someplace else. At my wit’s end. Two years since I’ve headed home with a spring tom. I really want to get one in my sights.
This year’s hunt is therapy. It’s always therapy, but this is different. Work’s been brutal…for a year. Hunt’s been marked in my calendar for months. That first tom’s goblin-laugh echoing through the pre-dawn haze…terrifying…soul-cleansing. Forgot that sound and all it signifies. Adrenaline surge eliminates any thoughts about the cold.
Planned, scouted—ready. The birds would be there. This was to be a “one-and-done” turkey season—sure fire success. But the ending is the same every day. Silence and vanishing act.
Painful to think about ending another season bird-less. I need this hunt. Need a bird.
Worse than no bird are the box office numbers. We had a winner. All the indicators were there. Great publicity, great early reviews, overflowing pre-screenings—sure fire success. Sitting in the branches watching the weekend numbers come in on my phone…it’s a disaster. Seventy percent drop from opening weekend. No way to sugar-coat it. No way to spin it…it’s a box office flop. Turkey woods are my refuge. Get a bird and, at least, I can still do something right; lick my wounds and keep going.
Still. Unmoving, the cold is replaced by heat. Sun breaks over the mountain ridge. No silence as deep and haunting as the absence of what had been, moments ago, raucous turkey challenges. Too much calling? Too little? Too many decoys (two)? Not enough? Wrong camo? Right camo? Sleeping? Doubts are on a roll.
Silence amplifies the loudness in my head. Over and over, every detail of developing, producing, directing, and editing…woulda-coulda-shoulda. All the time, all the sweat, all the money…a waste?
Flutter of wings startles my critique. A chickadee not ten inches from my ear. Who is the most surprised? With its familiar two note whistle and a buzzing chick-a-dee-dee-dee! it flits off to the next clump of scrub oak. Delicate, manic energy; forgot all about ticket sales. What else have I forgotten? What else have I taken for granted?
Yellow dog-tooth violets breaking ground after winter. Rock maples on the verge of exploding green. Towhees churning through dead leaves; red eyes. Iced creek that thaws by mid-morning. Yearling elk like puppies in the pond. Mallards circling; making me think about duck season. Boots twice as big and heavy with spring mud. Swainson’s hawk, frozen; bent feathers keeping it motionless on the breeze. Great crew. Cold stars in the dark. Great cast. Mountain bluebirds. Scruffy muleys shedding gray for brown. Standing ovations.
Peace. Nature’s noisy, prolific peace.
Leaves crunch close. Just like they vanished, one appears. A hen whines and purrs ten feet away. Closer; feathers burnished topaz, jade, and agate. Unimpressed, she scratches along. So close, I could touch her. Has a short beard. Legal. “…authorize you to harvest one bearded turkey.”
Twenty minutes pass in an instant. Disappears into the sage.
More hours.
Sitting. Thinking. Remembering…
The season’s done.
Even though I look empty-handed…I’m not.
Alan Peterson is a Producer/Director and resides in Centerville, Utah.