There was plenty to be thankful for that day, including an amusing story to be retold on those long, hot days in the blind between birds.

It had been a long time since I’d killed a turkey. A long time. Too long. It wasn’t for lack of trying—I’d chased toms for years across Maryland, in the driving rain and the blistering sun, deep in the tick-infested woods and baking out in parched wheat fields from Charles County to the Eastern Shore. I had lured turkeys in close and seen them dance at a distance, but year after year, they lingered just out of range. Until now.

I hit the road early, aiming for a 4 a.m. arrival at the farm where I had hunted the year before. The memory of that particular chase still haunted me—everything from the bone-chilling, eight-hour, torrential downpour we sat through to the image of a bright red head peeking over the undergrowth at 65 yards. That recollection has cost me sleep ever since, wrestling bed sheets and leaping over my long-suffering wife night after night as I frantically reach for an imaginary shotgun with one hand and a phantom coffee thermos with the other.

But this season would be different. This time, the rain held off, the birds were no longer henned up, and Wayne the Turkey Whisperer, caller extraordinaire and my host for the day, was dusting off a scratch pad and a well-worn 12 gauge, just in case. We loaded up our gear and set off for the a “dangerously under-hunted” corner of the property, dragging chairs, shotguns, hot coffee and more decoys than I use to chase Canada geese on the Potomac. I wasn’t about to question Wayne’s proclivity for unusually large turkey spreads, especially after he paused to pick turkey feathers off his boots halfway across the field.

Chasing toms is truly the perfect blend of big game hunting and waterfowling. The anticipation of watching a mighty animal creep up to your hide, and the challenge of actively calling him into range with the right combination of clucks, purrs and yelps; I love it.

We were nearly halfway down the fence line when the first gobble screamed down at us. The hairs on my neck stood on end. The strange mix of emotions unique to turkey hunting began boiling furiously inside me, and with that soul-shaking gobble, I knew that particular morning might just hold more than a faint promise of action.

We settled into our homemade ground blind, the field at our backs, green foliage slowly coming to life in front of us as the Turkey Whisperer rasped on a slate call. Every ten minutes or so we’d hear a gobble, first in the trees, then slinking steadily in our direction following the telltale thump of a big bird hitting the ground. I reminded myself to breathe as I say stock-still, sweat rivulets running down my charcoal-smeared face despite the morning coolness, eyes swiveling slowly, watching for a fan tail to match those thunderous gobbles. As his shrieks punctuated the steady rhythm of Wayne’s cluck-cluck-purr, yelp, cluck-yelp-yelp staccato, I couldn’t believe that tom wasn’t already sitting in our laps.

And then a growl in my ear.

“There he is, to the right of that big oak. See him? See him?!”

I shook my head slowly—what I thought to be imperceptible—but that earned me another growl.

“Hold still, he’s just about to step out…get that gun up. Ready?”

There he was. Puffed up and strutting right at us, his blue and white head brilliant against the darkness of his fanned tail, sending an electric jolt from throat to racing heart as his eyes bored into mine. I lined up my bead right at the base of his head, all thoughts of trophy hunting forgotten as he swayed toward me, foot by majestic foot. I slipped off the safety, squeezed the trigger and boom, watched him rear back as pellets flew true at the target. I fired again for good measure and he collapsed, dust and feathers and leaves floating downward as that massive dark form lay motionless before us.

I wish I could say I retrieved him in a dignified manner befitting his elegance and stature in the Eastern Shore food chain, but that would be stretching the truth too far, even for an outdoorsman. I chased that darn tom around the clearing as he flopped through his death throes, dodging raking spurs while Wayne held his sides and guffawed at my antics.

At long last, a few feathers lost but otherwise none the worse for the wear, I had a beautiful thunder chicken set up for the post-hunt photo; a ten-inch paintbrush spilled out beneath that blue-white head as I grinned and howled and whooped up a storm, unable to contain my joy and appreciation for the harvest. There was plenty to be thankful for: a generous invitation, a picture-perfect hunt, a tick-free posterior—and maybe, most importantly of all, a story to be told on those long, hot days in the blind between that bird and the next.