The author with a Botetourt County tom that he killed on the next-to-the-last Saturday of the season last year. Photo courtesy of Bruce Ingram

It was the 24th time I had gone hunting in what was my 20th season as a Virginia turkey hunter, and I had still to punch a tag. Sure, I had killed two birds back in the fall, so there was only one tag left on my big-game license. But the tag had continued to cling stubbornly to the license, and it was the next to last Saturday of the season.

Yes, there had been mornings when I had come close. That Saturday in Franklin County when a longbeard hung up just 55 yards from the tree where I sat. That Monday morning in Botetourt County when I had to head for work and leave a red-hot tom that was gobbling with every breath. That Tuesday morning in Botetourt when a mature bird flew down from the roost and marched to within 18 yards of my position but never offered a shot. But the most disappointing morning of the season had been the first Wednesday when I missed a tom 35 yards distant. That and because there just didn't seem to be many 2-year-old toms in the woods.

The old proverb about misery loving company is true, so I had found solace in that hunting buddy, Mike Wade of Troutville, was having a season just as wretched as mine. Nearly every evening we would call one another and commiserate about our poor luck and ineptitude.

And that next to last Saturday of the season had started out with my showing lots of ineptitude. For starters, I had busted two birds off the roost while I was walking into the woods. Then I had bumped a tom when I had attempted to move in too close to him. By 9:30 that morning, tired and frustrated, I had decided to sit 20 yards off and at the far end of a long, linear field in Botetourt County, call softly every 30 minutes, and wait until dark for a lonesome tom. The gambit seemed logical, as numerous times during the season I had witnessed gobblers strutting at that spot. And all-day hunting was now in vogue, as it was the last two weeks of the season.

But by 4:10, no gobbler had approached what had previously been a longbeard gathering spot. Throughout the day, I had heard sporadic gobbling at the far end of the linear field. I had called and called to the toms "over there," but all I had received in turn was a total of four courtesy gobbles.

Therefore, I decided to play a hunch and leave what had been a hotspot, make a big loop around the property, and sneak around to the opposite side of the linear field -- using the forest and the terrain to conceal my approach. When I was just 20 yards from the edge of the far end of the field, I lined myself up with a massive white oak, dropped to the ground, crawled to the base of the hardwood, and upon arriving there, slowly peeked around the right side of the tree.