One of my most important axioms for hunting spring gobblers is not to make a duel with a longbeard personal, as in the case of an individual who proclaims that he is going to chase after one certain tom to the exclusion of all others and either he will kill that bird or the season will end before our hero relents. That type of attitude leads to ruination.

Author Bruce Ingram with a tom he called in and killed last May 6. The Botetourt County gobbler's best spur was 1 inch long and it had a 9-inch beard. Photo courtesy of Bruce Ingram.

So last Tuesday, May 6, before going to Lord Botetourt High School where I teach, I returned to the Botetourt County farm where 11 days earlier, I had shot at -- and missed -- the only gobbler I had called in the entire first three weeks of the season. Since I had killed two birds during the fall season, I only had one tag left. That tag had remained stubbornly attached to my hunting license like a tick to a hound dog, however, as I had endured the worst April of my turkey-hunting career. Indeed, one of my ninth grade English students had asked the following question:

"Mr. Ingram, why haven't you killed a turkey? All my dad's friends have."

The questioning was made worse by the fact that I tell my students that every time I kill a turkey they receive five extra credit points on the next vocabulary quiz, so numerous students were daily inquiring about my hunting success. Or as one of my 10th graders had proclaimed: "Mr. Ingram, I need those points bad," he said. I was too frustrated to even correct his grammar and tell him that he should have said "badly."

So, on that May morning, I had decided to go after the same bird that had already beaten me two other times that season, not including the time I shot and missed. Predictably, the old boy gobbled hard on the roost, and I ran toward him in the morning murk, setting up about 75 yards distant. After settling in, though, I heard two gobblers behind me, 150 yards up the opposite ridge.

It was then that I remembered my own maxim about making a contest personal, so I left the closer bird and quickly ran up the mountain toward the duo. Not wanting for them to see me in the rapidly approaching dawn, I set up in a funnel 100 yards down the mountainside and positioned a decoy 15 yards in front of my position.

Scratching out some sleepy tree yelps on a slate, I was thrilled when all three of the area's gobblers went berserk at the sounds. Fighting off one more time the inclination to go after my long-time adversary below, I pivoted toward where I thought the duo above would appear.

As I had expected, the gobbling peaked right before fly-down time, then stopped as all three of the toms likely flew down and strutted. All this time I had remained silent, but the moment had now come to let out some more urgent and louder yelps, as time had become a factor. For I still had to hopefully call in and kill one of the toms, run down the mountain, check him in, stuff him in the refrigerator in a black trash bag (please don't tell my wife, Elaine, that I do that), drop off my 12 gauge at the house, and change clothes and drive to school.