The sky was pewter gray when I quietly pushed my truck door closed. The trees bent and clashed their limbs and leaves so that I couldn’t hear the groggy sunrise birds or barred owls that haunted those Arkansas mountains. How was I going to hear my quarry?

I was new to these mountains and had not done any pre-season scouting to figure out where these surprisingly wary birds might roost. Grabbing my gun from its case I already felt defeated and almost got back in my truck and drove home. But I was there. I knew I might as well explore a little to redeem the early waking. I dropped off the side of the gravel road to try and get out of the wind. Gripping sapling after sapling I descended carefully placing my feet parallel like on a wintery bunny slope.

Two hundred yards below I reached a saddle slightly out of the wind and got out my call. Yelp, yelp, yelp. Yelp, yelp. I felt silly even trying to seduce a bird. Unfamiliarity with the place, the constant wind, and my novice calling rained down on my confidence. At the end of a deep sigh, an answer came.

I called again. Answer. This time it thundered back. It was closer. There is something primal about deception of another species, whether with a trout fly you have tied yourself or a vocalization from your own throat, that is deeply thrilling. Somehow - in that moment - I had communicated with the animal kingdom. This Tom was hearing and responding to my synthetic, animalistic longings.

My back against a tree and face mask pulled up to cover any naked skin, I waited. Two minutes later I heard leaves rustle and barely audible clucks. Gun up and ready, the bright blue head with red wattle draping over its beak came into view.

Wings flapped thudding against the forest floor. In the tumult of dying I watched in wonder, not for the hard lingering itself, but for the four wings I witnessed. I didn’t fully understand until I approached the scene. I had not killed a turkey. I had killed two turkeys. Striding side-by-side in a race to find the hen, one was tucked behind the other when the pellets flew. I sat down beside them and ran my hand over their iridescent feathers in awe. Their twin beards felt like Spanish moss between my fingers. Convinced the morning was true, I hefted them over each shoulder and began the ascent.

Sweat came in streams as I lumbered up the steep under the awkward weight of two large avians. I didn’t care. I had just shot my first and second turkey. In those joyous moments of disbelief I came to the realization that Arkansas only allowed two turkeys per season. My season was over in the first fifteen minutes of day one.