Turkey hunting is not for the weak at heart nor the squeamish.

  As a matter of fact, it should be the domain of the mature adult at least for those over 18 or accompanied by an adult. After all, this sport should be rated "R" since it's all about sex and violence.

 Oh yeah, the hunters with their sexy calls and clucks promise romance, but deliver mayhem.

 Let's take the fall hunt of 2003 in an undisclosed section of East Tennessee. It's undisclosed because I don't want a bunch of flat-landers rushin’ in and decimating my "private hunting preserve".

  Okay, maybe it's not actually mine nor is a hunting preserve. It's a couple hundred acres of woods and pastures owned by my father-in-law number 3. Or is it number 4? No matter, that's all bank accounts and property under the bridge so to speak.

 Where was I? Oh yeah, back to that fateful hunt.

 This was my very first attempt to bag a gobbler and I had read all the literature, talked to all the "experts' down at Doshie Boatwright's Grocery and Bait Shop, even bought a new set of Phorest Phantom camos. Complete with hat, gloves and face mask.

  I had determined that this year's Thanksgiving bird would be one from the wild and I was gonna be the mighty white hunter to bag it.

 To further improve my chances, I had convinced my buddy from South Carolina, Milo Pernham to accompany me and allow me the benefit of his vast knowledge and expertise in turkey hunting. I knew he had vast knowledge and expertise ‘cause Milo had told me so. Time and time again.

  Besides, I had stopped squirrel hunting a few years back after raising a baby gray. I just couldn't bring myself to shoot ‘em since they all reminded me of that little guy, Merle. Besides, squirrel, grouse, rabbit and deer season had all closed by now and I had never chased after those bearded weirdies.

 Milo brought along some calls he said never failed to bring the Toms a runnin’.

 We chose a spot he determined was the perfect place to wait and we did.

 Two hours.

 Four hours.

 Six and a half hours.

 I had cramped up three, four hours ago. My bladder was fixin’ to burst and my lips were numb from rubbing that Quaker Boy.

  I asked Milo what happened to all his expertise and turkey hunting abilities.

 He replied something like, “Wahl, some days you get the bear and some days the bear gets you!”

 I shot him three times and walked on back to the truck.

A BOY AND A BROOK

He is a very little boy,
And the brook is little, too,
Reduced to his size by a lengthy dry spell.

At first, we tried to keep his feet dry
By walking alongside the brook,
Collecting and throwing stones into the water.

That didn’t last long;
In short order, he was in the brook
Up to his knees.

He threw small stones;
He threw larger stones;
He loved the “ploomp!” they made when hitting the water.

He was surprised to learn
That there were things living in that water;
He needed an up-close view:

A fast frog and a darting brook trout eluded us,
But we managed to catch three crabs
From underneath submerged rocks for his examination.

What a great outing:
Lots of fun…Great exercise, and
A science lesson, to boot!

Want to know what it takes to warm an old Grandpa’s heart?
Not much, really…..
Just a Boy and a Brook!

________________________________________

AN OLD MAN AND A BROOK

Just getting to the brook
Was his first problem...

The bank from the road to the stream
Was steep and covered with loose gravel.

He descended from road to stream
By clutching the branches of young beech trees.

Once streamside, he rigged his trout rod
And baited up with a white Gulp maggot.

He immediately encountered a rocky pool
Which he thought would hold a brook trout or two.

BAM!...He got a hard hit on his first cast
And quickly landed a beautiful 7 inch native brook trout.

He quickly released the trout back to the stream
And struggled his way upstream to the next good looking pool.

On his way, he staggered and stumbled
Over rocks and logs that tested his balance and old legs.

The stream, with its many ideal trout pools
Helped to overcome any physical shortcomings
That came with his 77 years.

He was fishing...and catching fish after fish
Which took him back to the trout fishing days of his youth.

The beautiful stream and the cooperative trout
Allowed the old man to be a boy again:

The old man and this brook
Once again became
A Boy and a Brook!