Closure: A Short Story from the Mountains

The freshly cut pine popped and crackled as it burned on the ridgetop where Lincoln Emery’s camp was made. 

Sparks drifted into the sky as though they deserved to take a seat next to the stars. As he watched them burn out only a few feet above his fire he huffed, “ Story of my life.” 

That afternoon stuck in his gut like the disgusting fast food he ate on the last leg of his trip west. He had missed. It wasn’t the bow. It was him. It happened too fast. He rushed the shot. The giant bull elk charged down the side of the mountain with Lincoln’s arrow protruding from its hip. Desperate for evidence of an arterial wound, he found all but a few inches of his arrow only a few strides down the path the bull chose. The ironic pain in his own hips from the day’s hike felt well-deserved. 

Lincoln slipped into his sleeping bag that night wondering if he was even ready for all of this. The YouTubers made it all look easy. The articles he read seemed to know what they were talking about too. It was all bullshit. He had gotten to the moment of truth, but it just went sideways. A clean miss would have been so much better.

He drifted off into a restless sleep. 

Well before sunrise the next morning, Lincoln woke with a jump, “Where am I?” He thought. He had grown too accustomed to comfort. We was too used to being in a building, at home, in his bed. He was soft. 

Everything hurt. His feet were cramping from too little water the day before. His lips were cracked. His shoulders and back were stiff. All those hours on the stair climber weren’t worth anything. His frozen boots didn’t make things better.

The fire smoldered. He uncovered it and found an ember. Something bounded down the hill behind his tent in the dark. After he flipped on his headlamp nervously, there was nothing to see but a lone pine branch quickly swinging where the creature had passed through. Lincoln added tinder to the ember and started a small flame. It was just enough to feel some kind of warmth. 

Once his body heat was tolerable, it was time to do it all again. 

The sun finally broke over the ridge around 7:00 am. He had already heard a bugle in the canyon below him. He just needed enough light so as not to cause unnecessary noise. 

It was perfect. He could feel the thermals rising, and the wind was creeping up the mountain. He could make out the faint “mew” of a small group of cows. Periodically, the bull would rip off a deep, guttural bugle with a series of raspy chuckles. He knew this was the one he wanted. 

Carefully paralleling the group and eventually working in front of them at a higher elevation, he let out a soft cow call. The bull gave up his position with a scream.

The calculations began processing through his head. Wind? Check. It gently blew across his cheek to the top of the ridge behind him. Distance? Perfect. 35 yards. All the bull needed to do was step into the clearing. 

A set of brown legs trotting through the deadfall caught his eye. His heart rate skyrocketed. Then another came, and another. Then the sound of antlers hitting branches sent a calm over Lincoln. 

Thoughts of the day before were the farthest thing from his mind. This situation was different. He had time to be ready.

He drew smoothly. Quietly. His anchor point connected him to the bow. The peep sight aligned perfectly, allowing him to see everything he needed to. The bull stopped at the edge of the clearing. Steam billowed from his mouth as he bugled. The cows rushed through the opening, bull in tow. 

It was all one motion. His sight pin settled in. He closed his eyes and opened them one more time. The bull looked at him, broadside. As if he was acknowledging the moment. Like a warrior accepting his end. 
The arrow flew. This time, as it was designed. The bull lurched forward and crashed into the darkness of the canyon. Blood flowed cleanly through the wound the broadhead had made. His breath shortened. Every stride was a marathon step to his finish line. He couldn’t run anymore. He stopped. Making one final circle in the pine duff, he could walk no longer. He laid down and made one final effort to get back up. 

It was over. 

Lincoln’s legs and lungs burned from the pack out. Blood had dried on his hands. He poured water over them, and he was shocked by a sting. He had forgotten that he had cut himself during the quartering. “That’s going to need stitches when I get back,” he grinned as he wrapped some duct tape around it. 

The fire was different that night. The sparks seemed to make it higher into the night sky this time. Blood-stained bags of meat hung down the ridge from the camp to cool and keep predators away. The front end of the previous day’s arrow, about four inches with the broadhead still attached, leaned against a rock by the fire. 

The pain of that day resolved with the finality of a second chance. 

Gear Review: The Falco Wisent Rifle Case and Grey Wolf Backpack

Call me set in my ways, jaded, or just plain stubborn, but it’s not easy to get me to recommend hunting gear. 

Why? It’s simple. There are a ton of products and infinitely more budgets and, my goodness, so many opinions about all of it. 

Yes, I’ve used my share of it over the years, even before I became a photographer and writer, and I’ve gone through more than enough to know what’s fantastic and what’s… well… subpar. 

So, when a company sends me equipment, I really do try to keep an open mind, but more often than not, it doesn’t get recommended for two reasons. It either doesn’t fit my current needs, or I can’t justify putting my stamp of approval on it because I have tried it, and it just doesn’t hold up well to my testing.

So as you read this, understand a couple of things. First, yes, I received this equipment in good faith as a trade for this article and other media work. It’s no secret. But, also know that before I take the time to write an article and recommend ANYTHING to anyone kind enough to read my content, I have used this gear, and this is my honest opinion of it. 

I met Martin Lukačko of FALCO holsters at the POMA conference in June of 2023. I have a specific fondness for small companies working hard and hitting the industry pavement to promote their name, so Martin and I had several great conversations about what his needs were with regard to visual and written media for FALCO. 

This transformed into me getting my hands on the FALCO gun case and backpack in this review. I wasn’t sure what to expect, but I was shocked at what I received. 

Let’s start with the backpack. I’m a SUCKER for nice backpacks for hunting. But I’m also extremely picky about features for them. I have several that I use for varying types of hunts, and I’ve gone through a number of styles in the past. 

A Traditional Backpack with Style

The FALCO P201 Gray Wolf (MSRP $199.95) is not like your stereotypical clip and zipper-style backpack. 

Features include:

• Durable polyester fabric with suede backing in a natural green or brown design

• Leather straps and quiet closing system

• Suede lining 

• Drawstring closure of the main compartment 

• Comfortable and adjustable shoulder straps

• 20 liters capacity 

• Available in natural green or natural brown color

• Dimensions: length 11.8", width 5.9", height 17.7"

The design differs greatly from anything you will find in any other leading company. This pack is designed for anyone who appreciates simplicity and a traditional look and feel to their equipment. The leather adjustment straps and natural green are something straight out of a breathtaking traditional Red Stag hunt in the Alps. (I love it. Can’t you tell?)

The pack has a single main chamber with three external utility pockets. The leather accents and silent closing clasps are a great way to help maintain even the most peaceful moments in the field. 

That said, you need to understand that like with anything leather, there’s a conditioning or break-in period. You’ll find that the clasps are a little difficult to use until they wear themselves down a bit to slide on and off the posts. 

If you love this kind of look as much as I do, consider the backpack just an appetizer. 

The Kind of Craftsmanship You’ll Want More of

The R2024 Wisent (MSRP $259.95) is a beautifully thought-through case that meets the needs of the rough and ready whitetail hunter, and the refined taste of the plains game hunter of Africa.

Similar in color to the Gray Wolf pack, this is a one-two punch of style and practicality, with a flair of luxury. 

The case has several accessory pouches both internal and external. The heavy-duty zipper runs to the buttstock, which is also covered by a flap that is similar in design to the pack. 

Case Specs:  

• Made from special durable polyester fabric with suede backing in a natural green or brown design

• The plastic shield inside for hit protection and multiple layers of special anti-press foams

• YKK zippers

• Luxury soft lining 

• Quiet operating without metal parts, all metal parts are replaced with genuine leather

• Shoulder strap and two handles for practical carry

• Two zippers closed pockets and one big press studs closing pocket on the side

• Available in natural green or natural brown color

• Dimension:  length 49.6 inch, width 11.4 inch, height 11.8 inch

The fit of the case is perfect for scoped rifles. 

Perhaps the most impressive part of the case is the quilted internal protection. You’re going to want more of this kind of attention to detail in all areas of your hunting gear. 

Moving the Needle

I work with companies across the outdoor space that have staked their claim over decades of hard work. My respect for them runs all the way down to my earliest memories of the outdoors. 

But there is also a special place in my heart, and the future of the outdoor industry for new companies. Companies that have their eyes fixed on success and growth in the industry. 

Falco fits that bill. 

I hope you’ll check them out, and consider all of their quality products from tactical gun holsters and concealed carry items, to backpacks and optics cases for hunters.

- Jim

The Final Hike

My face, shirt, and pillow were saturated. 

Not because I was afraid or sad about the content of the dream I just had, even though it was pregnant with deep and hidden emotions I had never expressed in reality. 

I hadn’t been crying in my sleep. My mind was fully aware. I was in such grief because I didn’t want my dream to end. 

The Dream

I was hunting. But not on my own. I was with my grandfather and my cousin, who had both passed away within the last couple of years. What we were hunting was never very clear, but my senses were aflame with everything they could bear. 

I could hear their voices as though they were in the room with me. I could smell Pop’s musty old hunting coat that he would pull out of the closet only for hunting season. Justin, who was a college football player, and considerably larger than me, would stop from time to time to freshen up his “dip”, or grab a snack from his backpack. 

We hiked together for a blessed time to a place that I could show you on a map at this very moment, and it’s a place I still hunt often. 

We bantered back and forth about hunting strategy, as we often did. But then everything got eerily cold and still. I thought nothing of it, as we walked through one pasture, into a strip of timber, and to the edge of a small clearing.

I stepped from the fall leaf litter of the woods into the long, frost-hardened grass of the clearing, without changing stride from our current walking speed. Daylight had turned to deep dusk. After a few steps, a chill shot up my back, and I realized that my grandpa and my cousin had stopped at the edge of the woods.

I cautiously looked over my shoulder and turned painfully slowly, as I didn’t know what to expect after I turned. 

There they stood, with blank stares, like sentries. No movement next to the final trees before the field’s edge. I jokingly called to them, “You guys just giving up? Come on.” But my brain was screaming to wake as though you want to from a nightmare you can’t escape, “No!” I fought it, “Dammit! I can’t wake up yet! This isn’t over. Don’t do this to me.” My eyes flickered in the dark of my bedroom, and the first tear fell. My heart felt like it was being slowly crushed in my chest. I took a breath, my eyes closed again and the dream re-engaged. But I was hiking farther from them, and I couldn’t stop. 

There would be no more hunts with them. I knew that. I was the only one left. Alone. 

I woke with a boulder in my throat. I lay on my back, staring at the fan slowly turning on the ceiling. I looked over at my beautiful wife, completely asleep and oblivious to the war that was raging next to her. My chin quivered, and the dam broke. I lay silently weeping for over an hour. 

Significance

In my time studying psychology in school and acting as a spiritual counselor while I was a pastor, I was always taken aback by our mind’s ability to create mashups of real life. It can blend joy and pain, good and evil. Somehow it can make the most peaceful flower rage with color and intensity. 

On my hunts today, I carry this dream. When a smell or texture hits me, I’m right back there again. Some mornings, the frost on the grass seems more like razor blades and the smell of autumn makes my stomach hurt. On other days, it’s a perfect balm for my spirit. 

The dream runs rampant in my mind like a wild predator. Beautiful, but dangerous. Ironically enough, the instrument that tames it is my son. He takes that Last of the Mohicans’ feeling of being alone and replaces it with memories that dull the edge. His squeezing of the trigger on an animal is like a training blow to the predator that says, “This is what you will be in my dad’s mind. No more, no less.” 

As his skill has developed, my memories have become significantly more pleasant. 
This wasn’t some sort of Daniel-esque prophecy. I’m simply satisfied with believing it was a summary of what has been; and what is today. No matter the future significance, I don’t think the dream will ever leave me. I still struggle with flashes of it from time to time, especially when I’m hunting that part of the farm. 

Dealing with “Alone”

My faith doesn’t allow me to feel ultimately alone. I know that I have the presence of God with me no matter what type of situation I find myself in. 

But on a human level, alone hurts. Over time, you become numb to it, but you still get flashes of pain, almost like an old football injury. But I’ve learned to embrace it. I’ve learned to accept the dark, cold walks back to camp with no one to drive over the hill to pick me up. I’ve learned to kneel over a kill with no one out there to immediately tell about it. But those are also the times I like to remember the dream. 

Even though I know my late grandfather and cousin are enjoying a place far better, it’s comforting to close my eyes and remember that last walk. 

Someday, it will be mine.  

Extending the Hunt

When you are young, the anticipation of the next deer, turkey, or waterfowl season hits hard.

As a guy staring down the barrel of 48 years old, every season is just as exciting. Now, I appreciate each one a little more because with every ache, pain, and the sun setting on another season, I realize these experiences are finite. It is why I created Fit To Hunt; not just to help people go out and perform on the mountain, water, or woods, but to offer a pathway to extend the time you and I can pursue wild game and indulge in our hunting heritage.

Do you need to be Fit To Hunt to tag a whitetail or catch a trout on a fly rod? The answer is no, but there are some trends I have noticed in my 26 years as a personal trainer that are alarming. You do not need to do cross-fit, look like Cameron Hanes or run marathons to excel in the outdoors. You do need to adjust your mindset, think big picture, and take action if you wish to hunt, fish and enjoy creation well into your later years. Here is that blueprint.

There is a Pill for That

When you are young, you don’t think about diabetes, high cholesterol, or knee replacements and in college, I went hard. No 12-pack of Busch Light was safe and I ate my fair share of late-night pizza. Indulging in those lifestyle habits might work for a bit, but as we age, the body does not recover quite as quickly. Many of us slowly put on weight, get prescribed a low-dose blood pressure medication, or wear a knee brace when we work or play outdoors. I wish it would stop there but typically, it does not. Over time, high blood sugar will manifest into diabetes. That balky knee will hurt worse and the combo of weight gain and poor core strength will result in back pain that may prevent you from climbing a tree stand. Most can adapt but if these issues aren’t addressed and trends reversed, the outdoorsman will be faced with illness that could rob them of years afield.

"Assorted pharmaceuticals" by theglobalpanorama is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

I have watched many family, friends, and even clients shun lifestyle interventions such as exercise, stress management, and nutrition in favor of a physician-prescribed pill. Pills can work for a while, but without you changing your habits and how you live, no medication on earth will be able to stop the snowball effect that is brewing inside. What you do today will affect not only your health but your ability to hunt and fish tomorrow.

Multiple Dimensions of Wellness

Good health is much more than how many push-ups you can do and how many fruits & veggies you consume. Exercise and nutrition are certainly major players in our overall health, but there are many things that can derail us. As it is said, life happens but without looking at how the big picture intertwines, you may find your health deteriorating and your functional ability to do something like draw a bow lost. Here are some examples of how a lack of balance can cause for poor wellness.

·         Demanding jobs that require long hours limit your ability to exercise and eat healthy foods

·         Income levels may dictate if there is room in the budget for things like a gym membership

·         Kid’s sports schedules or other commitments can reduce free time to work on health habits

·         Poor relationships can cause stress eating, depression, and general unhappiness

·         Bad knees, hips, shoulders, and low back can cause so much pain, many give up without trying to solve the issue

·         And all of these combined can color our view of who and what we are becoming until we wake up 50 pounds overweight with budding or serious health issues

The trick here is to not fall asleep or let life get out of control. It is easier said than done and step one to developing a strategy to neutralize barriers is the awareness that there is a problem. Step two is to look at the things that are causing poor health and begin executing tactics to create a higher level of health, fitness, and overall wellness.

Creating a Personal Blueprint

I’m often asked how hard a person needs to work out to go elk hunting, chase whitetail, or fish for trout and my answer is always, “It depends.” There is no magic level of nutrition or exercise that will ensure each person who buys a tag will run up the side of a mountain like an NFL middle linebacker. Each person is different but here is the truth. Anything you do that will result in you being 10% better than you were will result in a better hunting experience today and may help you hunt a little longer throughout your lifetime.

My client Mark is 65 years old and came to us with bad shoulders, questionable balance, and poor strength. Mark is an avid fisherman who loves to catch trout with a fly rod. He also loves to fish out of his kayak. For Mark, working on better shoulder strength and mobility reduced his shoulder pain and allowed him to load his kayak in and out of his truck. The balance and agility drills we perform help him wade the trout stream without fear of falling.

Bill is a 59-year-old outdoorsman who loves to fish, chase ducks and has a brown bear hunt in Alaska next spring. He also has two artificial knees. As a former athlete, Bill felt if he was not destroying himself with every workout, he was not working out. We had to develop a routine that challenged Bill but also gave him guardrails so he would not over-train which could invite injury. The result has been a better range of motion in his knees, more balanced strength and endurance, and the feeling he could tackle a mountain tomorrow.

Dayton is a 48-year-old elk hunter who simply hikes with a weighted pack. Very little strength training and he excels in the backcountry every fall.

None of these gentlemen do the exact same workout, volume, or level of intensity but what is the exact same for each of them is the creation of a program that they enjoy, find value in, and fit their lifestyle.

I know that a program filled with core activation, athletic movements, power development, and targeted strength training will work for everybody but that level of complexity isn’t for everyone. Do you want to get more years to hunt? Walk 30 minutes every day. You may not be ready for an eight-day backcountry hunt in Colorado at the level of training, but you will perform better in the woods, have more energy and potentially ward off things like diabetes, cardiovascular disease, certain cancers, and orthopedic issues.

The blueprint is similar for everyone but based on who you are, will look different. You just need to decide when you are ready to start creating your plan.

Our tagline is We can help train you for the hunt of a lifetime or just help you hunt for a lifetime. This is incredibly important to our team that we provide the best programs, services, support, and community to help outdoorsmen and women thrive and we would love to connect with you.

For more info, please email us at info@stayfittohunt.com or visit our website at www.stayfittohunt.com. You can also follow us on Instagram, Facebook, GoWild and YouTube.

We wish you a great fall hunting season, and even better health and promise to provide you the support you need to get the most out of your outdoor adventures!

Thanks for reading and Stay #FitToHunt

Collective Contributor, Jeremy Koerber

Jeremy Koerber

Jeremy Koerber, MA, ACSM Exercise Physiologist is the owner of Fit To Hunt. A health and fitness company that helps people get the most out of their outdoor adventures. A 26-year veteran of the fitness industry, Coach Jeremy believes in training athletically and for performance no matter your age. His clients have ranged in age from 13 to 96 years old and his goal is to help everyone perform better in life. To contact Coach Jeremy call 314-807-8634 or visit: https://stayfittohunt.com/

Bluegill: The Bulldog of the Farm Pond

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I like to call bluegill the bulldog of the farm pond. 

They’re a feisty and resilient little panfish that is perfect for the beginning angler whose patience has yet to be developed and the seasoned veteran who just wants to enjoy the action.

They’re easy to find as they are a staple in most pond ecosystems.

In terms of the bite, they will hit just about anything you dangle in front of them from bread to hot dogs, all the way to a top-water fly, which is actually one of my favorite new ways to catch them. 

I love catching bluegill on a topwater fly!

I like to chase big bluegill and their cousin the red ear in the late spring and early summer, as they are ferociously defending their beds. Early morning or late evening is preferred. Laying a spider pattern fly or the famous “popper” over the top of their bed creates some incredible top water action, and from time to time, aerial acrobatics as the fish will thrust themselves from the bottom with amazing force and come out of the water entirely to strike. 

Don’t be surprised if you’re bluegill fishing suddenly takes a much larger turn! Hungry bass and catfish enjoy a bluegill for a meal too!

If you’re a brand spanking new fisherman, or if you have never fished for bluegill before, they are where the old imagery of a worm on a hook with a bobber about a foot above the hook originates. Worms and crickets are the live bait preference of these little beasts and the biggest challenge is keeping the little ones from stealing your bait too quickly for the bigger ones to snatch it up. 

When I’m fishing with the kids, I like to use a long shank #8 hook with a 1/16th oz split-shot 6-8 inches above and a peg or slip-style float adjusted according to water depth. If you’re not familiar with any of these numbers, just grab a good panfish kit to get started!

Beds are easy to spot, as they are about as big as a 10” pizza pan, and are often clustered up in gravel or sandy-bottomed areas. 

Using a keep-net or floating basket will keep fish fresh longer than a standard stringer.

Bonus: Sometimes largemouth bass and catfish like to hunt these areas too, so don’t be surprised if something a little bigger than a bluegill tugs hard on your line!

Table Fare

One thing I don’t like to do is keep one or two bluegill. If I plan to eat them gutted and whole, I don’t mind, but my family prefers fish that have been filleted. That said, they need to be a sizable bluegill for a good filet. As big as your palm or bigger is preferred. If you’re looking to have a “mess of fish” don’t plan on three or four being a successful day. 

A good-sized bluegill for eating is approximately as big as your palm or bigger.

In my experience, 10-20 fish or whatever the limit in your area might be is much more worthwhile in both cleaning them and having enough to eat. 

Bluegill can be used for all forts of preparations from fried to baked. They are a very mild fish, but just know you’ll need quite a few if you’re planning on using filets!

For freshness’ sake, I like to utilize a keep net or floating basket to keep the fish alive during my fishing time rather than a stringer that will kill them more quickly. A bucket is fine too, but on hot days, water in a bucket on the bank heats up more quickly, depleting oxygen and killing the fish much faster than keeping them in the water I’m fishing in. 

In terms of food quality, bluegill is one of the best bites in the world of fried fish. It’s a small filet, so it gets very crispy and you’ll be shocked at how quickly it will disappear! Especially if you’re using it for something as satisfying as a fish taco. 

Have questions about bluegill fishing? Leave a comment!

The Devotion of the Turkey Hunter

When I started turkey hunting with my grandpa as a kid, it was like hunting aliens. 

I didn’t know anything about them. All I knew was they were big, noisy, and you got to call to them to draw them into your position for a shot. 

Therin lay the draw to it all. I got to speak another, inhuman language. 

Then something happened that changed everything for me. When I was twelve or so, Pop and I were taking a break from an uneventful early morning hunt. When we pulled up to the house at the farm, I asked him if I could take my calls and my gun and walk about a hundred yards behind the barn on my own to see if I could strike up a gobble. I randomly walked down the road along the ridge-top and found a tree to sit down against. I made a sorry-sounding yelp on my Quaker Boy slate call, and to my absolute shock, not one, but several gobbles ripped through the timber only a few yards over the hill from me. Both my uncle and my grandpa were shocked when I came walking back to the house with a bird over my shoulder. 

That was the moment turkey hunting dug its talons into me. And it did it in such a way that I’ve told my wife that I don’t know if I could live anywhere that didn’t have turkeys. 

I kept hunting with my grandpa until he passed away. But as a testament to the draw of turkey hunting and the passion that turkey hunters carry, I’ll never forget my final conversation with him. As he lay in his hospital bed, hardly able to speak, and just a few months before the Missouri turkey season opened, I did my best to keep him awake. I knew our time together was short as a massive stroke had done its worst to bring down the person who was, in my mind, a mountain of a human being. I was just trying to think of something that would spark some kind of positive response in the most challenging of moments, so I asked, “Well Pop, you think we’re going to get another gobbler this season?” His heart rate increased ever-so-slightly, and he slowly turned his head in my direction, and with tired eyes working hard to focus directly on me, he whispered, “I hope.” 

On that day, I was already a turkey hunter. But turkey hunting sunk into my DNA more deeply than ever. From then on, it meant much more than just another small amount of time to spend with my grandpa. I needed to turkey hunt. It wasn’t a choice. 

The other night, I was scrolling through my telecheck records. Since the time I turned 21, I have tagged 31 turkeys between hunting in Missouri and Texas. I’m now 38. It’s in my blood. 

This year was no different, although it didn’t end as I typically see it through. It started with a bang, as my son and I scored on a successful youth season hunt in Missouri. It ended with a judgment call that, I don’t regret in the least. 

Youth Season

The opening day of Missouri’s youth season was a complete bust. Extremely high winds had turkeys completely out of sorts. We managed to find a single pair of hens seeking shelter in a huge ravine. 

The next morning, we set up in the same place, hoping that a gobbler would be relatively close. As the sun rose, we were shocked as what seemed to be the entire flock on the farm was strutting and gobbling within only a few yards of where we parked our vehicle. 

We managed to work around the flock and Easton connected on a great gobbler. We packed up, got the delicious rewards of the hunt in the freezer, and headed to one of our favorite trout parks in Missouri to spend time with some great friends. 

Texas

Several years ago, I went on my first out-of-state turkey hunt to west Texas, near Iraan. The terrain was some of the most rugged I’ve seen. Large trees were scarce, and if you could manage to find a big tree, usually in a creek bed, there would likely be turkeys. I killed my first two Texas Rio Grande gobblers there, and it forever stayed with me. But I never really thought I would head back to the Lone Star State to do it again. 

Then in 2022, a friend called with an invite to south Texas, just south of San Antonio. The wide-open oak flats had their own special charm on a ranch that held a variety of native and exotic game species. I was able to take two beautiful longbeards there, one of which was my largest to date. 

This season, yet again, my friend and I made a trip to the northwest side of San Antonio, where my breath was taken from me as I saw the true hill country of Texas. Rough mountains spring up from out of nowhere, and we made our way into them with no clue how a turkey could survive there. Clearly, they are more resilient than we could have ever imagined. 

On our first afternoon in, I was able to call in the first gobbler of the trip nearly into the front yard of the house we were staying in. My friend hit that Tom with a blast from his shotgun, but not fatally. The bird flew to the top of the ridge where he came from,  and as we tracked, I stepped on a small twig. It snapped sharply, and two gobblers shock gobbled just a few yards from me. I cut down both of them with my shotgun, partly because I simply had it with me in the event that I came across the wounded Tom, but mostly because I was in shock that they allowed me to get so close. Shortly after I killed the two, I saw the wounded Tom, but he flew away from me as though he wasn’t hurt. 

As I walked back to the house, a longbeard over each shoulder, my friends were smiling. It was then that we all knew this was going to be a wild trip. 

Breaking Barriers

After that episode, I told my friend that I wanted to try to accomplish something I never had with turkeys. I wanted to try to get a bow kill. In this case, it was going to be tough. No blind, and no decoys meant I was going to have to let nature do its thing. I would have one chance. A strutting turkey with his head hidden by his fan would allow me to draw.  

Bowhunting turkeys had always been appealing to me. The challenge is immense. Your target area is about the size of a baseball no matter if your aim is for the heart and lungs, or a full decapitation. And to add to the challenge, I decided to try to get it on video. 

That evening, I was blown away to see five different gobblers. Two of which were brought directly passed me by feeding hens. Fumbling with cameras, I noticed that the turkeys were going to do exactly what I needed them to do. I ranged the bigger Tom, and adjusted the dial of my sight. When my arrow left the string, I watched the lighted nock trace perfectly into the bird. He fell immediately. The other turkey started flogging the dead one, as is common for a subordinate gobbler due to pecking order, and the commotion called in another gobbler. 

I did a horrible job of capturing it on camera. I was just happy that it worked out as it did. Another layer of turkey hunting success was enough to satisfy me for the whole trip, but it wasn’t over. 

Friendships

Friendships are the lifeblood of the hunting community. I would be completely remiss if I didn’t spend some time talking about the people that made my Texas trip this season so successful. Since I had tagged three Toms on the first afternoon of the trip, I decided to let my friend Jeremy head out on his own the next morning. I took his son Jack. 

Jack had never killed an adult turkey in our home state of Missouri, although he had taken a Jake or juvenile gobbler. That morning’s mission was to successfully harvest a mature bird. The morning was foggy and wet. Seemingly uncharacteristic for the territory we were hunting. There was very little gobbling, but eventually, two hens drifted off the plateau slope toward us. We watched them peck around in front of us, and about the time I told Jack to stay ready, a bird appeared that dwarfed the hens that weren’t much bigger than a barnyard chicken. 

Jack and I saw the beard sticking out and cascading off the wet turkey’s chest. I wanted the bird to get as close as he would come, but foolishly, I was trying to get the shot on my phone’s camera. The bird turned broadside with his head up, aware of our presence, and I whispered, “Kill him right there Jack.” Jack’s Mossberg belched out a load of Federal shot and the bird’s head snapped back. He flopped into the same ditch he emerged from. 

After Jack’s kill, Jeremy, Jack, and I kept calling and kept killing. All total, we took home eight turkeys. I harvested my final bird early Sunday morning in heavy winds in the same meadow where I took my bow harvest. All the while, our host and dear friend Steve simply cheered us on, giving us all a ribbing when we missed, which we all did, and always having food ready after the hunt. 

The Missouri Meat Grinder

After Texas, I was as confident as I could be about killing turkeys. After I got home and reset myself, I went out on the third day of Missouri’s season. That hunt lasted about two hours, as a big Missouri gobbler stepped out silently only a few yards from my blind. 

But after that was a grind. I hunted the majority of the season, with several close calls, a discouraging miss, and extremely call-shy turkeys. On the Thursday before the end of the season, exhausted, and completely out-maneuvered by a pair of turkeys I had encounters with before, I decided to throw in the towel for the season. Lower turkey numbers than usual, and four birds were already taken from the farm by my son, myself, and another hunter, all the challenges of the previous hunts, and fluid weather conditions made the decision pretty easy.

No Regrets

Even though Missouri didn’t turn out like I really wanted it to, I had my chance. I have nothing to regret this season. Even with cutting my season a few days short, I’m satisfied with the outcome. There was some struggle, but the joy of being able to hunt, and the unbelievable success rate drowned out all the noise of the grind. 

Turkey hunting isn’t for everyone. It’s for a person that is willing to learn the intricacy of a species. It’s for the person unafraid of early mornings and long days. It’s for a person who loves to stop and observe nature and it’s transition from winter to spring, and sometimes spring to summer. It’s for the self-starter and the person who is versatile in their ability to change techniques and learn new ones. And it’s for the person unafraid to be humbled by a bird with a brain smaller than a golf ball as you journey toward that coveted moment when you hike that same bird back to your vehicle.

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Start Watching the Four Part Season Now!

A True American Icon

When you think of pre-settlement North America, this is one animal that simply can’t be ignored.

I was so excited to get to spend time with the last known herd from the lineage of the famed plains bison that were pivotal to native people and the development of the west.

This particular bull made his intentions well known, as he edged closer and closer to me, making his way toward the salt flats of the Great Salk Lake.

When an animal of this magnitude gets close enough to you that you can smell his breath, you’d better not get too sucked in to the moment. An escape route is a must.

I wanted you to have the opportunity to make this animal part of your decor and everyday collection.

You can now purchase any of these three images in formats ranging from prints and stickers to pillowcases and phone covers at Fine Art America.

So head on over there and shop around. Who knows, you might find something else you like too!! So check out m y gallery today!

Winter Image Collection 2023

Sometimes life forces you out of what’s comfortable.

Other times, you choose to open yourself up to the world in hopes that someone out there will identify, and maybe even understand what you’re going for.

This year, that’s the goal.

I’ve chosen to utilize Fine Art America to bring my images to a place of functionality. Fine Art America allows you to order prints, greeting cards, home decor, and even phone covers of the images you like.

So even if you’re not an art collector, you can simply act on an image that you would like to have as something special to you.

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Immediately following a hard freeze in December, I was able to capture this breathtaking rush of clear blue water on a stream in east-central Missouri. Tap the image to begin creating your own personal design with Fine Art America.

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Capturing Textures

I really hope these images cause something inside of you to crave nature. One of my greatest passions in photography is texture. Textures in nature range from some of the harshest to some of the most delicate known to this world.

From the winter snow, to the rush of swollen rivers in ther spring, if texture is what you desire, there’s always something to capture.

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On a frosty last minute trip to one of Missouri’s beautiful state parks, I was staggered by fields teeming with this phenomenon; frost flowers. When I snapped these shots, I couldn’t even breathe as I snapped the shutter because they would melt. Tap the image to get your print today.

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A Note of Appreciation

To know that someone would appreciate these images enough to carry them, gift them to a friend, or display them in their home feels so far away to me. And it should! Especially because I’ve never made them available.

But let me say this. If you choose to purchase an item with my image on it, know that I appreciate you to the utmost. And I’m committed to bringing you more!

Share the Wild.