A strange sickness affects some folks this time of year, and no, I am not speaking of the seasonal allergies. I am speaking instead of a ailment known as turkey fever. It effects a lot of otherwise upstanding people, even to include old fishing captains.
In Florida, we are into the first week of this seasonal madness, and while I have not been struck as hard this year as in years past, never the less I am struck just the same. We here in the sunshine state have our own strain of eastern wild turkeys known as Osceola after a beloved Seminole Chief, who never surrendered to federal authority. Next week we can pursue the Georgia strain north of the St. Mary's.
Nothing that makes you watch the sun rise in a cypress bottom, as the world comes to life, is all bad. It is still cold enough in the wee hours to be warmly dressed, and the bugs are not yet removing pieces of flesh from you're body. One must know though that time is close at hand. I thank God for these time, as it is when he thumps me on the head and makes me take notice of the beauty of nature all around. The woods are starting to get green again, and it always seems as if a celebration after winter months.
Today, I went old school and bare boned on the morning call. I carried my grandfathers old 16 gauge shotgun, instead of the modern 3 and 1/2 inch bore cannon I normally hunt with. I used only one call, a gift from my Uncle Pat, whom I spent so much time hunting with, and I carried a knife that belonged to my Dad. We had a great hunt.
There is no great bird to post pictures of today, because the shot just didn't happen, and that's fine with me. I was touched with a show at dawn like no other. I have to fish tomorrow so no bird hunting, but looking forward to more time in the turkey woods next week, with some more very special hunting partners. In closing I raise a toast to old Osceola, who just like his namesake moved like a ghost through the woods today.
Old Captain Sends.
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