by David R. Kelly •
I can only imagine that it is like a bad disease, or addiction.
Even though I have never been deathly ill physically, not addicted to anything other than coca-cola and sports on cable, I can only imagine that turkey hunting is very similar to being told you have a deathly illness or a deadly addiction.
In Florida it is hard not to tell when Spring has sprung. The scent of orange blossoms blow the promise of golden orange tangy liquid sweetness soon to be a freshly squeezed reality in country kitchens across the state. Oak blossoms gradually turn brown and fall covering the ground and brown leaves in the hammocks as the Oak trees are beaming brightly with a shiny green like the little leprechauns we see in March.
Birds are building nests and singing while they work, flowers are popping out flowers with an array of wonderful colors, and here in the sunshine state the humidity is starting to rise just about as high as the temperatures. Bass fishing is reaching a fevered pitch, deer are dropping their antlers and the honey bees are hard at work.
Meanwhile as the dawn breaks bringing all these things into fruition at the top of a lonesome pine, most likely the tallest in the forest, rings out a clamoring noise that causes grown men to become giddy like middle school boys after their first kiss, a noise that cause tough rugged men to get more goosebumps then seeing their daughter walk down the aisle,(well a close second.)this noise is so riveting, so invigorating, so exhilarating it will send 200lb plus men sprinting through swamps to close ground and get close to it.
This noise is the sound a male turkey makes, mostly in the Spring, a gobble.