It was the early spring in 1998, when my step father and I embarked on an adventurous turkey hunt on West Point Lake. Trey, my step father, had hunted this track of land several times the season before and had excellent success in the area we were in. He had taken a few jakes and then some very nice toms which gave me the idea that we had a leg up on the other faithfuls roaming the woods. As daylight began to break, we tried a couple of locater calls, but drew a blank so we made our way down to the food plots just above the hardwood flats that lead down to the lake. Take into consideration that I had been watching videos for several months, so I was already a pro.

“We need to cover as much area as we can and try and make something happen.” I suggested.

“Lead on,” he replied.

Without hesitation, I took the reigns. I knew that I didn’t know anything about turkey hunting, but I couldn’t let him know that. Looking back, I think he already did. He was sporty about it, however, and let me lead us out into never never land far away from anything that resembled what I had been seeing in the videos. After an hour or so of that, we both agreed that for the rest of the trip I would follow as he directed. That was the exact day that I learned to never guide the guide.

We made our way back to the flats and points around the lake making periodic stops to set up and listen. We were drawing blanks with every stop. We walked what seemed like miles along the rocky terrain of the shoreline. By now, it had gotten to be later in the morning and we haven’t heard as much as a whistle from anything. We were both very adamant in our pursuit and realized that our trophy could just be lingering over the next hill. After covering several miles, we were contemplating a move. The problem with a move was that we were already a couple of miles from the truck and then on several miles to another location. We decided to stick it out and cover more area. The longer we walked, the better it looked. There just weren’t any turkeys. I had been telling Trey that I had purchased a new diaphragm the week before.

“It’s the latest thing to hit the market. I saw it on a video. It’s called a High Ball from M.A.D. Calls,” and continued to give him every intricacy of the product as if to be a salesman in an outdoor store. “It’s a higher pitch sound that other mouth calls and will draw a gobble when nothing else will,” I stated.

“Okay, let’s hear it. If it’s as good as you say it is, we should have our bird and be on our way shortly.” He said with frustration in his voice.

I took out my saving grace and placed it in my mouth and let out four soft yelps. It was horrendous. It was the worst sounding thing I’d ever heard. Take into account that I was a novice at best.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he said.

He had no more than got the words out of his mouth until we heard the faint sound of rolling thunder in the distance. When I say faint, I mean faint. Our bird had gobbled. “What do you want to do?” I asked.

“Let’s go. If a turkey answered that, he will answer anything,” he replied. I knew he was excited even though he didn’t want to let on like he was. All morning it had been a battle of the year’s new products and I had won. He just shook his head and walked on.

We walked for what seemed like a mile when we got to the edge of the lake. From this standpoint we could see all around the winding shoreline for miles.

“Hit it again,” he said.

I took out my call and blasted out several aggressive yelps. Instantly, the bird cut me off. There was one minor problem with the situation. We were hearing the tom gobble was due to the fact that the sound traveled a clear path out over the lake and ran up into the coves where we were. The bird was a half mile or so away, but was two to three miles away with the path we had to take to get to him.

“Unbelievable,” he kept saying. “He answered that. Unbelievable.”

We made several more stops along the way locating the bird’s exact whereabouts to make sure we didn’t bump him in the process. To loose this bird would be devastation. We had made these trips several times and something always seemed to get in our way, but not this time. This was the day that our luck had changed. As we moved in closer, he kept telling me not to blast him with hard calls, but sweet talk him with subtleties. “WeÕre going to set up on this point and call him around the side of it. If we can move him off the edge of the lake where he is strutting, we will have a good shot at him,” he said.

We did it just as he said and got set up in front of a large mossy oak in the middle of the point. Softly he whispered to make a couple of soft yelps and then get ready. I settled in. It was a matter of minutes until the powder blue head crested over the rise and coming around the point. We sat and watched as a mature trophy tom strutted and drummed his way up to the flat where we had positioned ourselves. As the bird came into range, he stopped and posed for a few seconds and doubled a thunderous gobble. It was working out perfectly. The curse had been broken. A few more steps are all it took for the bird to get into range for the shot. “Shoot,” he whispered.

I took my aim and released the safety and squeezed off the trigger. The tom went up high and came down fast and left even faster.

“You have got to be kidding me,” he said. “Shoot again.”

It was no use. It was a clean miss. Let this sink in. Seven hours, six miles, verbal competitive abuse, and a clean miss was the result. He never said another word but I could tell he was frustrated. I looked over and said “Man, I’m sorry. I don’t know what happened.”

He looked at me while taking off his head net and busted into laughter. This is just great. Now, he is laughing at me.

“You missed,” he cackled. “Next season, you need to find a new shotgun!”

Turns out, that was the last hunt that Trey and I were able to take. In the fall of the year, there was a pheasant hunt planned to South Dakota. It took two plane rides and another couple of hours in a vehicle to make it to the lodge. Trey never made it to the lodge. He was involved in an accident while in route which took his life. I can still remember feeling left out because I wasn’t invited for the trip.

“After I get back, we will set up another pheasant hunt later in the season. This is going to be a scout trip. We will hunt several different places and find where the birds are and then later, we will go back and hunt them.”

We never made it to that trip, but one day I will hunt pheasants in South Dakota and finish the trip that was planned some nine years ago. What would life be if all the variables were known? I suppose the answers are endless. There is one thing that I have learned. Do what needs to be done and say what needs to be said. The only certainty of tomorrow is its uncertainty.

Braden Arp