My First Turkey, Persistence Pays Off at 59

I’ve been turkey hunting for five years now. It’s a passion I didn’t take up until my mid-50s, even though I’d wanted to try it for a long time. Let’s just say my career as a turkey hunter has been… character-building. I’ve been snowed out in Montana with my son Michael, battered by 50 mph winds in eastern Washington with my buddy Q, foiled by private land birds more times than I can count, and plain skunked on most other hunts. My friends know it too. When I bought my tag this year and told my good friend Gabe, he laughed out loud. Still, I kept showing up.

This was my fifth season of serious turkey hunting, and I hadn’t fired a shot at a bird yet. But I believed that once I broke the seal, things would get easier. It reminded me of steelhead fishing. For about five years I struggled on the rivers of western Washington with nothing to show for it. I nearly quit. But I persisted, and landed my first steelhead with Bob Toman on Oregon’s Deschutes River, and everything changed after that.  Years later I even caught my dream 20-pounder.  That memory kept me going with turkeys. I knew if I could just crack the code, many good seasons would follow.

The Invitation

Back in March, I was working a show in Tacoma, talking as much about the upcoming turkey season as I was selling fishing line. Scott, a good friend and fellow salesman, overheard me and said, “You should come down to Roseburg and hunt with me, we have tons of birds.” I looked at him and said, “If you’re serious, I’m there.” He was serious, so I was in.

My schedule was tight to start the season. My son Thomas was getting married on April 24th, and we had to vacate one of our Arktana stores by May 1st. The first couple weeks of the season were basically off limits. But it all worked out perfectly. I had an event in Eugene on April 30th, and Scott suggested I drive down that night so we could hunt the morning of May 1st. Game on.

The Hunt

I arrived in Roseburg late Thursday.  Scott and I went out for a quick evening scout, saw some birds, but nothing workable. He called a few buddies for intel, and we had a solid plan for the morning. We’d meet at 5:00 a.m.

I barely slept. When the clock hit 4:00, I was up, geared up, checked out of the hotel, and at our meeting spot 15 minutes early. Scott was already waiting. We jumped in his rig and headed into the hills.

Our first setup required me to climb a tall fence topped with barbed wire. I didn’t say a word to Scott, but inside I was thinking, Don’t fall, don’t get hung up, just take your time. I made it over cleanly — a small victory that felt like a good omen for the day.

We had some gobbling, but the only thing that showed serious interest was a very loud rooster. After an hour, we decided to move. I made it back over the fence (thankfully) and we drove down the winding road.

Near the bottom of the hill, we rounded a switchback and spotted them: a group of toms strutting in the woods, some real nice ones. Scott quickly turned around and headed back up. “We gotta hustle,” he said. “Those birds are going to come right up the hill toward us.”

We parked, ran into the woods, and set up. I thought we had more time, but as we were getting settled, a tom flew right over us. Scott started calling, and sure enough, a big tom came strutting down the gravel road toward us. I had him at about 40 yards but waited for a better angle. When I shot, bushes obscured part of the view. Clean miss. The bird flew off.

I was crushed. My first real shot at a wild turkey and I whiffed.

Then Scott said, “Get ready — another one’s coming.” I repositioned quickly. A second beautiful tom walked straight in. This time I had a clear lane at 30 yards. I aimed carefully and fired. He flew about 10 yards and dropped over the knoll. I was so pumped!

We got up and headed over towards him.  As we crested the rise expecting to find him, he jumped up and flew away like a B-52  bomber into the trees 80 yards below. I couldn’t believe it. Two solid opportunities, two birds missed. I was ready to sell all my gear and call it quits. Scott stayed calm: “There are more toms coming. Let’s set up again.”

Third Time’s the Charm

We got settled one last time and in just a few mionutes , two big toms came marching right over the knoll through the tall grass, only about 20 yards away. One poked his head up — perfect shot. I aimed, steadied, and pulled the trigger.

Click.

No shell in the chamber.

The birds heard it and got wary but didn’t bolt. I froze. If I racked a shell they’d spook for sure. Scott handed me his shotgun. I set mine down, took his, and repositioned as the birds circled through the brush.

The first bird stepped into a clearing. I pulled the trigger…

Nothing - the safety was on

I clicked the safety off (which had been on — of course), just as the second bird came into the clearing, put the bead on him, and fired. This time the gun went off. The tom went down.

Unbelievable.

The Moment

As I walked up to that beautiful southern Oregon Rio, a wave of emotion hit me. I had fought through fence climbs, misses, a flying bird, an empty chamber, and a safety mishap. Everything that could go wrong, did go wrong. But I persisted.

I stood there for a moment, full of gratitude. I said a quiet prayer, thanking God and the turkey for its life. It was one of those cool, humbling moments I’ll never forget.

We took some photos, dressed the bird, and I headed home with my first turkey in the cooler. It was an incredible morning that I will never forget.

Huge thanks to Scott for the invitation, the help, and the patience. And to anyone out there chasing something new — whether you’re 29 or 59 — keep showing up. The persistence is worth it. The adventures are still out there.