There are various ways to judge the merits of someone who is considered an “outstanding conservationist.”

Some would say the person who donates the most money to outdoor causes fits this description, while others would base the award upon whoever gives the most of their time and elbow grease while working for various worthy conservation projects.

I add a third criterion to the list: a great conservationist is the man who takes great pains to harvest only the stupidest of nature’s animals to ensure that the gene pool stays strong and vibrant. To this end, I nominate my friend Don for all his hard work in assuring that only the most intelligent animals are available to perpetuate the species.

April 26, the opening morning of spring turkey season, dawned clear and chilly. As the eastern sky went through a series of spectacular color changes that reminded me of a Sugar creek sunfish, I sat alone on a high oak ridge top in Fountain County. One-hundred yards below and nearly a half-mile distant, Don sat along a large unplowed field completely surrounded by woods.

I had already busted two birds off the roost, the first while it was still pitch dark as I set up my decoys and another just after daylight following an ill-considered move toward a tom on the next ridge that was gobbling in a nearly suicidal fashion. After the second bird flushed, I sat down in exasperation, not knowing if there were more birds nearby.

After a short while, the twenty-or-so gobblers in the immediate vicinity of the farm where we were hunting flew down from their roosts and went silent. As the woods grew quieter I second-guessed my decision first to move and then to stay put as the birds were working. I was afraid my best chance of the season had already slipped away.

My mental anguish eased for a moment when the sun cleared the opposite side of the valley and rose as a fiery copper disk that dramatically backlit the abundant wildflowers on my narrow ridge. I briefly considered sneaking the camera out of my backpack but yet again realized that such a perfect moment would only pale if digitized and shared. As it stands, the scene is stored in a single human mind as a rich personal treasure.

While absorbed in this reverie, three shots from below shattered the silence, their echo bouncing across the valley for several seconds. Once again the peculiar bittersweet sensation of a partner’s victory flooded my insides.

I turned on my two-way radio and asked Don what had happened. As nearly as I could make out the radio transmission, he said something about a bird and then stammered a run-on sentence that amounted to 20 seconds of excited gibberish. Deciphering the high-pitched screeching I realized that he had fired at the bird but not scored. Settling back on my hunting seat, I chided myself for enjoying his misfortune just a tiny bit.

A half-hour later the sun was high in the sky and the woods had settled into the morning course of business. I spent time lost in pleasant thoughts and was nearly ready to move into another area when a fourth “BOOOOOOM!” rolled through the valley. I again turned on the radio for a report. This time there was no mistaking that Don had scored.

I picked up my decoys, gear and gun then headed down.

Upon reaching the field edge I immediate saw Don in the distance standing over his fallen quarry. I walked through the knee-high growth, completely soaking my boots and socks in the heavy dew, until arriving upon the joyous scene. I listened as Don explained, using wild hand motions, what had happened.

The tom and hen had approached his decoys but grew skittish and stopped about 60 yards out. After a few minutes Don grew impatient and fired three quick but inaccurate shots at the male. The pair then fled on foot to the far corner of the field, apparently no worse for the wear.

Incredibly, the birds stayed within sight near the opposite tree line and after 20 minutes Don began softly calling again. To his great surprise the birds began slowly moving back towards his decoys. To make a long hunting story short, this second trip proved fatal to the mature gobbler because Don waited until the tom was well within range and dropped him with a single, better-aimed, shot.

Walking back to the truck through an astonishing display of woodland wildflowers, we chatted about the beautiful morning and the unlikely chain of events. Though hunters often attribute tremendous cunning and guile to the wild turkey, this hunt showed that even the tremendously wary gobbler could be brought to ground with ample skill, good equipment and perseverance.

Even after three warning shots.

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