The First Gobble

The woods were still dark when Ellie stepped out of the truck and pulled the old camo jacket tight around her shoulders. A chill hung in the early spring air, the kind that wrapped around your neck and settled in your boots. She’d worn that same jacket every season since she turned 16. It had belonged to her dad first.

“Cold one,” her grandpa muttered, slinging the shotgun over his shoulder.

Ellie nodded, glancing toward the treeline. The horizon was starting to glow faint blue, the promise of dawn just creeping in. This was Ellie’s first real turkey hunt. She’d shot doves before, even deer, but this was different. This time it was about listening, waiting and knowing.

They hiked quietly into the woods, boots crunching softly over last fall’s leaves. Grandpa knew this land like the back of his hand. It was family property, passed down since before Ellie could remember. Every dip, every patch of honeysuckle or beech or cedar, Grandpa had a name for. The turkeys did, too, in their own way.

“Set up over by that pine,” Grandpa whispered when they reached the rise near the back field. “They roosted just past the ridge last night. If we’re lucky, they’ll pitch down into this clearing.”

Ellie settled beside the pine, knees drawn up, back straight, shotgun balanced across her lap. Grandpa sat 10 yards behind her, silent, still. He wasn’t there to shoot. Just to watch. Just to teach. For a while, the world held its breath. And then, just as the stars faded into the pale light of morning, it came.

GOBBLE-GOBBLE-GOBBLE.

Ellie stiffened. The sound came from over the ridge, just like Grandpa said. Another gobble answered, then another. A whole chorus, echoing through the trees like thunder. Her heart thudded in her chest. A soft cluck followed. Grandpa, using a slate call just enough to let the birds know a hen was nearby, not enough to spook them. Ellie listened, every sense stretched tight. The gobbler was moving closer. He could hear the drumming now, the low, pulsing sound toms made when they strutted. Leaves rustled, wings flapped, and then…

There he was.

A big tom, fanned out in full display, white head glowing in the dawn light. He strutted just beyond the brush, slow and deliberate. Ellie didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just slow deep breaths like her grandpa taught her. The tom paused. Ellie eased the shotgun into place, her cheek resting against the stock. The bead lined up. She waited for the shot. Waited for that perfect moment. But the bird turned, quartered away, and started back toward the treeline. Ellie hesitated. She could’ve taken the shot, maybe. But, maybe wasn’t good enough. She let the bird go. Grandpa came up behind her a minute later.

“Why didn’t you shoot?”

“Didn’t feel right,” said Ellie.

Ellie’s eyes were still on the empty clearing.

“He wasn’t broadside. Could’ve clipped a wing or worse.”

Grandpa gave a quiet nod.

“That’s good. Means you’re thinking like a hunter, not just a shooter.”

They sat for a while longer, calling once or twice, but the woods had quieted down. The sun rose higher, and with it came the sounds of the day: songbirds, squirrels, a distant tractor. Ellie stood and slung the shotgun over her shoulder. She felt lighter than when they’d hiked in. She was disappointed for sure, but not empty. Back at the truck, Grandpa handed her a thermos of coffee.

“You did good this morning.”

“But I didn’t get anything.”

“You hunted smart. You’ll get one when it’s time. First gobble’s just the beginning.”

Ellie took a sip, the coffee strong and hot, and looked back toward the woods. She could still hear the echo of that tom’s gobble in her chest. And she knew he’d be back.