His wrinkled hands shook me gently awake along with a soft whisper of “Freddy, wake up! It’s time to go!” I jumped out of bed with excitement. It’s a miracle I was even able to fall asleep last night.

I dressed quickly and quietly and headed out into the kitchen. Breakfast was nothing to talk about. A banana and a swig of orange juice. There, leaning in the corner next to the door, was the shotgun. A old over and under J.C. Stevens .410. It was well taken care of and clean but you could see the use. The stock and forearm had character marks. Oh, if this gun could talk! There were 4 shells lying on the table. I slid them into my pocket, hoping to only need one of them.

We slipped out into the darkness and began to climb the mountain. The waning moon was barely lighting the path. I listened for breathing and footfalls as he kept his hand on my shoulder. We made it to the top of the mountain and crested over. It always seems like you enter into a different world on this side. The sounds of the night were piercing my ears and I was trying to take it all in. We continued on down the familiar road and silently slipped into a blind placed weeks earlier on the edge of 2 fields separated by a hedgerow. I setup both chairs and we settled in.

The sounds of the whip-or-whil and owl were replaced by cardinals, wrens, and warblers. It was a beautiful chorus but one sound was missing. Finally, he gobbles. My eyes grow big and the grin on my face stretches wide. His gobbling intensifies and we finally manage the courage to softly yelp to him. He does not answer so we call again, just a bit louder. He acknowledges our presence. Great, we’ll let him make the next move. He continues to gobble, and for quite a while it was a gobble every 20-30 seconds apart. Maybe he has no company this morning. When the woods were light enough that the gobbler could tell the difference between a bush and a bobcat he flew down. He flew down away from us… seemingly out of my life. We cut and yelped loudly at him and he responded. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance.

The time passed and we chatted a bit about things. The weather, the food plots, the new apple trees, and all the improvements on the farm. We discussed about how the turkeys have stayed around this spring and why. How the deer have enjoyed the new buffet and how much success we had deer hunting in the fall. It was nice to chat. The gobbler echoes again and it sounds closer! Could it be? Surely he was just working the outer edge of his strut zone and he’ll go back to the other edge soon. We’ll have another plan for him another morning.

I look down at the gun leaning in the corner of the blind. Wow, that’s a small little shotgun shell to be shooting at such a big bird. I hope it will do the job if we do ours. We talk about the gun and make sure the sights are like I remembered them and make sure the selector is in the right place. Just in case. Another gobble from him and it seems to break the pattern of his. He’s definitely closer. We give another cutt and yelp and he covers it up. He’s close enough now that we start looking in the woods, hoping to catch a glimpse. Let’s check him one more time… soft yelp… Gobble. He’s there, right on the hillside.

In just a moment I catch a glimpse of the volkswagon as it makes it approach. He reaches the woodline and only slows for a second. Down the grassy field road he comes and enters into the bright green clover field. He’s obviously committed and we are enjoying the show. His spitting and drumming is intense and he’s ticked at the intruder in the corner of “his field”. At 30 yards he breaks strut and stares down the fakes we placed earlier. The moment of truth. He drops back into strut and continues on right past the blind. He passes by at 10 yards and we try to ready for the shot. The hammer is back and the gobbler has now reached “Ba-Donk-A-Donk”. He walks around him several times at a mere 9 steps from the blind. I shoulder the gun and line up the old iron sights and I make myself concentrate. I hear a whisper of “Do it now. Squeeze the trigger”.

The little bark of the .410 is strange to me and I watch as the gobbler flops just a few yards away. I gather my thoughts, gather my gear, and head out of the blind. I stop and turn around to hold the door open for my hunting partner and the blind is empty. Where did he go? Where is Pa-Pa Fred? A twinge of sadness is there as I approach the fallen gobbler. I show it to Pa-Pa… and again feel his hand on my shoulder. He is proud. He says so. I killed this gobbler on his farm with his little .410 shotgun with him right beside me. There were 2 chairs in that blind for a reason this morning.

Pa-Pa wasn’t there with me physically, but he was there… no doubt he was there. Another gobbler for me and Pa-Pa… and “My First Hunt” with the little .410 shotgun.