Dad, Frank, and Charlie: Turkey Trials (Part 1)

Ol' Blue…

I have a fifteen year-old Jeep Wrangler that I adore. Not many folks know this but I call him Ol' Blue when it's just me an' him up on the mountain. Though he has countless nicks and dings his deep navy blue body still shines bright when given enough attention. I don't know, maybe I'm looking at him through rose-colored, or should I say iris-colored, glasses but we have a connection that runs pretty deep.

The thing I love most about Ol' Blue is that he never lets me down and thus, I can't help but be reminded of my dad. He's tremendously reliable and simply put, he's a comfort to me. Things breakdown on him all the time but I do whatever I can to keep him running. Though he's routinely serviced, he creeks and moans and strains when climbing even the slightest of hills. There is also the occasional drip or leak from the underside that sometimes leaves conspicuous stains in increasingly awkward places. He's even been known to run out of gas every once in a while. And talk about dirty? My gosh! I have been embarrassed more than once by his uncouth visage. Needless to say, even with all these little quirks and issues, I love my Dad so very much and the crazy thing is I find much of these exact same characteristics in Ol' Blue.

As you can imagine, I can't help but love BOTH of them to death. So when my dad wants to come visit, for a turkey hunting excursion, I'll bend over backwards to accommodate him. And one such adventure plum wore me out.

------------------------------

The Preparations

Though I have hunted with my dad for the better part of my life, my move from New York to Tennessee made our turkey hunting adventures much more choreographed. We missed a few years here and there but when we could, we'd schedule a week-long excursion, and since my dad was retired, it usually meant a hunting trip to Tennessee. This also meant my oldest brother Bob could tag-a-long from his adopted state of Georgia. This worked out for the best anyway since we all found the hunting in Tennessee to be much better than anywhere else.

I was thrilled a few years ago when planning our spring turkey hunt, my dad asked if he could bring along his two best friends, Frank and Charlie.  It had been quite a while since I had turkey hunted with either one of them so I was more than looking forward to reliving our younger days. Given that all three of my soon-to-be guests were in their 70s and still eager to go stomping through the woods chasing long beards would simply add to the nostalgia of the reunion. Needless to say, I was going to make sure all three had the time of their life.

In preparation for the hunt I put in quite a bit of leg work. I knew my guests were getting up there in age so I had to keep their walking to a minimum. Not only did I secure multiple farms to hunt, I scouted each farm to confirm there were a decent number of birds present. And hearing those pre-season early-mornin’ gobbles in almost every location was giving me a great sense of anticipation.

My main farm, a lease I held in Lynchburg, was the most promising of all. It sits in Moore County, Tennessee, the epicenter of southeastern turkey hunting. It is the epitome of textbook turkey country. Its rolling oak-hickory hardwood hills are intermittently broken by cow pastures, over-grown fields, and clear-running streams. The lease is a long abandoned dairy farm consisting of three lush valleys, a hardwood plateau, and a network of logging roads, just ripe for old men with ATVs. The farm is also landlocked. Its only access through a century-and-a-half-old cemetery undoubtedly guarded by the resolute spirits of civil war soldiers.

The owner of the farm, Royce, still lives on the property. He and his wife reside in a tiny well-kept house where the chimney smoke never wanes and the woodpile never dwindles. A few days prior to my dad’s arrival I paid Royce a visit. In his slow deliberate southern speak he assured me that every morning, "gobbles rain down" from the surrounding ridges. All was well with the preparations.

---------------------------

The Anticipated Arrival

The rattling window panes and the rippling in my dog's water bowl tipped me off to their approach. One would think, or at least hope, that three elderly but eager gentleman could ride together in a super-sized pickup truck for a relaxing turkey trip down south. Nope. I should have known better.

It turns out only Frank and Charlie could fit their hunting gear into Charlie's full-Size Chevy Silverado. My dad had to bring his minivan separate which, by the way, was also was packed from floor to ceiling. Did I mention that each vehicle was pulling a trailer as well? Three tricked-out, full-size ATVs were loaded in pull-behind trailers, each ATV jampacked with overflowing gear bags mind you. I've seen U.S. Army infantry units prepped to be shipped overseas packed lighter...Yep, these boys were bringing it!

Fortunately I had arranged a couple of campers down at the Lynchburg lease for our stay. This would eliminate about three hours of driving each day, and given the payload, would save about 8,000 gallons in gas. Now if only I had rented a couple of storage sheds as well.

Needless to say, the first night spent at my house sitting around the dinner table catching up with my dad, Frank and Charlie already made the trip worthwhile for me. It was going to be one helluva a great week.


Up next...Gettin' Started!