I knew the old man well. He was known around the parish as someone who generally killed one of the best bucks each hunting season and could be counted on to win his fair share of money at our local bass tournaments. For over two years I'd been hounding him about turkey hunting. It was the mid 80's, and save from the occasional magazine article, little information could be found.

He was a man of few words, a local farmer who had seen his fair share of hard times and for the most part I considered him to be a loner. I was fortunate enough to attend Church with him, so at least one day each week I would have the ability to corral him and ask what I'm sure he perceived to be dumb questions about the wild turkey. On this particular day in 1988, the two of us standing in the post office parking lot, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper, offering the following..."when the river gets up, you'll find turkeys on the ridge I've marked on that map." With that, he stepped into his truck, fired the engine and drove away.

The map wasn't much more than a crude pencil drawing of an area that was once Winnsboro/Natchitoches Hunting Club, now part of the Tensas Federal Refuge. Growing up in Franklin Parish with a Grandfather who always had a camp on the Tensas, I was familiar enough with the area to know where I would I need to begin my hunt.

April arrived with rain in proportions I'd seldom seen in my young life. So much so, farmers struggled to get seed into the ground, the low areas along the Tensas turning into thousands of acres of standing water. By the time opening day of turkey season rolled around I was wondering if there was any reason to go. And while I was concerned about the woods being full of water, I was also worried about my two wheel drive pick up navigating the gumbo nightmare the refuge roads had no doubt turned into. Still, I'd waited for this opportunity and in the end I decided to attempt to reach the ridge on the old mans map.

30 minutes after leaving the house I pulled the truck slightly off the dirt refuge road, gathered my things and opened the door into thick humidity buzzing with millions of mosquitoes. At the tailgate I slipped on a set of hip boots, emptied a can of OFF on my body, grabbed my old 870 and stepped into the watery woods as the sky began to come to life...a gun metal grey. By my guess, I had almost a mile to walk to reach the river ridge and as I shuffled through the knee deep water it didn't take long to begin sweating in earnest, causing the OFF to run into my eyes, creating an opportunity for the mosquitoes to continue collecting my lifeblood. Each time an owl hoot would ring out, I'd stop and listen intently before continuing towards the east.

By the time I heard the first turkey gobble, my flashlight was no longer cutting through the morning and I could now periodically see the cotton mouths and water snakes dropping from the lower branches into the water. Three quarters of the way and the gobbling had reached a peak. There were obviously multiple gobblers on the ridge which in turn spurred me to pick up my pace. Once at the ridge, the road quickly rose four or five feet, running north to south and straight for almost 80 yards. On both sides the palmetto was thick and tall and I quickly made the decision to place the foam hen decoy in the road. By this time the birds had gone silent, leaving me wondering if I was on the correct ridge. Maybe a coyote spooked them or another hunter bumped them?

I quickly realized that my slate call was useless. Soaked with a combination of water, sweat and OFF, the first notes I tried to make quickly proved fruitless. Retrieving the single mouth call I owned, I struggled to create enough saliva to loosen the reeds, and when I finally tried to produce a series of yelps, they came out sounding more like the neighbors cat who got hit by a passing vehicle. Sitting with a cloud of mosquitoes, many now inside my mask, I couldn't help but think I was wasting my time. The turkeys were gone and even if they were still around there was no way they would come to the terrible calling I was responsible for. 30 minutes would pass before I heard the footsteps in the palmetto behind me. It sounded so much like a human walking that at one point I was going to stand up and let the other person know I was in the area. Perhaps I was too tired from the walk or just disgusted with the situation but whatever the reason, I decided against doing so.

Just when I expected to see the other hunter emerge from the palmetto, imagine my surprise when three Jakes stepped into the road opening and quickly surrounded my decoy. Immediately my heart began to thump so hard I was sure I would die. I could hear and feel it beating in my ears, racing out of control. My mind clouded, I tried to ascertain which one to shoot as they danced in a circle. Finally one of the three heads stopped right on top of 870's front bead, forcing me to pull the trigger. Suddenly the woods were alive with flying and flopping turkeys, the echo of my shotgun blast traveling out and over the watery woods. In fact, by the time I reached the downed Jake, I could still hear the gun blast resonating through the hardwoods, announcing a new member of The Tenth Legion had been born.

The walk back to the truck was without a doubt one of the most enjoyable I've ever had in the woods. The turkeys head patting against my backside with each step, I'm sure the smile on my face was noticeable to even the squirrels as I passed them. About halfway to the truck I came across a yellow printed plastic sign that read...POSTED Winnsboro/Natchitoches Hunting Club. I reached up on the oak and pulled it down.

I still have that old sign to this day and each time I see it, it reminds me of that first spring morning in the flooded flat woods and how it changed my life.

Good luck this spring and may everyone have a successful and safe season.