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Stacy Dvorak shares her first Eastern with her mother, Mary. |
Time in a blind well spent
Turkeys were pretty much nonexistent on our family farm in the Twin Cities suburbs of Minnesota 18 years ago, but thanks to the NWTF and the conservation efforts of many outdoors folks, clubs and organizations, times have changed.
I couldn't sleep the night before opening day. I tossed and turned until my alarm finally went off. After going through the usual hunt preparations, I trekked out to my blind with my mom by my side. I inserted my ammo into the chamber, and mom took her first sips of coffee. We quietly settled in to watch nature come to life on a frosty Mother's Day morning.
At 6 a.m., a young coyote appeared on the ridge well before we heard any gobbles. The young pup pitched a fit because my decoys wouldn't respond to him. He hopped from one edge of the woods to the other, afraid to pounce on them, until he finally gave up.
Not long after, we heard the first gobbles around us. Later in the day the hens appeared — and so did a tom.
As he worked one hen, another hen spent 45 minutes fanning herself in a section of dirt on top of the hill.
I felt like a prisoner in my blind. I could make out a red head amongst the trees and brush, but Old Tom was still too far away. I didn't have a good shot.
This bird punished my ears by gobbling every five to 10 minutes. As Mom worked the turkey call next to me, I sat with hands gripped around my gun, ready for action. I figured he would move closer eventually, but no luck.
Just when I thought it was over, there was a reunion of the turkeys on the ridge. I prepared for them to move closer. As the day wore on, my heart began to break. It would have been sweet to harvest a tom on Mother's Day with my mom by my side. However, the day was magical any way you scratch the call.
The time Mom and I spend in the blind together is precious. It is time quietly spent talking about life, dreams, memories, nature and giving each other a hard time when one of us falls asleep.
I don't take the time with my parents, friends or family for granted. My dad passed away in 1996 after a six-month battle with cancer. I was diagnosed in 2005, and Mom has been treated for the disease as well.
For us, it is not just about the hunt. It is the time spent together, just watching nature, sharing a cup of coffee or quietly talking.
I eventually took my first Eastern in that same blind later in the season. I'm proud knowing that today is different than it was 18 years ago, that our conservation efforts are paying off. Hopefully some day I'm lucky enough to share the blind with a daughter of my own. — Stacy Dvorak, Prior Lake, Minn.
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