My boots weighed all of 94 pounds apiece, caked in gooey cornfield mud. I struggled to wave foggy breath from the beam of my headlamp while placing a Dave Smith jake decoy where I hoped dreams would come true. Beats mosquitos, I guess. My then 6-year-old son anxiously awaited in the blind about 20 yards back against the tree line. To be honest, I really wasn’t sure where a gobbler might be roosted, but I knew the birds weren’t far.
The objective? To deliver my boy his first successful hunt.
As fate would have it, a throaty long-beard broke the pre-sunrise darkness not 150 yards from our position, and I knew we were in the game. The Good Lord blessed us with a gullible one that morning. We watched the sky turn multiple shades of orange behind a fine gobbler marching across the field with feet just as muddy and heavy as my own. Just as the angry tom was about to hammer the decoy, my son folded him over like a 2-7 off-suit. I was elated to tears.
The following spring, his younger and highly competitive sister decided she was not to be outdone. She wanted to try turkey hunting, too. After some impressive bravery and a willing-to-learn attitude, she mastered the 20-gauge quickly and effectively. A week later, at 5 years old, she dumped her first gobbler less than a mile outside
