Morel of the story
As you can see, this is no ordinary morel.
BY MAC ARNOLD
Well, I guess I've gone and done it.
Renamed this blog, "Mac Arnold's Hunting & Fishing Spectacular," that is.
I'm wondering if I've set myself up because as most know who are involved in either endeavor, they aren't always spectacular.
Most of the time, at least for me, they are more like calming, meditating experiences.
Then, out of nowhere the gobbler busts into range after an hourlong courtship of calling, or the buck takes a left into your shooting lane instead of a right along a trail you're set up along.
Boom, the fireworks begin.
But often it's not like that.
Take this season for instance. I gave all ... probably going out like in the days yesteryear. I'm thinking I went out more than 15 times this season in an attempt to hoist a big tom over my shoulder.
After a slow start, where I heard few gobbles, the end turned out to be loaded with fun and excitement.
Yesterday's hunt -- Sunday, May 30 -- the finale for me, got as close as you can get without putting an old boy down. After an initial miscue on setup, one where he turned out to be gobbling over my truck about 200 yards from where I setup, we rendezvoused in the eastern part of Dairy Farmer Dave's property, in the pine woods where I shot my gobbler last spring.
Obviously, this wasn't his first dance. He hung up just outside the coveted 50-yard distance, and in addition, was slowly weaving in and out of trees. I had a brief look at his white globe and then I lost it. But I saw him and he was a beaut -- his beard was dragging on the ground.
But I'm glad I didn't take a risky shot (really never had one).
So that is how my season ended, with the last two days of gobbling and me aggressively picking up and moving to intercept his travel routes, which is the kind of turkey hunting I like best.
So I'm eating my tag. As much as I like to hunt on military holidays, such as Memorial Day, I'm out of gas and won't be going out the final day.
I'm also fighting a force beyond my control.
Earlier in the month, I ran into a patch of morels. Now, most would say, "That's awesome." But for me, it's like the kiss of death.
In the seasons where I find morels, I don't shoot a turkey. It's a strange phenomenon that I don't understand.
Don't get me wrong, I love eating 'em and these mutant morels I found supplied meals for a week.
Yet, here I am, turkey-less.
Think next season and those beyond I'll turn heel if I stumble upon anymore patches of tasty fungi.