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And So, It Begins

One morning, only moments after I could distinguish the ghostly silhouettes of turkeys roosting on branches high above a sea of fog floating across the meadow, its haunting sound filled my ears for the first time—a wild tom’s gobble. It ushered in a level of excitement and enchantment that altered my life’s perspective in a single heartbeat.

It wasn’t a feeling borne of potential success at harvesting a bird, nor was it about an eagerness to see the show I had been told would soon unfold before me. It was more a profound shift in my soul that, in a single moment, both took my breath away and raised every hair on my body.

Prior to that, I had only known turkeys to be frozen and located in aisle six, or as wild birds that regularly frustrated those who hunted them. In either instance, I had very little interest in them beyond seeing them sliced and presented on my plate once a year for Thanksgiving dinner.

However, after hearing that first eerie gobble, the once-mundane image of a turkey in my mind’s eye transformed into that of a regal, almost mythical creature that resided in the woods, laid claim to being the centerpiece of ageless folklore, and was spoken of reverently around campfires.

I heard the sound once more, and it commanded my undivided attention as the chills migrated up my spine. This time, a surge of adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I was outwardly affected—I could feel my heart rate jump and my acute level of focus increase ten-fold. It was, in that instant, as if I were the only person in the world.

Thankfully, Jon, my hunting buddy and mentor for the last two-plus decades, was at my side to keep me from jumping clear out of my skin. But he knew, even if only a split second before I did, that I had caught the fever—the passion that is turkey hunting. It had likely been my eyeballs, which were the size of teacup saucers, that gave it away for him. As for me, I knew something had changed deep within myself. I didn’t know quite yet what I was doing nor what all this turkey hunting business was about, but I was all in to experience more of it and strive to discover what I now know was calling to me and drawing me ever closer with each passing second in the blind. And if this was just the first thirty minutes, I couldn’t imagine what the days ahead could bring.

My head was spinning, and I felt a sense of exhilaration known to me only a handful of times before. I simply couldn’t wait to see what happened next.

Admittedly, however, there was a lot that led up to this extraordinary event, including my own reservations and a general lack of enthusiasm. In fact, the entire idea was slow to get out of the gate to begin with—for me, that is.

This entire endeavor had started months before at the National Wild Turkey Federation’s Convention and Sport Show, on a February weekend in 2017 that I will look back upon fondly and remember with gratitude for all of my remaining days.

And naturally, just as with everything else in my life that has been new to me, so began this adventure with little more than equal parts of trepidation and oblivious indifference.

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Having known my hunting partner, mentor, and dear friend Jon for nearly twenty-five years, not much scares me more than leaving him alone at a hunting auction.

Come to think of it, I’ve realized over the course of time that it’s rarely ever wise to leave Jon to his own devices in any environment. But to leave him unattended at an auction that’s almost entirely dedicated to hunting trips—namely the NWTF’s Convention and Sports Show Lunch and Auction—is categorically dangerous if not certifiably irresponsible. It’s not about the trouble he will likely get into—that’s a given. It’s the trouble and anxiety-producing escapade into which he will almost certainly drag me as a result.

So, after spending the afternoon apart, each of us attending one of two separate NWTF auction events held at the same time, it was entirely understandable that I was nervous about meeting up with him later. Had he again accepted an invitation on my behalf? Had he again volunteered me for something for which I was entirely unprepared? To what experience in the name of adventure had he unilaterally committed us… again? These were big questions—ones that, quite frankly, had me in a completely discomforted state of mind and filled with apprehension.

On my return, I saw him crossing the room toward me with purpose, excitedly rubbing his hands together and perceptibly pursing his lips to make an announcement upon his arrival before me. This is usually where my nausea sets in, even if only briefly.

“Well,” he proclaimed, “I got some really great stuff!”

He went on to describe a couple turkey decoys, a Double Bull blind, and some sort of bizarre, yet lightweight and highly portable seating contraption.

It all seemed relatively innocuous. However, I had already recognized the calculated strategy here, as it has been used against me ever since I’ve known the man. While it all sounded harmless, there was certainly an ulterior motive. I had yet to hear the other shoe drop, and I knew it was just a matter of time. After all, Jon loves to keep me off balance.

The good news was that it wouldn’t be long before he spilled the beans. Jon gets terribly excited about all this stuff and truly can’t ever wait to open my eyes to another world—one about which I know little or nothing. This is perhaps one of his greatest attributes and, simultaneously, one of his scariest.

Only moments later, the aforementioned proverbial shoe began to accelerate toward the floor at a terminal velocity usually more closely associated with something the size and weight of a locomotive plummeting from a tall bridge. I could see the wheels turning in his head as he contemplated just how he was going to let the cat out of the bag. Then, abruptly and predictably, he could contain himself no longer—the moment had arrived.

“Well, Kloecker,” he started, “I got a question for ya’.”

(What I heard: There is no question. The following is actually a declaration loosely outlining what we will be doing, which, by the way, is set in stone—or at least quick-set concrete—and entirely beyond my control.)

“What,” he proceeded, “are your thoughts on turkeys?”

As far as I was concerned, the only turkeys I had ever had any real opinion about were the beautifully oven-browned masterpieces that graced the dining room table in the waning days of November. And as far as hunting them, I was pretty sure that shooting one would not only scare the wits out of my family and damage a stunning antique piece of furniture, but it would likely result in my permanent dismissal from all subsequent Thanksgiving dinners. However, as for wild turkeys, I had never really given them much thought at all.

But there it was; the other shoe had dropped. I was about to be plunged into the world of turkey hunting.

Mind you, this didn’t come as a huge surprise. We were, in fact, at the largest NWTF event of the year, and, as usual, Jon knew roughly every third person we walked past. That meant that every conversation I had witnessed was already about turkey hunting or some gizmo that aided the tradition. If I’m being entirely honest, it really wasn’t a big surprise, nor was it something that particularly intimidated me.

In fact, if nothing else, I was somewhat relieved knowing I hadn’t been involuntarily designated a willing participant in, say, hunting Siberian tigers with nothing more than my bare hands and a pair of chopsticks—something, no doubt, Jon had either already done or would find compelling enough to want to try at some point.

So, turkey hunting it was, and I remained calm and composed upon hearing the announcement.

Was I getting used to Jon’s antics, embracing the expansion of my own world, or possibly even learning to trust the process?

Well, no. Of course not.

As it turns out, it was none of those—it was merely the fact that I was too naïve to realize just what I was taking on and blindly embracing. (Ugh—I may never learn.)

“Well,” I said while desperately trying to think of something to say (not that it would have made any difference), “I suppose I’m willing to learn.” I offered this with a wavering tone that could’ve easily been interpreted as a question.

I suppose the reason for sounding so uninspired at the notion of turkey hunting was that I just didn’t get it. I had seen videos and, if I’m being honest, there just didn’t seem to be enough action. And as long as we’re on this candid bent, it appeared to my inexperienced eye that there was a staggering disproportion of failure to success. Additionally, as the rant logically progresses, I understood that there was an inordinate amount of time spent afield, requiring patience, silence, and the ability to remain absolutely motionless—all things with which, for decades, I have demonstrated abject failure… for decades! At the end of the day, I just didn’t see myself as a successful turkey hunter.

“Your excitement,” Jon declared, sarcastically, “is all the motivation I need to be excited about the years I’m gonna invest trying to teach you this amazing discipline. But I get it,” he continued. “I get that you don’t get it—yet. You will though, someday, and you can thank me then.”

“So, when and where are we going?” I inquired. “And how deep is the deep end into which I am about to be thrown?”

With a smirk, Jon jested, “Ever heard of the Mariana Trench?”

As it turned out, indeed I had heard of the Mariana Trench—the deepest oceanic trench on earth. At more than thirty-six thousand feet deep (almost seven miles), the subduction trough itself, as well as the analogy, was quite enough to cause me ample distress. So much for my moderate comfort level with the latest quest. (For the record, this, too, is a twist I should’ve expected.)

And just as he was about to share with me the details of this adventure’s auspicious beginning, up walked Bigfoot—so named for the prank this man played on his own mother, who, as it happens, is fascinated with the possibility of that very creature’s existence. Let me explain.

Having watched every documentary, investigative show, and even campy television programs available on the subject, she is wholeheartedly (and publicly so) convinced of the beast’s reality.

So with little more than a trail cam, a gorilla costume, and a wicked sense of humor, this man set a simple plan into motion.

As light faded in the woods one evening, he returned from the family ranch and called his mom to demand, with unbridled excitement, that she come to his house and see what he had digitally captured while wandering through their property.

Naturally, this was hilarious. The fact that she bought it was side-splittingly funny, and an outcome of which he could only have dreamed. But the cherry on top was the call he received the next day from one of her coworkers, who quickly put two and two together and suggested that he come clean before his mom phoned the talk-show circuit—something she was apparently eager to do.

At that, things had officially gone further than anticipated—perhaps too far. Certainly, he’d never intended to make her look foolish among her peers, and he has remained grateful to this day that those colleagues all have a healthy sense of humor. But after hearing this story, I couldn’t help but brand him with the nickname Bigfoot. Whether he chooses to wear that moniker with honor or shame is entirely up to him. Either way, it’s funny, and his mom gets a bit of revenge each time we address him in her presence.

That, however, all happened well after Jon had originally met the guy and, in fact, before I met either of them. There had been history between the two of them well before I entered the mix.

Many years before, Jon had owned a large sporting goods store here in Missouri. One day, he was at the front of the store when a clearly frustrated young man in his twenties came in and asked if anyone knew of any public duck hunting grounds nearby. He continued to explain that he and a couple of his buddies had driven up from Kentucky, just like they had for several years running, to hunt an area close by, with the landowner’s permission. Only when they arrived, he explained, they were told they could no longer hunt the property.

Needless to say, after a five-hour drive, the young man was a bit upset, and Jon could see the disappointment on his face.

Jon spent a few minutes talking to the young man and finally said, “I can fix this. Give me ten minutes to make a quick call, and I’ll meet you back here at the registers.”

When Jon returned from his office, he told the manager that he was leaving for an hour or two and stepped outside with the deflated young man.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Jon said in his patented, fatherly solution-minded tone. “I’m going to jump in my car, and you guys are going to follow me. We’re going to drive about twenty minutes to my duck club, where I will introduce you to the caretaker, explain a short list of rules, and show you around. At that point, the place is yours to hunt for the next few days.”

The young men couldn’t believe their fortune or Jon’s generosity.

After a brief back and forth, with a respectable amount of polite resistance, it was settled. Jon adamantly insisted, and they agreed to follow him to the duck club.

It turns out that he and Jon became fast friends, and that same group returned as invited guests over the course of several years. Eventually, however, life got in the way, and they lost touch.

Many years later, in 2017, Jon misdialed his phone (as the older generation does from time to time when handling iPhones and similar otherworldly technologies) and heard a familiar voice in his ear.

“Jon? Is that you, ya’ crazy son-of-a-gun?” said that same man (no longer so young) from years gone by as he answered the call.

The reunion was effortless and, as they caught up over the next hour, actually sparked a conversation, which would eventually put him and me on a collision course to meet.

At this point, Jon and I had been friends for years, we had hunted together for years, and until only months before this call, I had managed to sidestep his insistence for years that I write a book.

It was that book, my first attempt at being an author, that would ultimately prove to be the reason over which his friend and I would soon become acquainted.

In fact, when Jon and I were on our way to the 2017 NWTF Convention and Sport Show in Nashville, Tennessee, Jon piped up as we crossed the Cumberland River on Interstate 24 and asked me if I remembered having sent my manuscript to his friend in Kentucky.

“I remember,” I confirmed. “You thought he’d be able to give me some useful feedback, but you never really said anything beyond that. Why do you ask?”

“Well,” Jon answered, “I heard from him last week, and he finished reading it.”

When I asked what he had to say about the book, Jon merely said, “You can ask him yourself in about an hour. We’re passing through his hometown and meeting him for a late breakfast.”

Have I mentioned how much Jon likes to keep me off balance? It’s either an illness rooted in getting pleasure from watching my anxiety build over a short period of time, or a measured and considerate gesture to keep my anxiety from building over a long period of time. Either way, I can’t believe I’m not used to it by now—but it is what it is.

“Grab my phone and ring him; it’s the last call in Recents with a two-seven-zero area code. Let him know we’re about forty-five minutes out.”

I gathered myself, dialed the number, and put the call on speaker.

To be honest, the ensuing phone conversation was a challenge for me. The man on the other end of the call was very hard to understand, thanks to his deep-woods Kentucky dialect. I was actually having trouble understanding him and had to piece together the brief and friendly conversation by somehow stitching together every third or fourth word that I was able to decipher, but I did manage to let him know that we were close and that we’d meet him in a little more than half an hour.

Then, after what I could only have guessed was another short bit of pleasantries, we both hung up.

I admitted to Jon that I had had a hard time following our chat, and then asked him to tell me about the man.

“Well,” Jon began, “aside from being a longtime friend, the guy is a third-generation hunter, he has a ton of experience in the field hunting a multitude of animals, and I thought he’d be a good litmus test for the book.”

I asked, “What does he do for a living?”

“He works for a mining company,” Jon replied, “and he spends his entire shift up to a thousand feet underground.”

I then logically assumed he was a miner and quickly pictured him as an all-American hard-laborer with a pickaxe, a shovel, a wheelbarrow, and a headlamp.