"Camo"

One morning back in late April, I pulled in to a gas station to fill up on my way to the camp. It was about ten ‘til five, and I expected to be the only person at the filling station, save the clerk who I could see behind the thick plastic partition, working the register inside. Just like most early turkey mornings when I have to get gas, I leaned against the side of my truck, decked out in full camo, and sipped my coffee while I watched the numbers on the pump whiz by with a nonchalance that confirmed their indifference to the fact that those were really dollars whizzing by.

About halfway through the fill-up, an 80s model Lincoln Mark VII with tinted windows pulled up to the service station. It wasn’t in very good shape; faded paint job, worn tires, rusty quarterpanels. I like to think of myself as someone who believes that people are generally good, instead of inherently bad, but I must admit that watching an old jalopy zoom up to the entrance of a gas station at a few minutes before five in the morning tended to sharpen my senses a little.

The Mark VII sat there for probably 20 seconds or so before the driver’s door opened. The hinges moaned and then emitted a loud, metallic snap as the bushings caught the door at the extent of its swing. I watched intently for the driver to get out.

A moment later, a very pleasant looking African-American gentleman stepped out of the car, straightened himself up, glanced over at me and offered, “Mornin’” as he swung the door closed and walked around the car toward the entrance.

He, too, was decked out in full camo. But his wasn’t manufactured by Mossy Oak or Realtree. His was manufactured by Uncle Sam. And the pattern wasn’t Obsession, All Purpose Green, Bottomland or Hardwoods HD. It was the green digitized camouflage of US Army BDUs. And I don’t know whether the black combat boots into which his pants were bloused will stop a snake bite like the ones I was wearing will, but I know they’ve walked a lot more meaningful miles than my snake boots ever have.

I watched him through the window of the store as he chatted up the clerk after transacting whatever business he had inside. A couple of times, I noticed him turn and look out on me looking in on him. One of those times, he looked at me long enough that I wondered whether he found me to be a curious sight, leaning against my truck pumping gas in Shadowleaf camo from head to toe on a random Tuesday morning. I wondered if he knew it was turkey season and whether he was a hunter or came from a family of hunters.

Before long, he exited the store, walked swiftly to his car, got in, cranked it up and drove away.

Until I exchanged pleasantries with that serviceman, my biggest concern that morning had been a turkey that had proven too wily and elusive for its own good with which I’d been messing for a few days. After watching the serviceman drive away, however, I felt a little ashamed and a little embarrassed.

Here we were at the same service station on the same morning at the same time; each of us in full camo, on our respective ways to someplace worthy of spurring us out of bed at a most ambitious hour. Yet, my destination – as honorable and necessary as it is – was a sporting one, an elective one and one where “work” and “sacrifice” no doubt have vastly different meanings to me than they do to him. His destination, of course, I could not have known. But his camo told me in an instant that it was one of critical importance and demanded of him a willingness to sacrifice that I have never known and can only imagine.

I watched his taillights until they faded out of sight. Then the abrupt pop of the pump handle shutting off snapped me back to the moment at hand. As I hung the pump nozzle back on its rack and ripped off my receipt from the machine, I found myself wishing I’d thanked that soldier for his service to our country and his willingness to get up at quarter-to-ridiculous in the morning to do his job for us. For, no one was going to take his picture if he was successful that morning. And he wasn’t going to get paid to write a story about what he does on mornings like that.

I wish I’d said, “Thank you” to him. But I didn’t seize that opportunity before he drove away. So, if you’ve ever worn the camouflage of our nation’s Armed Services and been willing to sacrifice so much in order that I may rise in peace on spring mornings and pursue turkeys in my own style of camo, then, thank you. Who knows? Maybe somehow, some day, that serviceman will run across this and read it.

I hope he will.

(c) Roger Guilian 2010

"Turkey Time"

Every now and then, you meet some pretty extraordinary people in the turkey hunting business. Interesting, seasoned and entertaining people. Recently, I met a third generation farmer whose family has farmed the same thirty-four-hundred acres for the past century. Mr. McAllister’s sons now farm the land and help him manage a sizeable portion of the property as a commercial hunting operation.

Mr. McAllister is an avid Civil War history buff. Many of the food plots and other landmarks on his hunting land bear the names of Civil War period icons like Longstreet and Bull Run. He has recreated an old country store on his land, complete with antique Texaco gas pump and glass display cases. Inside the replica country store, Mr. McAllister has displayed a wealth of original antique farm implements passed down through generations of his family. He even has the original oil lamp that lit his childhood bedroom more than 70 years ago.

As you can imagine, he is a whale of a story teller. After he greeted us the morning we arrived at the lodge, he treated us to an hour’s worth of hospitality and storytelling in the great room. Then he loaded us up in his truck and gave us a windshield tour of the hunting property, during which he regaled us with the history of his land, the meanings of the names of the roads and the food plots, and some of his more memorable turkey hunts over his lifetime.

For all his farming acumen, historical wisdom and talent for spinning a yarn, Mr. McAllister is, at heart, a turkey hunter.

A turkey hunting career that spans more than 50 years has made Mr. McAllister something of a turkey expert. It has also, rightfully so, made him quite opinionated about the sport, those who pursue it and the manner in which they do so.

During our windshield tour of the property, and for another hour or so after we returned to the lodge, Mr. McAllister laid out his turkey hunting manifesto. He credits his one-eighth Creek Indian roots for his reverence for the wild turkey; a reverence so strong that he has never transported a turkey he’s harvested in the bed of a truck, but rather he lays the dead bird across the passenger seat. Mr. McAllister says he recoils when he sees someone sling a dead turkey down onto the bed of a truck.

Such was the curriculum of the old school turkey hunting class we attended that first day. Forged in a time when men wore denim overalls, used snuff cans as yelpers and stood behind trees for cover, Mr. McAllister’s turkey hunting credo was a refreshing and – in my opinion – much-needed platform for pure, sporting turkey tactics.

The thing about Mr. McAllister’s gift for oratory is his innate ability to weave his hefty, philosophical pillars seamlessly into otherwise casual conversation. One thing he said about the sport of turkey hunting struck me indelibly, and has stayed with me.

“When you step into the woods in the spring, you're not on your time any more, you're on his time. You're on turkey time. It may take him ten minutes to decide whether he wants to fool with you, or it may take him three hours. All you can do is wait him out.”

“When you're out there in front of him, he doesn't care if you're rich or poor, a banker or a farmer. He's an equal opportunity humiliator. If you harvest that bird, it doesn't matter who you are; you're the richest person in the world at that moment.”



(c) Roger Guilian 2010