Just as we got to the timber it started to rain, mostly horizontally. I donned my rain gear; Johnson wished that he'd brought some. Worried about him getting soaked, I suggested that we head back to the vehicle to ride out the squall.

The downpour lasted about 30 minutes. Again, we exited the truck and walked back to the place where Johnson knew turkeys roosted. He was right; one bailed from the tree as it spotted us. It was beginning to get light. We eased on down to the river, and Johnson caught a glimpse of a turkey on the other side.

We crossed the river and immediately plopped down and began calling. Johnson could see the birds gobble through his binoculars, but the sound never reached our ears in the 40-mph-plus wind. They were less than 100 yards away, but fortunately downwind.

Twice, four mature toms left the confines of the 12-plus bird flock to investigate our loud, raucous calls. The second time they cut the distance to 35 yards, but several small bushes and saplings prevented a good shot opportunity for either one of us. Our hopes were dashed when a couple of notes from a nearby emphatic hen called the boys out of harm's way.

We dropped into the creekbed with plans to sneak closer and call again. The second time we eased our eyeballs over the bank for a look, the whole flock was on the edge of shotgun range; a couple of soft yelps, and a few birds moved toward us.

"I'll shoot the one in the back," Johnson whispered.

I said OK, and informed him that I'd wait for him to shoot first and then try to kill one. We knew that the remaining three or four would be mature toms.

Johnson's gun boomed, and the bird I was watching shot up in the air high enough to dunk a basketball. The moment he touched down, he was again in whistle gear and leaving the country. I swung as fast as I have had to on teal and yanked the trigger. The bird dropped in his tracks.

Another shot, followed by a fair amount of swearing from my left, brought me back to reality.

"I can't believe I missed!" Johnson said (expletives deleted for publication).

I was disappointed for him, too, but couldn't help giving out some good-natured ribbing. "You're bad luck for me," he said as he shook his head.

We walked over to my bird. His beard about 9 inches long and his spurs just a hair under an inch in length, he was hefty, we noticed, and would later tip the scales at 19 1/2 pounds.

We'd no sooner got done with slapping high-fives when another ominous storm barreled down on us. We hot-footed it to a nearby silo and took shelter from toad-strangling rain and gusty winds. I hung my turkey on the silo, hoping that the rain would end and give Johnson a chance.

The rain subsided, and we were soon greeted with mostly sunny skies, but the wind was gaining in strength. It didn't deter us: We set out to get another visual, since hearing a turkey was out of the question.

After several more close calls as a result of visual observations, we decided to call it a day, as neither of us could get over how hard the wind was blowing. Radio reports spoke of gusts near 60 mph!

The wind was nearly unbearable. Actually, it was unbearable in the open. Even in the protection of the river bottom it made strutting toms look like drunken sailors. The hens had the worst "hair day" imaginable, and normally pristine Flint Hills ponds were darker than too-strong chocolate milk.

I gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles on the trip home. I thought about how fortunate we'd been despite the weather. Although we might have been smarter just to punt, the trip had been memorable, as we'd been able to adapt to the windy conditions and find success. We even made plans to return to the same spot another day -- preferably one without a hurricane attached!