Parking my truck well before sunrise, I loaded up my Ameristep Brickhouse Blind, turkey vest and bow and began the half-mile journey along the edge of the field. After walking only a couple of hundred yards, I heard a pack of coyotes yipping and howling much too close for comfort, sending shivers up my spine. I thought I heard a faint shock gobble but couldn't tell for certain, as all I heard was my heart pounding in my chest and my boots picking up the pace. Another songdog serenade came a few minutes later, and I was really hustling after that.

Setting up my blind on the edge of a plowed field that I knew was frequented by turkeys took only a few minutes. Five months earlier, I'd watched on many nights from a tree stand as anywhere from 50 to 150 turkeys went to roost in the same general area. However, I also knew from past experience that this winter flock often disperses great distances, leaving only a handful of birds behind. I set a hen decoy facing away from me at 12 yards and a jake decoy looking my way at 14 yards. I hoped 13 would be a gobbler's unlucky number as he walked between the two decoys.

Situated in my blind on a short stool, I heard a gobble several hundred yards south. I was relieved to know there was at least one bird in the area and started calling softly with a slate. The gobbler never answered, necessarily, but was quite vocal on the roost. The coyotes cut loose one last time very near his location as daylight was breaking, and the old tom nearly ran out of breath nonstop gobbling.

As it began to get light, I called louder and more frequently. Again, the tom never seemed to answer, and I heard him gobble only two times on the ground. Undaunted by his apparent lack of interest, I kept up my lovesick-hen pleading for another 10 minutes before deciding to scale back and let him come find me if he wanted to. After nearly 20 minutes with no response, I began to lose hope.

But shortly after 7 a.m., I caught a glimpse of something at the edge of the timber on the other side of the field. It looked like a turkey, but I wasn't sure as it disappeared through a gap in the trees. A short time later, the big tom stepped out to the edge of the field and looked my way. A series of hen yelps, and he immediately hit full strut. I watched through binoculars as the boss tom strutted under a dilapidated wooden ladder stand that hadn't seen a hunter in decades. Back and forth he'd go as he occasionally peered my way behind a five-strand barbed-wire fence. After a few minutes, I decided to up the calling ante and started aggressively cutting, yelping and purring. With a thunderous gobble, the old bird ducked under the fence and started my way.