We had it made growing up on a farm in rural Pine Grove, and every Father’s Day the memories come back of the ponds we fished, trees we climbed and game we hunted.
Steve, our dad, made sure of those things, even though he worked long hours balancing the insurance business in town with tending the fields back home, providing well for his family. It was no different on the hunting scene, and over the years Dad guided my brother and me to a combined five public land black bears. He did the same for others.
Dad preached ethical hunting and taught us that giving back through conservation is just as important as harvesting some of the resource, constantly fostering a genuine love of the outdoors. Though managing a property for wildlife is no short order, he spends most free weekends working his land to improve available food and cover.
Timber is selectively cut to provide ideal habitat, while the profit of more deer and turkeys on the farm outweighs any financial gains of crops sold on this terrific hunting property. So when my father took his eighth career Pennsylvania black bear upstate last November, we were anxious to put him in position for a crack at one of the nice bucks frequenting the family farm come rifle season.
We thought that if he would achieve his third Pennsylvania Triple Trophy by taking a bear, buck and turkey in the same license year season at age 63, it would be a pretty neat accomplishment. Though we suggested he sit in our most productive treestand on opening day of the rifle deer season, our dad insisted upon hunting the far end of the property where no deer had ever been taken.
Sure enough, my brother, my nephew and I were all tagged out with nice bucks by noon on an unbelievable opening day while Dad sat far away from the action. During the second week of the season, however, he was rewarded for putting his sons and grandson first.
After leaving early from work Wednesday afternoon, Dad headed home to hunt the last few hours of daylight overlooking a snow-covered turnip plot. When several deer began filtering into the field from the sanctuary cover, he knew he had made the right call to hunt this subtle break in the weather, and moments later a gorgeous, heavy-framed 8-pointer appeared and his Remington .30-06 did its job.
Our thoughts then turned to the spring gobbler season, still five months away. Dad wisely enlisted his two turkey-hunting sons to help him with the third leg of his Triple Crown. My brother nailed down a primary roosting location prior to the season and I volunteered to do the calling opening morning.
Birds were present, and we were feeling optimistic on opening day as Dad and I slipped into the woods undetected before daybreak. A full moon illuminated the landscape, but a perfectly timed increase in cloud cover further concealed our stealthy approach as we located a mature oak to settle against.
After placing a new breeder pair of Avian X decoys 20 yards away near the crest of a gently rising flat, we got comfortable and waited quietly as the woodlot came to life. Soon the first morning gobbles came, adding harmony to the spring concert of chirping songbirds, cawing crows and hailing geese.
Surrounded by the echo of turkey thunder, we were clearly in the perfect location, and it would only be a matter of time before we went from spectators to players in the main event. Digging a Hornberger Custom Calls “Old Timer” Slate from my vest I began to softly work the birds with a short series of purrs, clucks and yelps. Soon the gobblers could be heard approaching from the far side of the rise.
Dad shouldered his 12-gauge to take aim as a gobbler crested the hill, spotted the decoys and instantly began strutting behind cover. Another came running in from the right, adding even more excitement to the scene as the two males simultaneously cleared a wide tree in stride, before separating briefly presenting a window of opportunity.
At 25 yards, one well-placed shot dropped the nearest gobbler, officially completing Dad’s Triple Trophy season. He was elated, but I was the one celebrating as we high-fived.
“Hey, I’m going to be 64, and I don’t know how many more I’ve got a chance at,” Dad said through a big smile. “Thank you very much; thanks for calling.”
No, Dad, thank you. If calling in a turkey even in some small way helps return the favors for all he had done for us, then my season was just as incredible as his.