You must have to have a screw or two loose to hunt spring gobblers. You never know what can and will go wrong or when, to your complete disbelief, everything goes right.

Each day is a law unto itself, even every hour. The only thing for certain is most of us religiously rise about 4 a.m. and stumble out into the woods hoping to score. The great majority of the time we won’t.

Take for instance my friend, Chris Shaw. He’s an excellent hunter, a great caller, seldom misses a shot and does most everything right. Still, success can be elusive despite his abilities.

But this week he drove to camp early on Friday, built a fire, put food away and about 7 a.m. decided to head out. At the bottom of the driveway he pulled over on a hunch and called. A turkey gobbled above him. Turning around he headed back up the driveway, stopped, got out, grabbed all his equipment, set up a decoy and moved quickly to some good cover.

He called and the gobbler answered from his previous location! Wow, the bird had high-tailed to his former spot.

Chris yelped and the bird answered immediately. His heart began to pound, this gobbler was hot! In no time at all the bird had halved the distance and gobbled every time Chris yelped. In no time a hen popped over the ridge edge and was overjoyed to see the decoy instead of being highly suspicious.

Yelping, whining, purring, she hustled up to the decoy closely followed by a big, red and white-headed gobbler, splitting the still morning air with loud gobbles and fanning out to show his magnificence. Was this really happening? After a week of failure suddenly things were going, unexplainably, right? When the big bird reached 35 yards Chris steadied himself and squeezed the trigger. The gobbler collapsed at the blast and Chris ran up to a 20-pound tom with a 10-inch beard and nice spurs. He hadn’t been hunting for 10 minutes.

He laughed and shook his head. You just never know in this crazy sport.

However, this is a rare exception to the rule. So far, I’m having a terrible time chasing the big birds.

The first day it rained hard. Slipping and sliding on my e-bike I crashed a couple times and broke my thumb. That felt wonderful.

The gobbler on that point never gobbled, naturally, so all the effort, danger and bad luck were for nothing.

Monday it was still raining and between hitting the ground, dirt, sand and incessant rain the throttle began sticking on the bike and rotating on its mount as I pressed down on it. This made controlling the bike a hair-raising ordeal and added greatly to the thrill of the hunt and even survival itself. Somehow, I arrived back at the truck covered in dirt and sweat but glad to have made it at all.

The next morning after a few more bike putdowns on the slick muck of muddy and rutted back roads, walking seemed a better and better option until things dried up. Back at the truck I was horrified when my leg wouldn’t lift properly. That will make you stop and think, let me tell you. But happily it’s recovering; must have pinched a nerve.

Now, I ask you, is a turkey worth this pain? I’m beginning to wonder.

But Murphy hadn’t finished with me yet. Hanging my shotgun up to dry and double checking to make sure the rubber sling was securely on the hook. I turned to walk away and heard a crash. There lay my shotgun on the floor. The butt of the shotgun had inadvertently rested on the wood stove utensil rack and as I turned the shotgun twisted around and levered the shotgun sling up and off the hook.

Suppressing with a supreme effort a torrent of swear words, a quick check over showed the shotgun appeared unharmed. Whew, that was a relief. The following morning I slipped down over a steep hill and waited for daylight where I’d heard a gobbler earlier.

As the sky lightened, I turned on the red dot and noticed the rear lens was covered with moisture. Rubbing it with my thumb cut me. It wasn’t moisture at all but shattered glass. As the shotgun fell the lens must have struck the decorative knob on top of the utensil rack, punching a hole in the center and smashing the edges.

Unbelievably, the dot still functioned, remaining visible through the hole. It seemed reasonable to hope it was still sighted in, fingers crossed, so the morning hunt took place using the battered optic, but predictably no gobbler came to my calls.

Perhaps that was a good thing. Fortunately, a spare Truglo red dot was at home. That afternoon I traded sights and to my great relief the new sight was dead on when patterned at 47 yards, placing 92 No. 5 shot on an 8.5by 11-inch sheet of paper. An impressive pattern for sure.

Several people seemed amazed I’m still attempting to bag a gobbler. The fates have not been kind, I must admit, but shouldn’t my luck turn? Can things keep on being this bad? Doesn’t my luck have to change for the best?

Am I crazy to keep hunting?

Hmmm.

Wade Robertson