The tears were unexpected.  My vision blurred and elation laced every breath.  Alone on a ridge on opening day of my first season chasing turkeys with a bow, I fell to my knees beside a lifeless jake as life surged through me.

That bird was my first real kill after a long hiatus from bowhunting; a career that up to that point, could have been endorsed by PETA. During my brief year of hunting in eighth grade and a few years in college, I’d never once arrowed anything. I attribute  that mostly to the fact that I usually did everything wrong.

The year prior to killing my first turkey, my friend Karl had taken me under his wing to teach me the dark gobbler arts. We had close calls with shotguns, but never sealed the deal. Hearing the waterfall cascade of lovesick gobblers and hens responding in the cool spring air had me smitten.

Fast forward a year to that opening day of turkey season.

The headlights from my Jeep cut millions of leaf shaped shadows in the wall of fresh foliage at the base of the ridge where I parked. Spring peepers drown the thump from my driver’s side door closing and the air hung chilly and sweet with blooming Dogwood.

The first leg of my hike in involved a quarter mile trail up a ridge, then down its backside to a valley pillared with old oaks…perfect roosting territory. Before sunup, hens were already calling to one another and then the gobblers started in, at least three all within 100 yards. I was in disbelief that I had gotten so close to birds already. My glasses kept fogging I was breathing so hard.

As the birds began to fly down, I tried the best turkey impersonations I could muster with my diaphragm call. One gobbler in particular answered every yelp and cluck (surprisingly – he must have been desperate), but in the end like all the others in the flock, bobbed his way onto another property and out of range.

By seven I decided to relocate to the top of the ridge near open grasses in the hopes of catching a turkey cruising for grasshoppers. After staking my decoys fifteen yards out, I sat cross-legged against a cedar tree on an old fence line, then began calling. Ten seconds into my “artistry”, eight dark forms came bouncing up from the cedar thicket in front of me. Between me and that thicket was thirty yards of short grass interspersed with exposed sandstone outcroppings. Bursting through the sunlight dappled edge and into full view were eight jakes.

The thrill of having called turkeys into range decayed to terror at the realization that I was still sitting cross-legged, bow laying in my lap and now had 16 eyes scanning every inch of real estate. Though young and inexperienced, it didn’t take long for those jakes to lose interest in my foam imposters and they began to meander away; taking with them an opportunity to take my first turkey.

In a final act of desperation, I made one more cluck and simultaneously rolled forward onto my knees while coming to full draw; a move I will never be able to reproduce without straining or popping something.

Now, I don’t remember aiming. In fact, I don’t even remembering singling out a particular bird. I only remember thinking, ‘I’m at full draw with turkeys in front of me! Don’t screw up!’  My fletchings were black and orange and I can still see them spinning out on a trajectory that ended with an audible thump and one of the jakes crumpling in place. The rest of the flock hurried back into the cedars while I remained on my knees in complete disbelief. My first morning bowhunting for turkeys and within the first two hours, I had killed my first bird.

Unexpectedly a wave of emotions rolled over me as I walked partially stunned over to my kill. The arrow was high, but stuck solidly in the turkey’s spine. He laid there, feathers iridescing in the morning sun while I tried to make sense of it all. Seconds ago this bird was alive and walking out of my setup, now his life was gone because of a last ditch desperate effort on my part. It all seemed so improbable but the proof was at my feet.

Every year, as spring approaches I think about that bird. Every time I think about passing on a trip afield I’m reminded of that unlikely encounter and how, no matter how improbable the odds, sometimes success comes despite our own inability and inexperience.