It’s never truly possible for a son to repay his parents for the upbringing they provided him…but that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t try.

Dad was born in 1954 in north central Illinois, and during his lifetime turkeys were mythical creatures that only existed elsewhere in the country and in the pages of Outdoor Life magazine. He and his buddies walked railroad tracks for doves, fence lines and field edges for pheasants, and hardwoods for whitetails. He’d never hunted turkeys until I moved to Missouri. In 2010, I invited him down for a non-resident hunt. We hunted a friend’s farm in Potosi, MO and hit it hard every day for four days but never had an encounter…we did catch some crappies though. 

It wasn’t until the spring of 2015, after my parents relocated near us here in Missouri, that Dad and I were able to get back out after some birds. During that time however, Dad’s health had deteriorated to the point of him needing to use a wheelchair to get around. He still had the drive to kill a turkey, it was just that mobility would be an added challenge to an already difficult pursuit.

We hunted a cattle ranch near Bourbon during the spring 2015 turkey season. The great thing about that property was that I could drive my vehicle to wherever I intended to setup the blind. I’d get Dad into the wheelchair, wheel him inside, unload all the gear and guns, set the decoys out then drive the Jeep off to park somewhere out of sight. The closest we came that year was with a gobbler that approached from the backside of the blind but would just never commit to coming around to the front where we had windows down to shoot. While we didn’t kill him, he sure got our heartbeats up spittin’ and drumming just a few yards away from us. After another season without killing a bird, I began to wonder if Dad could keep his motivation up. It was a lot of effort on his part to get up early and then deal with a physically demanding day in the field.

January 1, 2016 found Dad in an intensive care unit of a local hospital fighting for his life after a massive heart attack. He battled through multiple close calls in his month-and-a-half hospitalization. During the hard times, to kindle a little hope, we’d talk about the upcoming turkey season. We even asked his doctor if the wiring holding his sternum shut would withstand the kick of a shotgun. I’m pretty sure that was the first time he’d ever been posed that question. The thought of killing his first turkey proved to be a great motivator, but I was still unsure if he’d actually want to get back out if he had the chance.

Dad healed up and came home in mid-February, and I got my answer regarding his motivation to hunt when he bought a Remington 870 Super Mag Turkey Predator. We went to the local range to get it dialed in. The entire time we were there, I couldn’t help but think back to all the times he’d let me shoot hedge apples for target practice as a kid out squirrel hunting, or the BB gun range he’d set up for my brother and I in our basement. I felt proud to be able to do the same for him now as an adult. Though his vision was compromised and neuropathy in his hands made holding the gun difficult, he was putting up great patterns at 40 yards. We were going hunting.  

Trail cam pics at the Bourbon farm showed a flock of birds strutting along a ridge just above a line of cedars. We arrived in the morning under the cover of darkness and while still a fair amount of work, Dad and I had a system setup for unloading and preparing all the gear. Like before, I piled our gear into the blind with him just before driving the Jeep away and out of sight.

The morning started out slow until a hen came poking through around 9 am. She weaved in and out of our decoys, cocking her head curiously at their lack of interest in her. At ten yards, I strained to make out any semblance of a beard (it’s legal to take bearded hens during the Missouri spring season), but there was nothing. Dad would have to continue to wait for his opportunity.

Gusty winds knocked over my full strut decoy around 11 am, so I ducked out of the blind to set it back up before hustling back inside. Warm sunlight soaked into the walls of the blind and coupled with the breeze, lulled both Dad and I into a sleepy vigil until 11:20 when I saw what I thought were two decoys out of place out on the tractor path. Instantly, my mind jolted back to reality and recognized those errant decoys as two jakes that had wandered into our setup.

I nudged Dad and whispered, “Hey, two jakes at 50 yards under those cedars!”

He struggled to get his gun up onto his shooting stick. When he did, it tipped over and wouldn’t stay up, the barrel of his shotgun caught the glare of the late morning sun, and the attention of those jakes.

All those early mornings. All the gear. The loading and unloading of the wheelchair. All that work was coming to a pinnacle in this moment and the birds were getting wary and acting like they wanted to walk away. 50 yards was a long shot, but I was desperate for Dad to finally kill a turkey.

“Don’t worry about the shooting stick. Just take the shot!”

Watch the moment of truth unfold in the video below.

Dad’s bird crumpled and fell flopping to the ground after what seemed like an eternity of anticipating that shotgun’s bark. At 62 years old, Dad had killed his first wild turkey and our mission was complete. I killed shortly thereafter, but that bird will forever be a footnote to Dad’s.

We took our time that morning savoring every moment of the experience. From Death’s doorstep just month’s before to the culmination of a four-year quest to kill a turkey, life was sweet. I watched Dad’s face as he looked at his bird in the shade of that swaying cedar tree. I wondered about all the thoughts coursing through his mind, much as I’m sure he did watching me admire the squirrels I killed as a youngster.

The job of a parent is a mighty one and has no end…just the same as that of being a son. Though I’ll never fully repay Dad for his years of taking me into the field, I’m not going to let that stop me from trying.