It was a total surprise to step out of my deer camp trailer to discover a heavy frost covering the ground. It was April, for crying out loud! The outdoor thermometer showed 34 degrees. Typical: The forecast of a "cool" front was off by about 20 degrees. As I prepared to go forth in search of a South Texas spring longbeard, I was ecstatic that my insulated coveralls hadn't made it home.

The author bagged this spring gobbler on a ranch near Brady after her husband John called it in. The big bird sported a 10 1/2-inch beard. Photo by John Jurek.

Backed into a thick stand of mesquite, brush and cacti, I sat in my RTV, planning to wait until it was light enough to see without using a flashlight before heading down to my brush stand in the dense riverbottom. Well before the eastern sky even thought about lightening up, however, turkey hens could be heard calling. Cackling, putting and yelping came from three different directions -- but the calling was coming from other hunters on neighboring ranches, not live birds.

As an experienced spring turkey hunter, I could tell the difference, especially as, time after time, the calling came from the same direction with almost the exact tone, strength and pitch, with scratches, grating noises, burps and bleats thrown in, all that errant noise ringing out clearly on this crisp, still morning. Worst of all, no responding gobbles were to be heard.

I quickly realized that I was wasting my time. Besides, I was really cold -- so I decided to take a stroll to warm up. With so many callers within hearing range, and no gobblers replying, I figured, what the heck: Walk around a little and enjoy the breathtaking sunrise and frosty-white landscape; perhaps I'd glimpse deer or hogs. The sun was cresting the treeline when I realized I was almost a mile from my parking site.

The warmth that could now be felt from the sun was welcome indeed. Resting my shotgun against a mighty mesquite, I stood in the ranch road. Heavy brush was to my right; to the left was open but growing-up pasture on the left.

Listening intently to the constant yelping of the three nonexistent hens, I gave thanks for the full sunshine. After stretching from side to side, I placed my cold hands against my sun-warmed back while stomping my feet on the dirt road to improve my circulation. Abruptly I stopped, sensing a presence.

Looking up, I saw that an unassuming turkey hen had emerged from the thick brush, its putt barely audible. My eyes widened as a huge gobbler stepped out 20 yards from me. Its long beard almost touched the ground; the red and blue of its head was quite vivid. I couldn't move, hesitant to even breathe.

While I stood statue-still, the big tom responded to the hen's putting by stretching out in a full gobble. So close, seeming almost to make the ground shudder, the shrillness of it hurt my ears. All grace and dignity, the huge gobbler began the courtship waltz of the wild turkey, strutting, strumming and fanning, slowly whirling, wingtips dragging the ground -- trying hard to woo the hen before it.