South Dakota '08: "And the Grand Finale"

**Covehnter** · 02-08-2009, 10:50 PM

Hey guys, looks like springtime is in the air. Traffic around here is picking up. Noticed the birds singing the last few mornings too, getting close now. Only a few weeks til South Florida opens up.

I am about to copy and paste a story for you guys, but i'll apologize for an extremely long read. Some of you may want to look at the length before you start because it is very long. I do hope some of you do grab a drink and sit down for a minute to look through it though. I sat down a few nights this past week and relived my South Dakota leg of the 'out west' trip last year when things came together and I completed my Grand Slam. I think you'll get to know the person behind the keyboard a little as well as take a ride through the Black Hills hopefully with the story. For those that do take the time thank you and i hope it's not too tough to get through.

**Covehnter** · 02-08-2009, 11:57 PM

South Dakota ’08: “And the Grand Finale”

Truth is, I can’t make the exclamation “I was chasin’ the Grand Slam before everyone knew what the Grand Slam even was” that you hear from the old timers, simply because I’m not old enough. I guess some may say that the many of my generation that chase longbeards from county to county or from state to state even, are spoiled because we didn’t know the times when you worked all season just to hear a gobble from a true wild turkey. Well, if you’re expecting a rebuttal from me you’re out of luck. I agree. Since I slapped that 14 pound jake across the head with that load of #5’s at the ripe age of 15, I always remember there being turkeys. Maybe not in every woodlot like deer seem to be, but turkeys to see in fields somewhere for sure. And believe me, I’ve worn my knuckles raw knocking on doors in hopes of getting lucky on one of those fields. So those old timers that speak of the slim days will always have my respect and my ear as well if they ever want to sit a spell and talk. I say all that to say this, though I may not have been chasin’ the grand slam before it became what it is today, it’s not by choice but by fate. I’m infatuated with spring turkeys. I plan my life around hunting in the springtime, which in fact is interfering with many other things that are supposedly more important. You won’t hear an irate comment like that come from my mouth. I hunt deer in the fall, I chase waterfowl all throughout the winter, but by gosh come spring I loose girlfriends, miss Easter dinners, lie to bosses, worry the family sick, often forget to eat, and who cares about sleep all just to get out and get after gobbling, struttin’ turkeys. It does something to me that I’m finding and have always found impossible to put on paper, you just have to know me to understand. Herein lies the reason this “Grand Finale” that I hope you continue to read to is so sacred. Each one of the birds that make the grand slam complete represents new country, new friends, new experiences, and new memories. As of the 30th of April 2008 I can now say that I’ve seen one of each of these remarkable birds fall to the roar of my weapon. And although I’m not the first by a long shot or will I be the last, it’s an honor nonetheless.

The South Dakota Black Hills have always been my destination for a Merriam gobbler. Living in Georgia all my life, I’ve had the opportunity to send my share of eastern longbeards to the ground, with a lot of indescribable hard work and going on 6 years of returning to the South Florida public lands I’ve been fortunate enough to heft better than a handful of Osceolas from the deep alligator infested swamps, and with the help of a good friend have also been blessed with a pair of successful trips to Oklahoma where I made it all the way back home with a pair of Rio Grande brutes. On my trip to Oklahoma this past spring of 2008, after collecting another beautiful hard gobbling Rio I didn’t stop there and head back home. Instead, my buddy and I pointed that Ford PowerStroke westward toward the Mount Rushmore State and forged into making a memory.

The ride was long but very enjoyable while daylight; it’s always a thrill seeing new country. It involuntarily causes me to long to lay my eyes on every inch. The highways in Nebraska are long and straight, especially at night though. They have state troopers that really like the speed limit as well but are really nice if you do seem to “bump” into one along the way. The ride from Oklahoma was over 12 hours but taking turns behind the wheel we found Hills City about 2:00am with no major stalls along the way. But I’ll guarantee ya that if that buffalo about 50 miles south would’ve taken another good stride we would’ve been in one he!! of a fix, that’s a promise. Looking at the temperature on the truck thermometer definitely reassured us that we were no longer in Oklahoma, and a d@mn long ways from it. A bone chilling 21 degrees greeted our sore tailbones as we slipped out of the cab to retrieve more clothes from the back, we were wishing then we’d stopped about 6 hours ago and moved that now essential gear to the front or at least put on something besides the gym shorts and t-shirts we had sported for the ride. We had a few hours before the sun would find the mountain tops so we also grabbed the sleeping bags , hoping to snag a couple hours of sleep since we were still fueled by whatever little bit of rest we could muster while taking turns driving. We had already parked the truck off one of the many dirt roads winding through the Black Hills National Forest, in a location that was circled in red on a map I had received from the rangers of South Dakota through the mail. That red circle was put there by an old timer that has probably seen more birds die than Zartic Poultry. From that circle, a pencil sketched piece of notebook paper, and his words echoin’ in my head this was the best I could manage in the darkness of South Dakota.

It’s funny how things happen; when I first met this particular gentleman I speak of, I was tryin’ my d@mndest to get away from him. Really attempting to flee the scene! I was on a bicycle on my favorite Georgia WMA and busted out of the woods like a fool without noticing him there in the main gravel road. I was scoldin’ myself something serious because I know better than that, I always check because I want the yahoos to keep truckin’ along right past my entry point. In other words, that little trail was a secret in my eyes and I just gave this fella one he!! of a hint that I hoped he would disregard and forget, please forget. As soon as I slowed, only to make a sharp turn on the gravel cause I was gonna blow right by the goon, he was trying to spark a conversation. I can be a sure enough hindend when it comes to my turkey hunting spots and MRI, most recent information. Only one person I’ll share it with and he wasn’t there so I didn’t care to discuss. For some unknown reason, may have been a reason but if there was it escapes me now, I stopped and pushed my bike alongside the gentleman as we made our way back to the parking lot full of pickups. When he mentioned that he had a pair of Royal Slams, he really got my attention, obviously. I quickly learned this wasn’t your ordinary public land jack off. This guy adorned in a vest packed full, with longboxes hanging from both hips, and a button up shirt buttoned all the way to the top and tucked in with it way in the 80s was some kind of turkey assassin. He also made some of the best calls I’d ever laid my hands on and I know this because in the parking lot of that WMA I played every box and pot he had in two different 3’x 3’x1’ Rubbermaid containers. And get this, sittin’ on the tailgate of his truck with me cranking out some loud cuts on one of his box calls and him showing me a think or two on his wingbone we rose a gobble out of a longbeard on what we soon found out was the adjoining property. We stayed on him from the parking lot and had him gobble about a dozen times, his girlfriends wouldn’t let him leave a mowed gas line on the private property for the oak ridges of the public ground but if he would have I do believe we would have enjoyed a head rockin’ on what was now my new friend and I’s first turkey talkin’. Well after standing in that lot for better than a couple hours, we exchanged numbers and I vowed to visit him at his shop a little further up in north Georgia later on to examine more of his magic with wood that he practiced only as a hobby. I also gave him a turkey wing that he promised to turn into one of those yelpers he was getting that bird to gobble with just moments earlier. He was good to his word and so was I. He was also good for what little bit of information I had on hunting the Black Hills and that little red circle on my map.

I do believe we got a little nap that early morning, not due to the lack of excitement but the fact that we were dog tired. As the sky began to lighten on our first day ever in South Dakota we were outside the truck and fumbling with the familiar gear, the only thing that didn’t seem just right was all those bulky layers. Man we put on some clothes, just like we were going out on the water for a late January duck hunt. It didn’t take long for many of those layers to find the back of the vest either once we met straight up with that first bit of South Dakota. We were looking for the top of a mountain we’d never seen before, or for that matter never seen anything remotely close, but I knew hearing would be better from the top. Little did I know that hearing them was like a banjo with no strings if they were four 6500ft mountains over, useless. Nevertheless we were on top and the heavy forest had given way to a more “turkey-like” grassy open area. My buddy, who I guess I could now introduce as Poncho- his nickname, and I were awaiting light but clueless as to what was in store, because I mean really. . . we were a few miles from home. The morning didn’t start with a booming gobble from 50 yards where we both had to drop like rocks and worm our way to the nearest cover while warding off brigades of 30 pound Merriams with our bare hands only to avoid a gang rapin’, nope it was more of a “well hell” approach followed by a “what now” frame of mind. We did hear our first eerie gobbles echo through the mountains within a rather short time. It sounded like a pair of birds, way way off. So I proceeded to do what I do best and run us both ragged up and down foreign terrain never being really sure which way we were going or which way we were suppose to be going, thank god for allowing man kind to possess the ability to develop the gps. After running around in a big circle we ended up back on the main road a mile or so up from the truck. We returned to the truck only after crossing the road and tackling a couple more peaks where I was just certain “that’s where they were at this morning.” And a funny side note; while I was “pickin’ em up and puttin’ em down” along the sides of those mountain slopes covered in that beautiful ponderosa pine Poncho was havin’ some difficulty no doubt. I was quick to notice that the son of gun was still wearing those knee high Muck boots we put so many miles on each spring. But, as jam up as those boots are they are no match for that kind of steep terrain. He was one pissed so and so that I didn’t mention that he might want to pick up a pair of Danner pronghorns like I was modeling. He wasn’t afraid of telling me either as he slid and slipped behind me that whole morning, I just kept my laughter to myself, I think it was for the better. At the truck we decided we’d put in some windshield time and see a little bit of this country and attempt to find another starting point because this morning I think we missed. All this “scenery” time Poncho quickly informed me would happen after we returned from Rapid City where he’d have to find some suitable footwear.

Picking up some vittles and boots didn’t take all that long I don’t reckon, seems like we returned with plenty of time. Poncho was able to find some Danners in the big town and we were about to make sure they got broken in just right. We did travel some of the dirt roads of the National Forest, okay we traveled a lot of the dirt roads but saw some beautiful country. Selecting our new starting point was of course pot luck. It was a “Ah that looks good” lets burn boot leather motto. We quickly found promising signs, what’s better than a few hens running across the road? Well, other than a longbeard running directly down the road right at us but that’d been too easy. We trekked on, upward and upward and upward but the woods were open and we soon happened upon a gorgeous meadow situated at the foot of several big pine covered mountains. In the road we found everything you’d hope to find, droppings, feathers, tracks and speaking of tracks. . . Merriams have some huge feet. They are enormous compared to the other three subspecies I’d dealt with; I was secretly looking over my shoulder for someone snickerin’ in the bushes or a d@mnd ostrich, one or the other surely. Anyways, that wasn’t the case, those mountain birds just got big feet. But that meadow, man was it ever what I pictured when I dreamed of South Dakota. If I had to describe it I’d say “picture perfect.” And you know we did get some pictures. We investigated further but soon backed out, planning to return bright and early the next morning (we actually walked the entire rim of that valley which means we climbed every mountain that surrounded it, but I just had to see over to the other side). We created more sore muscles that day searching for a lonesome gobbler in the hills but in vain. Found some more evidence of a turkey playground, actually everywhere we looked we found tracks or droppings but nothing that pulled me back as strongly as that meadow laid down so perfectly between those mountains. We crashed in a local motel in Hills City for the night convinced we were too drained for a night in the captain chairs of the Ford.

We flipped down our seats on a bank at the beginning of the meadow well before first light that next morning. I was expecting the towering pines around that meadow to erupt at the first hints of daylight. I had already made reservations with a small group of trees in the center for a short sit that would end with an explosion and dead birds. All of this was washed up soon after daylight and we were on the chase again, after gobbles that seemed to be coming from the clouds themselves. We chased and we chased, up one mountain and sliding down the other side only to repeat the circus. We didn’t even seem to be remotely close although it was like we should have been in the footsteps of those gobblin’ fools when they’d yell again another half mile away. That’s when it dawned on me, this is just what I’d been told . . . . when dealing with Merriams, those buggers move- a lot and fast! We ended up in some remote back country, where we got closest to the birds, which consisted of more of those “picture perfect” meadows interlaced with smaller pines. Although the birds were not there at the moment, I know that’s where some of that gobbling was coming from but you couldn’t tell it from glassing those meadows at that time. All that could be found was some deer skirting through the clean floor below the pines. Worn out and disgusted, we drug ourselves back out of the woods. Again thank goodness for the straight shot we were able to follow with the gps, which made the return a little less painful. We enjoyed a tailgate lunch and were soon makin’ dust again down the roads. Using the map and the gps, I was able to get us on the other side of where we’d been just hours before burning prairie grass with the soles of our boots. The area seemed much easier to access from this approach. Call a boy lazy, but if I can cut that walk to where I want to be at daylight down a few miles I guess I’m rightly accused. Once we’d smoothed out the game plan for the morning, we still had a lot of daylight to burn, the days are long in the springtime. We hit the highways and moved way up to the northern part of the national forest land, to check on a few hints I’d picked up through my browsing from my computer chair. All this searching was fruitless, they still had a good amount of snow cover and the roads were really sloppy, some being impassable. We got below the snow cover and worked our way back closer to where we’d spend the night. We drove miles and miles of roads, stopping and attempting to raise a gobble but nothing. Have we all not heard that Merriams are the easiest leg of the slam?

A light white smoke arose from what we hoped was an unnoticeable campfire we struck on returning to where we’d spend the night, our entry point for the next morning. The small fire was just enough to roast our hotdogs for dinner. Those pair of hotdogs, some Lays potato chips, and a nice Coke wasn’t all bad in the cool South Dakota evening. We finished with dinner as the light began to fade. Standing beside what was now only glowing embers I cleared my throat to huff through the mega coyote howler, I’d done this so many times in the last 2 days to no avail my once high expectations had grown dim. Poncho noticed my movements and sensed my actions so he froze to avoid making any noise. That god awful screeching howl echoed for days through those mountains but when it got down behind the camp, opposite the way we had intended to travel at dawn, it musta scared the sh!t outta that Merriam longbeard because he accidentally hollered back. Poncho stayed at the camp in an attempt to get a bearing from that angle and I quickly hot footed it back down the two track we’d followed in, I was moving toward the main road because that’s where the boy spoke up. I was able to get him and another to talk before it got too dark for their bedtime stories to end. They gobbled about a half dozen times at the coyote howler and an owl I threw in as they began to settle in for the night. The plan had changed, scratch what we had heard this morning, we’d be coming back out to the main road at daylight and moving down about a mile to start from there.

Hot D@mn boys, only the maker himself would have known what we’d have in store for us on the dawning of our third day in the South Dakota Black Hills. As the new day approached, we blundered our way out to the gravel road and pulled off to the side. First it was one turkey, then two, then three, then who the he!! knows how many gobbling turkeys added to the chorus but if it was to many for me to count it had started off on the right foot. We used the truck to move on down another piece of a mile. When we stepped out of the truck again, there were several birds out of breath on our side of the road but I’m here to tell you, that entire long mountain ridge on the other side of the road was freakin’ loaded with noisy turkeys from one end to the other. I’m talkin’ gobbling from every second pine and hens raising he!! from the others, it sounded like they were also a solid mile deep. I’m tellin’ ya, God himself had kissed my forehead that night as I slept in the passenger seat of that F-250 and tossed me right smack dab in the middle of a turkey zoo at daylight. . . it was unbelievable.

Well, what else do ya do besides head right on up with a full head of steam and kill one of them jokers? Sure at first I was paranoid about bumpin’ a bird off the roost but then I realized he!! there was no other way to get into the middle of’em. So I picked a gap that sounded like mostly hens and we slithered on in, only bumping one hen which didn’t make a hoot because the others wouldn’t shut up long enough to hear her fly off. We got high enough up the slope to suit me and we tucked in tight to a black pine trunk. I joined in on all the hen talk, they was sho enough b!tchin’ from every angle but with all that ruckus they could still recognize an “outsider” and didn’t seem to like it. We had a longbeard behind us gobbling his fool self to death. I thought for sure we would hear him stop abruptly at half gobble soon and we’d merely have to pick him up at the foot of the tree once things settled down. But he was only exhausting himself in an attempt to keep up with the chorus of gobbling coming from the other side of the rise. Then we had our target bird, which seemed like only a hundred yards away, right down our shotgun barrels and he was definitely doing his fair share of gobbling too. We had the loudest, nastiest talkin’ group of hens in the trees right in front of us and their attention was all on me. Man, I was in heaven on earth that morning. I was cussin’ at them and they was cussin’ back. I’d talk about their momma and children like dogs and they’d fire right back slingin’ the mud toward the foot of that tree I was leaned against. Poncho and I sunk into that pine when birds began to sail down outta them trees, seemed like there was a bird for every limb on every tree. All the hens had to settle the score with us because they hadn’t forgotten about the rumors I had started while they were still in their pajamas. I knew this was just what the doctor ordered for success. Poncho was suppose to take the first shot, but with the ordeal we had brewing at the moment we didn’t know which way to turn so we stayed frozen to the ground the way we were with our cheeks to the stock. Bizarre chit happens when turkey hunting we all know that, well this would prove to be no exception. All those women folk gathered out in front of us, not far but out of sight. The target gobbler flew down, teased us shortly within 100 yards and then proceeded to go over the rise toward the band of loudmouthed fools, leaving his hens with us. The poor soul behind us flew down, walked the ridge across the top and also faded in the same direction. All moving away, but none of them letting the other get a word in edge wise. That group of dirty mouthed ladies walked right down our sides looking for the new gal and up to the top of the slope. They then got upset at my continued bickering, pitched up with a few clumsy wing beats and sailed just over our heads to land 20 yards behind us. I could hear one boastful gobbler that didn’t seem to move off as quick and with the girl’s now at a heighted aggression, he seemed to be closing ground. I brought the argument to a new, high pitched and screeching level which is what I could tell those birds liked from all the early morning chit chat. I was up on the front of those latex reeds cranking out hoarse, ragged yelps high in volume even though the hens were awful tight. They proceeded to parade single file right across the gun barrel at 15 yards or less back to the top of the rise. Just as they approached the rise, I saw him come over to round them up and put them in their place for not following sooner. This was the first time I’d ever put my eyes on a strutting Merriam gobbler. Jesus man, that’s a beautiful work of feathers! He hurried to gather the flock, his white tips glistening with the sun at his back, at 75 yards he would strain his neck in search of the racket maker beside that big pine tree. He pled for me to join the group and long after his girlfriends had moved over the rise, he’d turn toward us and flex every feather with all he had and gobble in yearning. After his most impressive efforts, he grew tired of the loner and melted over the ridge top. I remember looking at Poncho as he vanished over to the other side and asking how it was possible that out of all those gobbling turkeys, not a single one followed those hens to his demise at our feet. But know, that I was now reassured and confident that it was only a matter of time before the chips fell into our pockets. We quickly fell in line with the flock and began the tag along routine.

We’d slip in as close as we dared and could tell that he hadn’t caught back up to his hens. He would continue to show us attention, never letting a call get outta the pines before returnin’ with his own. But he was on the move and quick, everything a Merriam turkey does seems to be in fast forward compared to an Eastern or Rio. An Osceola rarely gobbles enough to keep tabs on so you cant ever really figure out just how quick he’s moving. That stubborn bird yo-yo’ed with us for a half mile. We’d sneak in, he’d close the distance our way then find his way back- plus a hundred yards. And then repeat, and then repeat. We dang near chased that bird clear over to the Merriam chorus team who still hadn’t shut up since daylight; at this time we ‘accidentally’ closed in on a different bird. So we decided to try our hand with this ole boy. Sneak sneak sneak- glass glass glass- sneak a little more and then set up. An old 2 track road lead up to the knob this bird was hangin’on. He was just over a hundred yards away and given the open terrain I would’ve bet my years salary that we’d lay eyes on him at any second, I’m sure glad we weren’t close to someone willing to take a bet cause that sucker never showed himself. He’d gobble and gobble and gobble, he’d sound just around the bend in the road, then he’d sound back at his original mark, then up, then down. We finally caught a glimpse of a hen as she skirted over the hill so we figured that was our problem, or that’s what we blamed it on anyways and said to the he!! with him after about 45 more minutes. Okay, as we’re working up plan D or E at this point I guess, we had that first yo-yoin’ sob just over a rise in front of us about 200 yards still gobblin’ and pickin’ up the tempo a touch. He was gathering our attention again which is so hard for a gobbling turkey to do- sense my hint of sarcasm. So we scooted up another 80 yards, crossing the 2 track road I just mentioned and leaving it just behind us. Let me paint the picture because this setup is where the chips finally start sliding into our pile. We’re on a slight, not overbearing open hillside slope with small clusters of thin pines interspersed and a grass floor. It is very open country. The slope moves up from left to right but we’re facing along the slope not up, not down. Moving our attention back onto the yo-yo’er that is now at about the same level as us, the bird we’d just crossed off was up the hill to our right but had cooled considerably. To our left, down the gentle slope I could see the landscape created another one of those “picture perfect” meadows at the foot of several mountains; that meadow was a nice chunk of land away though.

Well I started raisin’ he!! at our closest rival and he went back to doing what he’d done all morning- up then back, up then back plus a hundred. As we’re having this conversation, we can hear a pair of birds gobbling with some serious intensity way way down in the meadow to our left, a solid mile if I had to take a stab at the distance. It’s hard to imagine, but gobbling from those distances had kind of lost their importance at this particular day and time. I was persistent in my attempts to come across as slutty as possible behind that diaphram for the bird down the gun barrel, this boy wasn’t far but our hopes for success were fadin’ given our already mindnumbing past with him. But my friends, we were being heard by a couple more studs that had their minds in a lil better place. I was callin’ a lot, and callin’ often because them birds were all very vocal and I only need a little bribin’. I guess I like to hear himself- reminds me of a quote from Ronnie “Cuz” Strickland, “Callin’ to much and Callin’ to loud!” And that’s exactly what I was doing. But with three consecutive gobble provoking sequences, we could tell that pair of boys from the bottom was on their way to the top, fast. We only shifted our weight which allowed us to pivot and face downhill. Another call and they were still closing as fast as lightening, no faster than lightening, they was puttin’ them big ass feet to work! I remembered to snap a few yardages with the Bushell pro- it was gettin’ that excitin’. The 2 track road we’d crossed was now 47 yards to our left and the next concentration of pines was directly downhill in front at 35 yards. I had just gotten back down on my gun as the racin’ pair came into view about 125 yards away. Honestly, they were running shoulder to shoulder, a better description would be glidin’ at a little better than half strut with heads back and beards swangin’. They stopped to gobble when I sent down some love notes just to make sure they were still on course but that’s the only time they let up. They were approaching quicker than a stop sign at 70 mph, following the 2 track road now. I’d sent a stern message to my counterpart who was on my left side to shoot first, but DO NOT jump up. My intentions were to bombard the luckier of the two with hot hen talk in hopes of confusin’ him into ended his lucky streak only moments after his brother. We had already decided against the 1-2-3 approach, we’ve tried that twice with no success so we were going with this angle. Those two brutes charged up the road with not even the slightest stumble or mistaken step. When they entered the wide open, I started cuttin’ to hold them up for the shot. With things coming together so quickly I never relayed the yardages to Poncho, so when I said shoot he said “huh?” I’ll give it to him, it looked more that 47 from our vantage point but I trusted the rangefinder. More cutts, more cranked necks, and another more forceful “SHOOT!” And the hammer fell on that Traditions over and under and the top barrel jerked the rug out from under the front strutter, he didn’t as much as wiggle, doubt he even thought about it. On instinct, Poncho went to bounce up but I grabbed his sleeve, anchoring him back to the ground as I poured on the juice with the fastest cackles I could muster. I gave it only a few seconds before I slowly started to ease to my feet to see if I might get a crack as the other skirted back down to the safety of the meadow. Then Poncho stated, “there he is” in a tone that seemed awful calm for such a situation, but he was right. My tail made the 6 inch trip back to the pine straw as I saw a now sleek and attentive Merriam longbeard emerge from the pines directly downhill. He was continuing his trail up the mountain regardless of what just happened, cause his ears still heard pretty girls. Well he made it another whoppin’ 5 yards before he stretched that neck and accepted that swarm of angry 6s and he too suffered the fate of his brother. I then remember jumpin’ up and shoutin’ “How bout a South Dakota Merriam double baby!” We slapped hands before skippin’ down to gather the last leg of our grand slams. I met Poncho in the grassy road with my bird and we laid them side by side, just as they’d been before there was no more “they.” It was incredible. We were ecstatic, grins from ear to ear and bouncing the hunt off each other from the varied perspectives. It didn’t take long before we were snappin’ pictures with our white tipped gobblers among the gorgeous South Dakota background. We must have taken 2 dozen and more when we packed them back out to the truck. I also, like always, took the time to rake my hand along the back of my trophy and close my eyes to thank the one who put me there and provided me with the ability to have those type experiences; it’s truly a pleasure.

With our birds in hand, we had to complete the dream. The dream I’d had while resting my head back home in Georgia, the dream that began taunting me as a young turkey obsessed adolescent, the dream that plagued my thoughts no matter the time of year. I had to get my picture taken with my prized Merriam gobbler with a Mount Rushmore background so that I could close the book on that chapter. This we did and with an awestruck audience we posed as the camera captured my dream. I can now close that chapter. I’ve completed my grand slam, no matter of what significance it holds in today’s turkey crazed hunting era. It is done. And I can promise you all, that when I look at those four fans of different colors with visiting friends, I’m not looking for a pat on the back or an exclamation of my greatness. Nope. I’m hoping they ask about the story, the ride, and the reason. Cause I’m more than willing to share details of my “Grand Finale.”

**Covehnter** · 02-09-2009, 12:31 AM

Looking down on the meadow

The hillside

The dream

Just another

**Covehnter** · 02-09-2009, 12:33 AM

Tagged Out

And Breakfast

**ljmelea** · 02-09-2009, 09:40 AM

What a great story!I found my self holding my breath,trying to get the pinecone out of my butt several times.If you think south dakota has steep hills slip on over to idaho sometime.Again thanks for a great story and always remember,no one would want to work around you if you didn't get to go turkey huntin,so save your friends!go hunt!your old friend,larry