The alarm blared at 3:45 a.m., the strident sound cutting into my sleep. My entire body revolted; I’d been cuddled beneath warm blankets, in blissful slumber. Even in my semi-comatose state my mind, I instantly asked, “Is a turkey worth this?”

I stretched out a hand, shut off the alarm and refused to consider anything but getting up. To think, reason, allow any type of excuse, the great majority of which were valid, intelligent and reasonable, would keep me comfortably in bed.

Glancing out the window showed the predicted rain had arrived. The truck glistened; tiny puddles dimpled from close placed, raindrops. Great.

After three long weeks of hunting my tag was unfilled. As usual, hunting turkeys involves failure after failure, many of which are unavoidable. Many times success or failure is determined by the circumstances; how close the birds are, how thick or open the forest is, can you move at all without being seen, is a large tree close by, are there obstacles that would keep the turkey from coming closer? It’s a thousand different combinations of circumstances requiring instant decisions made under pressure with little or no time to carefully consider all the alternatives.

Then, of course, there’s the gobblers themselves. Hunting gobblers on public land, with other hunters competing for the same birds, can be extremely challenging. Gobblers that are not spooked or pressured can to some degree be patterned. Public birds realize every hen yelp  they hear may not be the real thing. Tagged gobblers have been shown to move up to 5 or even 10 miles to escape heavy hunting pressure. They may quit gobbling altogether, just gobble from the roost tree then go silent when they hit the ground or, extremely maddening, give a single gobble when you call, then vanish.

Then there’s the hens. Some hens, yearning for company, will answer and even come in, then refuse to leave, walking around your location calling constantly. You don’t dare move and after 15, 20 or 30 minutes, various parts of your anatomy begin to protest, fall asleep, ache, burn, joints ache, scream at their treatment. It is not unusual at all to find yourself in exquisite agony, praying that hen will just shut the hell up and move!

You dare not spook her for a gobbler may be coming in to see what the fuss is all about. When she finally moves off it’s often extremely difficult to move arms or legs because they hurt so badly. It sometimes takes me five minutes or so just to carefully, painfully stand.

The same motionless torment takes place when a gobbler is answering and slowly moving in. Their 6-power eyes will see the tiniest movement and with their super hearing they know exactly where you are calling from even from a great distance. Jealous hens also lead the gobbler off.

A gobbler’s long neck allows it to periscope its head up and peek through tree tops, brush, leaves, ground vegetation while remaining invisible. How many birds have seen me over the years without my knowledge is best not known, I’m sure.

Dressed and ready to go I peeked at the temperature: 60 degrees, vest weather. It took 20 minutes to reach my destination, 15 more minutes to cross a clearing, small stream and begin climbing the hill. It was 20 minutes to 5, just light enough to pick my way along.

At the top of the field the world was a gray, grainy, indistinct blur. I placed the decoy, picked a tree, realized it’s too exposed, found another screened by brush. Much better. Hot and sweaty, it was a relief just to sit and relax, catch my breath.

Slowly, the warm, moist darkness began to lighten, the formless forest taking shape, limbs, then twigs appearing by degrees. At 6, I heard a hen yelp quietly, then silence. Small birds half-heartedly chirped here and there but a water-logged quietness prevailed.

At 6:15 a single gobble sounded — where, I couldn’t determine. A hen appeared 80 yards away and I quietly gave two clucks. She slowly fed in my direction. Above, a chorus of gobbles, three, four or five birds simultaneously, then silence once again. I gave two soft yelps.

At 6:45 I swiveled my eyes left, behind my glasses prescription, and determinedd an indistinct black shape. Ever so slowly I turned — it’s a gobbler feeding. Wow! I attempted to shoot, but he never stopped moving his head, disappearing behind the bushes screening me.

I quickly shifted to the far side hoping he continued on. Before I could lower the shotgun, without warning, out stepped another magnificent gobbler, head high, 35 yards away, on alert, staring at my decoy. He was nervous, turning in small circles, head swiveling. Ever so slowly I raised the shotgun: “Squeeze the trigger!” to myself several times, then WHAM! The shotgun blasted!

He was down! Stunned almost, I realize it happened. I actually bagged a gobbler! Pure adrenalin poured into my system, joy beyond expressing filled me. Three weeks of painful effort finally fulfilled.

The 3-year-old weighed 19 pounds and sported a 10-inch beard with 1-inch spurs.

Amazing! And, yes, all the struggles and effort were worth the what seemed unattainable, incredible reward, a prize beyond measure. For this, I give humble and heartfelt thanks.