Like many hunters, my dad taught me to hunt. He taught me to be a respectful sportsman, and was there to shake my hand when I got my first deer. But over the years, school, girls, and work took away chances for us to get into the woods together, so my dad and I caught up for fewer and fewer outings. However, last Fall we both made it a point to return to our camp for opening week of Fall turkey season. No, “I’ll meet you there on day 3.” or “Let’s drive separate for flexibility.” Opening morning took us to a local hollow with gorgeous views and the sort of isolated peace that makes one close their eyes and savor the birds, river, wind-blown leaves, and all the elements that all too often, we can’t enjoy daily. After the hike in, we separated and planned to meet for lunch and the base of a side hollow. I hunted a ridge that morning with no luck other than practicing my kee kees and stirring a couple deer. But when he arrived for lunch, I saw he had a nice hen over his shoulder. With the sun peaking through the leafless branches, we had our midday meal and shared our morning stories. However, with plenty of daylight to go, I imposed, and he insisted, that I keep hunting while he spent his afternoon wandered the woods he had hunted with his dad years before. I covered the hillside the rest of the afternoon, creeping along, calling occasionally, hoping someone would answer. Suddenly, as I paused on a shelf, I heard scratching on a trail below. Unfortunately, as is usual, the birds saw me as I saw them, and they high tailed it around the bend. I pursued the best I could, kicking myself for not being a little quieter or a little more observant. But as I turned the bend, I saw a cluster of black bodies moving up the hill, and with my great-uncles .22 Hornet, harvested my first turkey. I soon proudly headed for the truck, my bounty over my shoulder. As I came out of the woods, I saw my dad watching me return, slowly becoming aware I was carrying a hen of my own, and I could see his own excitement growing. He grabbed his camera and documenting the moment, but the images he captured do no justice to my memories of the day’s events. In the grand scheme of things, we had a pair of modest hens; we hadn’t broken any records, and we hadn’t tackled America’s roughest and toughest land or beasts. But we were a father and son who got to share a rare day in the woods and both walk out winners, and once again, my dad was there to shake my hand after another hunting first. Because of that, no matter what the future holds, this hunt will continue to be at the top of my list as my favorite hunting story.