It's hard to determine the greatest gobbler hunt of my life, as they are all great in their own regards. Any spring morning I'm sitting in the woods chatting with a tom is great, but there is one hunt that really stands out. My father and I woke up around 4:30 a.m. to the sound of rain pattering on the tin roof. It was back to bed until 7:30. We headed out to our favorite turkey food plot. There was already a Tom strutting through the clover. We set up and called. He was coming our way but hung up--a typical big woods eastern gobbler. The rest of the morning consisted of a few jakes and some hens but nothing too exciting. By midmorning, the rain picked up again, but my father and I decided to hunt until noon, which is quitting time in Pennsylvania. At 11:45, we packed up our gear and decided to look for birds in the same food plot we had hunted that morning. As we stepped onto the grassy road that led into the field, my father stuck is arm out to stop me. Fifty yards up the road was a turkey. The hunt was on! I started my stalk, and, as I neared the bird, I noticed it had its head resting in the fathers on its back. It was trying to stay dry in the rainy weather. I could see a nice beard sprouting from its chest. I shot the bird at 5 yards. It boasted 1-inch spurs and had a 10 1/5-inch beard. That was the last turkey hunt I would share with my father. He passed away the next spring of brain cancer. I can't help but think there was some divine intervention at play.