The sun had yet to crest the treetops when we heard distant gobbles coming from several directions. Wasting no time, I hit them with a few calls, which got the birds' attention. Thinking the gobblers were still some ways off and that I had time to collect myself and calm my nerves, I was momentarily baffled when Scott, suddenly whispered, "Don't move. There's a longbeard forty yards away."

That's a swamp bird for you--notoriously stealthy. This tom had sneaked in, and was now making his way toward our decoys. I couldn't see it, so I relied on Scott to tell me when I could move into shooting position. I switched on my scope, set my Ten Point Titan up on its monopod and readied for the shot.

When the bird finally materialized over my right shoulder, he was already in range and coming hard for the decoys. I followed him in, and when he stopped I centered on him and squeezed the trigger. It was a good shot, and I was confident it has done the job, but as he limped off, putting more and more distance between us, that creeping anxiety began to mount. Then, at the fifty-yard mark, he lay down for the last time. Bird number one.

I struck out the next day, then moved north to a county where the range of Osceola and Eastern turkeys overlap. A bird taken here could be considered either. We had our Osceola so we weren't really concerned. This was a bonus hunt, a reward for the hard hunting that was to come. A bird here would build confidence, assuage anxiety and give me a little more practice with the crossbow. As it turned out, this hunt ended up netting me a lot more than the bird that showed up as I stepped out of my blind to stretch.

Rio Good Fun
With one leg of our slam complete, Scott and I were eager to head west for some Rio Grande action. Yet despite some prime West Texas Rio ground--and a camp full of shotgunners that were tagging out left and right--again, we came up short. With only one Merriam's hunt and no Eastern hunt as yet scheduled, this sketchy pattern of hit-and-miss weighed heavily on me.

Despite a reputation for being one of the easier birds to bag, Rio Grandes don’t always roll over. The author needed two hunts to tag number two of his slam.

After driving across what seemed like half of Texas, Scott and I arrived at the Herradura Ranch, ready to try again. But the morning started with an unexpected twist. Instead of a pop-up blind, Scott and I would be in a makeshift ground blind, meaning a few sparse mesquite branches would be our only cover.

My reservations dwindled a bit when gobbles began sounding off at each point on the compass. It wasn't long before birds began pitching down to our left. Within minutes they'd amassed into a bunch of hens and three strutters. Then, just as fast as they'd materialized, they faded off over the hills and into the woods.

Then two more toms sounded off behind us, and seemed to be coming our way. When they saw the decoys, in they came: fifty yards, forty, thirty.