I was already whispering instructions to Scott, "Stay on the strutter, he's the biggest bird," when, at the last minute, the birds switched positions. "Switch birds," I hastily whispered to Scott.

"I'm on him," he replied. I settled the twenty-yard red dot on the bird's mid-section and squeezed the trigger. Again the arrow thwaked home, and again the bird stumbled off--this time over the hill and out of sight. The shot felt too good to be anything but a homerun. But even as I tried to convince myself of its accuracy, doubts mounted.

The other tom went in the same direction, then stopped about seventy-five yards away, soon to be joined by the three toms I'd seen earlier. As I watched, the toms seemed to be involved in some elaborate dance. It was then I realized they were indeed dancing--on my dead bird. I burst from the blind, scattered the hootenanny and grabbed the downed bird and shouted, "Number two!"

A Return To Winter
The third leg of our sojourn--Wyoming--would not only give us three out of four for the crossbow slam, it would be my first Merriam's turkey and complete my lifetime grand slam. But Wyoming being Wyoming, there were some weather issues. We were greeted in Sheridan with thirty-degree temperatures and thirty-plus-knot winds blowing snow sideways. Hardly ideal conditions for a three-day turkey hunt.

To fill what the author thought was the third spot of his slam, he had to weather high wind, snow and skittish birds to land his first Merriam’s.

We woke early the next morning to the sound of our guide, Scott Shreve, knocking on the motel room door. It was still cold and blowing, and the snow was piling up. We spent the first hour or so hiding in a barn, watching a tom gobble from a giant cottonwood as he rocked back and forth in the heavy winds. The rest of the day we spent slogging through the snow, trying to call in a bird against the wind and digging the truck out of snowdrifts.

Although the previous day had amounted to a whole lot of nothing, we had gambled a bit and built a ground blind by the cottonwood we'd started the day watching. Just before dark several hens, some jakes and two longbeards flew to roost.

Scott and I returned well ahead of dawn, knowing we'd have to cover some open ground to get to the blind. Hearing no ruckus from the trees above, I surmised we'd made it. It wasn't long before the chorus of yelps, clucks and gobbles began around us, and my confidence grew.

From the ground blind, I watched first one, then the other longbeard pitch to the ground. When they started our way I entertained the possibility that our plan might actually work. Then fate intervened. The birds turned and headed straight away.

"Shoulda known," I spit under my breath. "This was just too easy." Hens began pitching down around us, but the longbeards were now completely out of sight. I was already formulating another plan of attack when I looked up and saw the birds heading back our way, and fast.