There’s a special kind of stillness in the woods before dawn. The world is dark, quiet, and full of promise. Spring turkey season means 3:30 AM wake-up calls, questionable gas station coffee, and group texts that start with “You up?” and end with “I forgot my gloves.”

Most years, it’s me and two buddies, stumbling around in the dark like caffeinated ninjas, trying not to wake the whole forest. Someone always trips over a root. Someone always forgets a call. One year, someone brought decoys but left his shotgun in the truck. That’s the kind of crack team we run with.

But once we get past the groggy jokes and get into position, things settle down. We hike in quietly, boots brushing through the forest floor, trying to beat the gobblers coming down from the roost. The first gobble of the morning is like a starter’s pistol—echoing through the hollows and setting our hearts racing. That’s when the whisper-banter starts.

“That bird’s hot—he’s gonna fly down right on top of us.” Me: “You said that last time, and he ghosted you harder than your high school prom date.” He snorts into his sleeve trying not to laugh loud enough to spook everything in a 200-yard radius.

We get serious when it counts (well, mostly), calling softly, waiting for a response, watching the woods come alive. Sometimes the toms come in strutting like they own the place. Other times, they strut away like they’ve got a better offer down the ridge. Turkeys are like that—beautiful, unpredictable, and maddeningly aloof.

But when it all clicks—when you coax that gobbler in, inch by inch, until he’s finally in range and you take the shot—it’s pure electricity. The kind of moment you talk about over a tailgate breakfast, grinning ear to ear, covered in camo and leaf litter, swapping the story of the morning like it’s already a legend.

The bird is a trophy, sure. But the laughs, the early morning struggle, the shared silence and sudden chaos of a hunt—that’s the real reason we’re out here. Spring turkey season isn’t just a hunt. It’s a reunion. A ritual. And, honestly, the only time of year it feels perfectly normal to cheer at 6:30 AM in the middle of the woods while hugging two grown men in full camouflage.