Whispers In The Wind: Chasing Gobblers & Finding Ghosts
We set out that morning with turkey calls in our pockets and high hopes in our hearts. Spring was just starting to hit full bloom, and the gobblers were supposed to be plentiful. The sun had just begun to spill gold over the rolling hills when we crested a rise and stopped short.
There, draped across a boulder like a relic from another age, lay the remains of a longhorn, its massive horns curling skyward like frozen smoke. The carcass, half-consumed by time and weather, seemed to hum with a strange energy — as if it wasn’t just bones and hide we were looking at, but a story the land itself was trying to tell.
We forgot about the turkeys.
In the quiet of the morning, we could almost hear the echoes: hooves pounding the earth, cowhands shouting across the plains, campfires crackling under the stars. This place had been alive with movement and purpose once, long before it became a backdrop for our hunt. Now, if you slowed down enough — if you listened — you could catch glimpses of that life, still drifting on the breeze.
We never did find any turkeys that day. But we found something else: a reminder that the land holds more than just game. It holds memory, mystery, and a kind of quiet reverence for those who take the time to notice.
Sometimes, you go looking for one thing and find another. And sometimes, that’s exactly what you need.