Turkey Time in Georgia

As I sat in the truck by the side of the interstate, watching the face of the Georgia State Trooper in the vehicle pulled in behind me, I was thinking that this incident was a sign that maybe I should just stop turkey hunting.

It seemed that trouble and misfortune walked hand-in-hand with the sleep deprivation and frustration that were unfailingly part of turkey hunting for me.

Although it was only midday, I’d admittedly been breaking the speed limit and had pulled over for the trooper’s flashing lights. Here’s the thing — I had actually shot one of the confounded bearded critters.

Elated beyond rational thought, I’d been driving too fast. It seemed that even when you got a turkey, it got you right back.

I don’t think the trooper was prepared for the turkey hunting story I tried to relate as he stood by the driver’s side window, expressionless and impassive behind his mirrored sun glasses, although he did glance at the dead turkey in the pickup bed. When I told him I’d been turkey hunting, he’d just looked at me and said, “Like that?”

Given my attire — just a bathing suit and knee-high snake boots — I guess he had good reason to doubt my story.

I tried to explain my clothing — that I was unable to take off the snake boots unless I held onto a door jamb or other immovable object, and somebody else pulled off the boots; and that I wasn’t accustomed to the Georgia heat and had peeled off my hunting clothes after getting the turkey; and that I was headed to a friend’s house where there was a pool — he just asked for the vehicle registration.

He apparently knew as soon as I started talking that I was not a native of Georgia and wanted to see who owned the truck.

I had gotten the turkey during the last 15 minutes of the last day I could hunt before going home. This kind of thing hardly ever happened. More often than not, I went on hunting trips and got nothing.

Admittedly, I may have been asleep for a time during that last morning. All I know is, I was wakened by a thunderous turkey gobble about 15 yards from me. Like a lucky dream, the turkey fanned his tail and turned away from me, giving me the opportunity to pick up my shotgun and shoot him.

I couldn’t find any paperwork about the vehicle. I was driving my friend’s truck and the registration was not in the glove compartment. The trooper asked for my driver’s license; again, I struck out.

I’d taken it out of my wallet when I bought the Georgia hunting license at a department store; evidently, I’d just dropped it back into my purse and hadn’t put it back into the wallet. I had my wallet but not my purse.

I showed him my Georgia hunting license. He did not seem impressed with that or other forms of identification I presented, such as a Tamaqua Library card.

The trooper was busy on his radio and phone for what seemed like long minutes. Finally, he got out of his vehicle and walked back to my vehicle, clipboard in hand. I figured I was about to go to a Georgia jail.

“Can you open your door, ma’am?” he said, and then at my look of confusion said, “I’m going to help you get those boots off.”

“You are going to get a warning today,” he added. “That’s because I’m a turkey hunter.”