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Nothing beats the feeling of opening day. Regardless of what species we are pursuing, the feelings of hope, excitement and nervous anxiety are intoxicating. They can’t be trumped. We spend months waiting on them, and when they finally do arrive, it’s like Christmas Morning when we were ten-years-old all over again.

Sitting in the darkness of my ground blind, watching soft rays of light tease the morning to life, I thanked God for another opening day. Turkeys boomed in the background—their silhouettes plastered against the illuminating canyon wall. It was beautiful. No, it was more than that, it was perfect.

Next to me in the blind was my good friend and owner of Purgatorie Outfitters, Jay Waring. Jay runs an amazing operation and has oodles of birds lurking on his leased acres. Hopes were high. The decoys were set. And the birds were pitching down in our direction.

There was no need to call. The birds were flocked up and where a few dominant hens went, the rest of the birds followed in tow. My heart jumped in my throat. I could hear purrs, clucks, yelps and of course, gobbles. They were getting closer. In fact, when I peered from the window of my ground blind, my eyes detected a mass of approaching ebony feathers. The hens reached the decoys first. About twenty of them loitered around the perimeter of the blind for a long time, too long. Just as the snow-white fans of several approaching gobblers were coming into view, one of the hens let out a putt. Heads went on high alert and the toms dropped strut. I knew it was over, but much to my liking, a few of the hens went back to pecking at the new shoots of grass springing from the earth. Slowly, turning my head, I saw the gobbler’s balloon-up again. Trying to control my breathing, I clipped onto my string and waited for the biggest boy in the bunch to present me with a shot. I didn’t have to wait long. The first one on the scene suited me just fine, and I wasted no time letting an arrow go. The fluorescent vanes met a wall of black and then were gone. The hit was perfect. This Colorado Merriam was taking a ride home in the truck.

Next on the agenda was to hook-up with my good friend and turkey guru, Mike Spencer. Mike hails from Topeka, Kansas, and has been chasing the crafty Eastern’s longer than I’ve been alive. Normally, I would embark on this hunt in late April or early May, but being that my wife was very pregnant at the time, I had to push this hunt up in the calendar. And just like I figured, the weather was brutal.

Mike and I hunted for three days. We didn’t go in for lunch, and didn’t take time to stop and smell the roses—we pushed. Though the weather was less than par, we managed to almost close the deal on several big birds. However, almost doesn’t put dark meat on the grill.

On the last morning we got a gift from above—the weather broke. It was calm, warm and we knew exactly where a couple of longbeards had spent the night. As dawn turned to morning the birds pitched down. They milled around for nearly an hour. Strutting. Spitting. Drumming. Doing everything but coming toward us. Finally, our calling sparked the spirit of one of the wise old toms. He approached cautiously, but once he reached the inflated tom imposter, that caution disappeared. One swift karate kick deflated the decoy. The shrinking decoy stunned the bird. He stood like a statue and offered me a perfect 20-yard shot. Bird number two of the spring season was down.

My third turkey tag placed me back in Colorado. Luckily, since my first tag was a Ranching For Wildlife License, I could hunt again using an over-the-counter tag. For this hunt, my 5-year-old son Hunter was joining me in the blind. Before we left home we made an agreement. It was: As long as the bird is legal, a jake or a tom, I would shoot. Anticipation was high.

The look on his face when a wad of fumbling jakes poked through the brush was priceless. With a slow moving finger he pointed toward the birds and whispered, “Dad there are a bunch of them right in front of us.” His little finger quivered as the jakes went into strut and let out some sickly gobbles. Wanting him to enjoy the show, I waited. The birds had been in front of the blind for nearly ten-minutes when Hunter asked, “Dad can you shoot one now?” The pressure was on. Luckily, I made good on the shot and my third turkey of the 2011 season was flopping on the ground. Hunter shouted—we hugged—it was absolutely amazing.

I’m not sure how long Hunter sat and inspected that bird, but it was a long time. He was awestruck by the entire experience. We spent the remainder of the evening taking pictures and enjoying the beauty of a spring sunset in the stunning canyons of southeastern Colorado.

How about you? How was your season? I would love to hear your stories. Until next time, God Bless and good hunting.