Thunder in the Morning

April 2026

Field Notes

April ushers in one of my favorite hunting seasons.

Turkey season.

Or more accurately, the season of the Thunder Chicken.

This is the time of year when everything wakes up at once. Grass starts turning green. Tree buds explode in leaf bunches. Songbirds show up early and loud, like each one is trying out for American Idol. The sun feels stronger and the day stretches out just a little longer than yesterday.

The creeks start running again. Snowmelt, or what little we had this year, finally decides to move downhill. Mornings are cool and crisp. Afternoons hit that perfect temperature where sitting under a tree for “just a minute” turns into a full nap.

And somewhere in all of that, the woods come alive with one of the most ridiculous and unmistakable sounds in nature.

The gobble of a Wild Turkey.

Sharp. Loud. Echoing through timber and across ridges like someone just announced that spring is officially open for business.

That is when you know.

Winter is over.

Turkey hunting is a strange thing when you step back and think about it.

You wake up early. Earlier than you want to. You sneak into the woods and sit down in the dark. You attempt to sound like a bird using a piece of plastic, wood, or slate. And you wait.

Sometimes you wait a long time.

And all of this effort is aimed at convincing one of the most suspicious creatures in the woods that you are, in fact, a turkey worth talking to.

A turkey that looks like it was designed by committee.

A bird with feathers that shine in the sun, a fan that spreads like it knows it is impressive, and a head that looks like it forgot what it was supposed to be halfway through development.

And yet, when a tom steps out into a clearing in full strut, chest puffed, fan spread, gobbling like he owns the hillside, there is nothing funny about it.

It is one of the most impressive sights in the spring woods.

The real draw of turkey season is not just the hunt.

It is everything happening around it.

You sit there in the dark and listen as the woods slowly wake up. One bird chirps. Then another. Then ten more. The light creeps in just enough to make shapes out of shadows.

You hear wings on a roost. Leaves shifting. A distant gobble that snaps your attention back into the moment.

Your breath slows.

Your mind clears.

For a little while, there is nothing else to think about.

No schedule.

No rush.

No other human noise...if you are lucky

Just you and a hillside coming back to life.

There is a kind of peace in that.

Not the quiet kind. Not the silent, empty kind.

But the full kind.

The kind filled with sound and movement and life.

The kind that reminds you that you are part of something bigger than your daily routine.

Winter has a way of shrinking things. Days get shorter. Movement slows down. Time feels compressed. You spend more time inside than out.

Then spring shows up and stretches everything back out again.

And turkey season drops you right in the middle of it.

There is also something humbling about chasing turkeys.

They are not particularly large. They do not have antlers. They are not apex predators.

But they will absolutely make you question your decision making.

They hang up just out of range.

They circle behind you.

They disappear without a sound.

They respond perfectly one minute and ignore you the next.

And then it starts.

That internal conversation.

Should I stay or should I go.

Should I sit here and keep calling.

Or move over to where I heard that last gobble two hours ago.

You sit there convincing yourself that patience is the right move.

If I stay, they will come.

So you stay.

And the turkeys also stay.

Way over there.

Eventually you decide movement is the answer. You gather your gear, sneak over the ridge, and set up exactly where you are sure they want to be.

And then it happens.

A gobble.

From behind you.

From the exact spot where you were just sitting. Right on top of the still warm imprint of your backside under that pine tree.

It is impressive.

A bird with a brain the size of a Tic Tac has just outmaneuvered a species that has successfully traveled to the stars.

You will sit there convinced you have everything figured out, only to watch a bird walk the opposite direction like it has somewhere better to be.

And somehow, that is part of the fun.

Because when it does come together, when a bird commits, when that gobble gets closer instead of farther away, when the woods go from quiet to electric in a matter of seconds, it feels earned.

But even on the days when nothing works, when the birds are quiet, when your calling sounds more like a confused squeaky toy than a hen, it is still hard to call it a bad day.

Because you are there.

You are sitting in the middle of a season of change.

Watching winter give way to something new.

Feeling the sun come back.

Hearing life return.

I really do love this time of year.

It is a season of movement. Of growth. Of things starting over.

A reminder that nothing stays frozen forever.

Not the ground.

Not the trees.

Not even you.

And if you sit long enough on a cool April morning, listening to a distant gobble roll through the timber, you may realize something.

The hunt is just an excuse.

The real reason you are there is to witness the world waking up again.

And maybe, in a small way, to wake up with it.