Opening morning of turkey season last year found me making my way across the open field in the dark to an area next to the Current River.

The thermal inversion of warm damp air touching the cold waters of the river sent roiling fog across the bottoms as I made my way through the jungle-like flora.

Wading a shallow creek, I set up next to a giant cottonwood tree some fifty yards on this patch of real estate that has held the big birds in the past.

Pinkening skies started revealing shrouded figures in this tapestry of greenery which is hardly indicative of this area of the Ozarks where I turkey hunt. Not two hundred yards across the creek and up the hill are stands of oak, hickory and dogwood that match the imagination of hill geography.

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Nonetheless, there were birds in these bottoms and I wanted to greet a boss gobbler this day. But as the daylight grew whiskers, a lone bird hollered.

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