When I joined the ranch, Jukebox had already lived twice the lifespan of an Osceola tom. The trail to his hammock had become overgrown. He was real but unreachable, a fixture on the ranch, as rooted and essential as the oaks. Men still spoke of Jukebox, but they no longer dreamed of taking him.
And there I came, knowing nothing of turkeys but wanting the King of Birds. I bought every trick the stores would sell me: box, blow, and scrape calls; fixed, folded, and power decoys; pop, drape, and drag-in blinds. I jumped into turkey hunting expecting the success I had known hunting other animals in other places. My new campmates looked at me with quiet tolerance.
When my eyes cleared, the largest turkey I had ever seen stood 20 steps away.
Four weeks of hunting passed as painfully as Texas chili. My new calls, blinds, and decoys, each guaranteed to bring success, left me flat. On the last day of the season, I sat discouraged in the dark, my focus long since widened from Jukebox and only Jukebox to embrace any fool jake that might wander within range of my bow.“It would be a shame,” my friend Chip had said before the season, “to take a turkey your first year.”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Early success encourages the wrong sort of people to hunt,” he said.
It occurred to me that I might be the sort of person he meant.
“Failure, on the other hand, builds character.”
Character was all I could hope for now, with six hours left in the season. Unless . . .
I left my blind and eased into the Airplane Hammock, through the thorns, through the vines, into the muck and the icy water and the swamp gas, wading along calling for Jukebox until the wreck of the old trainer stopped me cold. Knobby cypress grew through the fuselage; broken cables reached up from below. I stood shivering and calling until I grew chilled to the bone. I wanted a turkey, but not this much.
I turned to go as the sun rose and lit the swamp. Crimson flowers bloomed against the green like Christmas. I picked one for my wife, and wriggled out the way I had crawled in, my bow in one hand and Karen’s flowers in the other. The sun was now blinding, and I lay in the grass, soaking up the heat and making peace with the failure of my first season.
When my eyes cleared, the largest turkey I had ever seen stood 20 steps away. There was no mistaking Jukebox, even in old age. Time hadn’t ravaged his reputation, but his massive back now swayed under its own weight. His legs buckled, his blazing wattles had gone gray. The skin on his neck hung like an old suit, and thin quills poked from bare patches. He squinted through cataracts and watery lids. When he finally focused on me, he was as surprised as I was.
He moved first, heading toward the hammock by the most direct route, which led right through me.
He gained speed, and I dropped the flowers. I had a vision of him mounted in my den.
He ran faster. I slipped an arrow free. Success was certain.
I pulled my bow and felt greenbriers lashing it down. I jerked with both hands, my neck craning to watch Jukebox advance.
At 15 steps, the limb ripped free. At 10 steps, I nocked an arrow. At five steps, I drew as he lumbered into the air and sailed safely into the hammock. I never even fi red a shot.
JUKEBOX ESCAPED THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS MISTAKE. I carried mine back to camp. Craig Courty stood in his kitchen, a spatula in his left hand, a cigar and morning bracer in his right, disco blaring from the radio. Ten years had been kinder to Craig than to the bird he had named. He swayed to the music, happy in his pink plastic clogs. He offered hot garlic grits in trade for my story.
“I saw him, Craig. I saw Jukebox.”
“Do what?”
He settled next to me, peppered me with questions, inquiring after the bird as one does a dear friend. Then he sat lost in thought.
I shoveled in my breakfast, uncomfortable with the silence.
“You might hunt him again, Craig,” I offered, the last scrape of grits in my mouth. “I bet you could take him now that he’s lost a step.”
I wanted the words back before they cleared my lips. Craig stared at me like I had slapped his dog. He leaned in close to make sure I’d listen.
“Son,” he said, though we were near the same age. “When a turkey is smart enough, and lives long enough to get his own name, there’s only one thing you can do.”
He lit a new cigar and leaned back to exhale. “You stop hunting him.”
Then he stood and filled my plate, happy that Jukebox was still in his world.
Jay Campbell lives on Tampa Bay but works on Lake Michigan. A former paramedic, fireman, police officer, and lawyer, he now works as an organ-transplant consultant until he and his wife, Karen, find a home with warm water, adequate game, and no extradition.
