Slammin' A-Cross The Country

The morning began slowly, with only a few distant gobbles, and tapered off dramatically after the birds hit the ground. After an hour or so of nothing, my cameraman and I were ready to pick up and move. Scott, my camera man, was the first out of our hand-made ground blind. I was just standing to stretch my cramped legs when he dove back in and excitedly whispered, "Strutter and a hen, headed right to us." I dropped back on my rear, propped my bow up and tried to slow my breathing.

We wouldn't see the birds until they were already in range. "Be ready," I whispered. "When it happens, it's gonna happen fast." The hen appeared first, a mere ten yards away. I tensed up and tried to will myself invisible, but she still nailed us, and trotted off into the pines with a cluck.

The gobbler, his head on other matters, missed us. He was so hot on her tail, he'd stepped well into my shooting lane before whipping his head around with one of those uh oh looks. Three steps would have put him back in the bushes, but he only made two before my Grim Reaper-tipped arrow hit him amidships with a resounding thwack!

A Plan Is Born

It all started a few years back, the first year Georgia permitted crossbows for all hunters. I had just returned from hunting turkeys there with one and was doing some research on the novelty of it when a thought occurred to me. A couple of e-mails and a phone call to the National Wild Turkey Federation confirmed my suspicions. They had no official record of a grand slam being taken with a crossbow. I vowed then and there to make that my goal for the following season.

I figured Osceolas to be the most difficult, so I scheduled two trips to Florida. Rios would probably be the easiest. Still, I scheduled two Texas hunts as well. I would have done likewise for Merriam's, but finding crossbow states and places to hunt left me with one option: Wyoming. Easterns, I figured, shouldn't be a problem. So I unwisely back-shelved them until later.

The Quest Begins

For the first leg of my hunt, I tried a two-day stint south of Orlando, Florida. All of the other hunters in camp--shotgunners--scored, but I struck out. It was only the first hunt, but I was already beginning to feel the pressure.

The second Florida hunt, procured for me by some local acquaintances, put me on some extremely hot Osceola property. But the first morning hit me with a thirty-four-degree slap that made it feel more like Maine than Florida. And the dawn was disconcertingly quiet, at first.

The sun had yet to crest the treetops when we heard distant gobbles coming from several directions. Wasting no time, I hit them with a few calls, which got the birds' attention. Thinking the gobblers were still some ways off and that I had time to collect myself and calm my nerves, I was momentarily baffled when Scott, suddenly whispered, "Don't move. There's a longbeard forty yards away."