I am fortunate to know a writer who recently wrote about calling in a turkey and just letting it walk away. Some people may see that as a sign of his grip on reality slipping away. Some may see it as a new viewpoint being adopted, yet the true sportsman and outdoorsman sees it as it truly is.

Sometime right before my grandfather passed away, I was hunting on a clear and cool morning in April in Putnam County. It was one of those mornings that turkey hunters just know something good will happen. You could hear a twig break for a hundred yards. The air was so clean it was as if God had just finished creating the world 30 minutes ago. The sunrise was a brilliant and peaceful occurrence that morning that brought with it gobbles at every point of the compass. You get the picture. If you don’t, I pray you experience it one day.

I sat on a ridge overlooking a creek bottom. I’d found a comfortable spot where a log and a tree trunk came close together. It was like sitting in your chair at home only no one was going to bother you! I was immersed in thoughts and memories. I could almost see myself and my grandfather sitting next to each other on the side of a field in Taliaferro County 30 years ago, listening to birds gobble and me asking questions incessantly on just such a morning. I could see him in his Realtree camo and camo fedora hat, carrying a big gobbler over his shoulder with his Weatherby shotgun carried in the crook of his arm. I could hear him that morning, just as sure as if he was sitting beside me, calling softly on his old pot calls.

I just sat there immersed in my mind while a bird made his way closer and closer to me. When I finally realized what was going on, I made a few scratches on my grandfather’s old call, and the bird erupted not 100 yards away. At this point, I didn’t have much time to settle in and figure out how to get a gun on this bird. I dropped off the log onto the ground and pulled my mask up and snuggled into the trunk trying hard to disappear. That old Weatherby propped up on my knee, an old Lynch box call that predated my arrival on this mortal plane by more than 20 years was brought out and sat beside me, and his favorite slate call was cupped in my hands as he taught me.

That bird, with his bright red head, waddles, and those beautiful feathers popped over the ridge not 30 yards away. Dead in front of me. He strutted up and down an old logging road that ran along the ridge top. Gobbled, spit, drummed, you name it right in front of me. He stayed for what seemed like the entire day although it was no more than 10 minutes I suppose. I never even clicked the safety off.

That was more than 12 years ago, and until now one other person heard this story — my grandfather later that morning. It was the last conversation we had, and he smiled when I told him about the bird walking away.

—Outdoors columnist James Pressley can be reached at jameskpressley@gmail.com .