Voices of Prois... Three Toms

By:  Prois Staffer, Ro Snebbold

Three Toms, Zero Dignity

The alarm goes off at 5 a.m., which honestly feels illegal for a Saturday. But it’s turkey season, so we accept the abuse, throw on every layer we own, and head for the hills.
Thankfully, our spot is only about a 30‑minute drive, which gives me just enough time to convince myself this is the day. The plan is simple: short walk, quiet entry, easy hunt. You know—the lies we tell ourselves.

Everything is going smoothly until we get pinched off on a dirt road by another couple of hunters who pull right up to our gate. Not a gate. The gate. The one we’ve mentally owned since last season.

My husband hops out to talk while I sit in the truck pretending to be calm, when internally I’m already naming their truck and holding a lifelong grudge.
Miracle of miracles—they’re heading a different direction. Crisis avoided. My blood pressure drops back into legal limits.

It’s 25 degrees, which is cold enough to question every life choice that led me here, so I decide to sit in the truck for an hour while my husband heads out. I sip coffee, stare into the woods, and overthink absolutely everything.

About an hour later…
I hear a call.
A gobble.
Another call.
Another gobble.
Then—BOOM.

My soul leaves my body.
I immediately think, Please let that be a celebratory “yay babe!” shot and not a “welp, see ya” shot. I do the math in my head. If it was Zach, I should see him in about 30 minutes.
Exactly 30 minutes later…

Two guys come around the corner.
Not my husband.
Bummer.

I scramble out of the truck, gear flying everywhere like a yard sale exploded, and head up the hill to go find Zach. My mind is racing—thinking about those two guys and their bird, wondering if Zach was successful, replaying everything that’s already happened. My brain never stops. Ever.
I repeat my hunting mantra: The land will provide. It’s hunting, not shooting. No guarantees.
About a quarter mile up the hill—
THREE. LOUD. GOBBLES.
I freeze so hard I’m pretty sure my soul lags behind my body.
Quick scan of my surroundings:
 
No blind
No brush
No cover
One tree
 
Cool. Love limited options.
I park myself behind that tree like it was the plan all along and make a call.
Suddenly—three toms at 70 yards, strutting like they’re late for a photo shoot. My heart is hammering. My hands are shaking. I remind myself to breathe like I’m not actively spiraling.
I call again. They come closer. About 50 yards.
But of course—there’s brush. Buck brush. Small trees. Nature’s very effective anti‑hunter security system.
I have no shot.
Now my brain starts negotiating.
Do I move?
Do I crawl?
Do I accept my fate and simply admire these birds like I paid for a wildlife tour?
My leg is twisted into a position no orthopedic surgeon would approve of. My ankle feels one bad move away from snapping, and my knee feels like it’s coming apart—but I stay still because apparently pain is temporary and pride is eternal.
I call again.
They step closer.
Now I see them clearly.
Three absolute monsters. Beards nearly dragging the ground. Huge, beautiful birds. I stop shaking and just stare like, Wow… I could absolutely ruin this.
And then—
Crack.
Snap.
They scatter like I yelled “fire” in a movie theater.
I sit there staring at nothing, replaying the scene on loop like a bad highlight reel. So close. So painfully close. I mentally re‑hunt the entire setup while questioning all my life choices.
Eventually, I gather my stuff and keep moving uphill.
Then I hear them again.
Hope returns.
(Mistake.)
I curl up under another tree, completely surrounded by brush—truly an elite location if your goal is to see absolutely nothing. I call softly, just trying to locate them.
I purr.
I cluck.
They’re closer.
Like… uncomfortably close.
I can hear them. I cannot see them. My brain is spiraling. They’re gobbling. I’m calling. We’re locked in a tense standoff where everyone—especially the turkeys—knows I’m losing.
Then—
snap
THUD
A branch falls out of a tree like a perfectly timed jump scare.
Silence.
I sit quietly for a minute, call again, and hear a few distant gobbles drifting away like my hopes and dreams.
I try twice more.
Nothing.
Game over.
Two encounters. Three toms. Zero shots. Several emotional breakdowns.
Lessons learned:
 
Know your area
Have backup spots
Be ready for the unexpected—because you can never be fully prepared for any hunt
 
Sometimes the turkeys just win, and somehow… that has to be okay.
I didn’t tag a bird—but I got a great story, a bruised ankle, and a reminder that this is hunting. Nothing is promised. Not every hunt ends in a trophy; sometimes it ends in a lesson.
And honestly?
It was worth it. 🦃