For me, the only thing better than being in rural Vermont in mid-May is being there with other outdoor writers. We were there in Killington ski country, more than a dozen of us, all New England outdoor writers gathered for the annual meeting of the New England Outdoor Writers Association. Our trucks were loaded down with fly rods and waders, turkey decoys and 12 gauges. Of course, most of us brought a laptop or a pad and paper, in case there was something to write about.

Write about? Are you kidding?

Vermont is a feast for the senses. Hills and rivers. And more hills. Those fabled hills of the Green Mountain State were exploding with the lime-green hues of budded hardwoods and flowering dogwoods. Birds were acknowledging the seasonal rebirth with their unique songs. And along the winding unpaved roads far from the interstates, the backcountry Vermonters were putting up wood, tilling gardens, and tapping sugar maples. Diane and I arrived a day early and explored endless nooks and crannies, spending a day just getting the lay of the land. With some help from the maps and fellow writers from Vermont, we earmarked a fishing spot or two and a promising piece of terrain in the turkey woods.

Day two, in between meetings, we hunted turkeys in the morning and fly fished after lunch. “Cast and blast” is the popular term invoked by these outdoor-loving characters who try to make a few dollars as outdoor scribes and storytellers.

At daybreak, Diane and I heard no gobbles at our chosen spot. We did stumble upon a “point of interest.” It is called the Hubbardton Battlefield Memorial. It is the site of the only battle fought on Vermont soil during the Revolutionary War. From what I could gather, the Green Mountain Boys got their butts kicked by the Brits that ill-fated July day in 1777. Coincidentally, when Vermont first introduced wild turkeys from New York in 1970, the birds were released in Hubbardton. It seemed like a natural place for a Maine flatlander to pursue his first Vermont longbeard, but it was not to be.

Late that morning, not far from the Green Mountain National Forest outside a hamlet called Goshen, we located a gregarious Tom. He was a talker. Diane and I worked him until noon in a fairly open hardwood basin. He came onto us, seemingly with love on his mind, but demurred the last 50 yards, only to be heard but not ever seen. As the law requires, we clucked him adios at noon. A loquacious little lout, he was still gobbling when we unloaded and headed back to the truck.

If you count my Maine turkey hunts this spring, the reluctant Vermont Tom was the fifth bird that had “hung up” on me just out of shotgun range. “What’s a guy to do?” I asked veteran Vermont turkey hunters Dennis Jensen, Bradley Carleton and Stu Bristol. Although their suggestions differed some, there was a common theme. As Bristol put it, “As the hen, you need to play hard to get. One way to do this is, not only to call sparingly, but make the Tom answer you, not the other way around.” Jensen is an advocate of walking away from the Tom with your hen clucks once you know that the Tom has located you. Carleton has worn down reluctant Toms by slapping an old turkey wing against his leg and making scratching noises in the leaves.

The next day we slept in and eventually went fishing. But we didn’t go our separate ways. Among the outdoor writers, like any group of human beings, there is a pecking order, a social hierarchy. It goes unspoken but for a variety of reasons we all know who knows when it comes to where and how to fish or hunt. Tom Fuller from Belchertown, Mass., who has written a number of truly credible fly fishing books, was discreetly watched by the rest of us to see where he would fish and what fly he would choose.

When he and his wife Pat headed out, we all wondered: “Which of the many choices of rivers will he select for his first morning cast?” Hmmm, during the cocktail hour the previous evening he mentioned the Black River. But we all knew that was a diversionary tactic.

There is only one way to be sure. Follow him! Fuller found himself involuntarily leading a five-vehicle motorcade of shameless fellow writer/anglers up Rt. 107.

“Black River? Horseradish,” I said to Diane. “He’s headed for the White River.”

And he was. Fuller, good-humored friend that he is, did not resent the angler’s motorcade or the intrusion. He showed us the way. There is a wonderful stretch of glides and riffles and deep pockets on a three-mile section of the White River that is designated a trophy fish run. The fishing was slow, but the scenery and the sound and feel of the moving water was music for the soul, as it always is. Before the day was through, I caught two plump little rainbows on a beadheaded black woolly bugger.

As you might guess outdoor writers, when not actually hunting or fishing, are incessantly talking hunting and fishing. This may explain why I, a tad reclusive, still never tire of spending social time with the men and woman of the NEOWA. Many of us have had the good fortune of hunting and fishing areas far from our home states. Some of us have been known to be critical of fishing and hunting opportunities, or lack thereof, in places we have been.

After spending some spring time in Vermont, there was among our group an easy consensus that we all took home with us. Vermont in May really is a state of mind and a special place. Catching a fish or bagging a 20-pound turkey is just the proverbial frosting on the cake.

V. Paul Reynolds is editor of the Northwoods Sporting Journal. He is also a Maine Guide, co-host of a weekly radio program “Maine Outdoors” heard Sundays at 7 p.m. on The Voice of Maine News-Talk Network (WVOM-FM 103.9, WQVM 101.3) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected].