When it comes to hunting and fishing, I have long felt that big isn’t necessarily better. I know that this flies in the face of the popular outdoor TV programs, where trophy bucks and lunker rainbows are the main attraction. Not that I have anything against those who live to bag a 12-pointer that dresses over 200 pounds, or outwit a gobbler with a 10-inch beard. I respect trophy hunters and appreciate the competitive spirit that drives them.

I guess we are all different.

On my “trophy wall” at home, there is a shoulder mount of an 8-point buck. It’s not an ole bruiser. In fact, it’s a young buck with a small, but pleasingly symmetrical rack. Outdoorsmen who visit my home take one look, and I can tell what they are thinking – “Why would he go to the expense of mounting a small buck like that?”

The answer I give, to those bold enough to ask or chide me is, “Well, you had to be there, man. It was more the moment than the deer. My son-in-law, a Florida conch from the Keys, was beside me on his first Maine deer hunt. The deer bolted out of its bed near us and ran across the chopping full tilt. I yelled at him to stop. Damned if he didn’t obey, stopping inches from the edge of the chopping and one leap to safety. His pause was a mistake. I dropped him in his tracks at 168 yards, a long standing shot for me. Frankly, I got lucky. Now, years later, when I glance at the young buck on my wall, the memory of the hunt comes flooding back. It is a sweet memory, and it gets sweeter with time.

Flash forward to this April, opening day of Maine’s turkey season. I had been watching a respectable long-bearded gobbler out back, but decided not to hunt him. It seemed too easy. I’d save him for Diane who couldn’t hunt until the following week. Shuffling out of the sack at 3:30 a.m., I ate a quick breakfast and drove to a spot I know. After a short walk in the fog, I found my old spot under a big pine tree alongside a large field. After placing the decoys – three hens and a Jake – about 20 yards from my ground blind, I hunkered down.

The field was shrouded in fog that seemed to thicken as daylight began breaking on the eastern horizon. The eerie stillness was at last broken by a distant gobble, then another. A couple of fly-down yelps from me brought a response from the Tom, or at least it seemed to be answering my call off in the distance. This went on for half an hour. Decision time. Should I move his way and try to cut the distance or stay put? Move, I guess. Underdressed as I was and fighting a chill, moving would be a welcome change. But an inner voice told me to tough it out, stay put.

I did. Nothing, no sounds for about an hour. The fog began to lift and the sun worked its way above the hemlocks behind me. I leaned back to soak up some warmth from the sun’s rays. It was then that I spotted some turkeys about 300 yards on the far end of the field. A few hens, a couple of Jakes, and one strutter doing his thing. He looked to be a mature Tom. A couple of clucks and a purr from my slate call brought his head my way for an instant, but then he was back at the business at hand. I decided to wait it out and observe the proceedings. Soon, one by one, the hens worked their way back into the woods.

A couple of soft purrs. The strutter looked toward my decoys from across the field and to my delight began inching his way across the field toward the decoys. Half way across the field, he – and the three Jakes trailing him- came to a full stop and like a chorus line all froze in their tracks with their necks extended and eyes looking straight at me. Maybe one little purr. It worked. The strutter abandoned all caution and came to the decoys at a full march. The Jakes were in lockstep behind him. At 30 yards, it was obvious that this strutter was an elder Jake. No beard that I could see, but a sizable male turkey nonetheless. In full strut he followed the script, stopping beside the Jake decoy, stretching his neck to the fullest and talking up a storm.

To shoot or not to shoot. A second or two to decide. BLAM. I put him down with my little Remington 20 gauge pump. A trophy hunter would have probably turned down the shot, waiting for a true long-beard. Not me. The setup was too good. The choreography and the orchestration was flawless. The crescendo in the turkey woods rose to a perfect pitch. The kettle drums rolled and the cymbals awaited to complete the metaphor. There had to be a shot. After all, killing a turkey is the name of the game. His sacrifice left me with a memorable hunt and a wonderful meal or two.

If you hunt, you know that there are hunts, and then there are hunts. Maybe I’m guilty of elitism or rationalizing, but that was the best turkey hunt I have ever had, and I’ve killed much bigger birds. Walking out of the woods that morning, I asked myself. “Why does this hunt seem so special, so gratifying to me anyway? After all, this Jake slung over my shoulder is nothing to brag about.” The answer must have something to do with the verbiage in the Gray’s Sporting Journal subscription ad, “When the quality of the time spent afield means more to you than what is brought home.”

Don’t get me wrong. I dig wild meat. But I guess I also hunt for the hunt, for the real trophy.

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, WCME-FM 96.7) and former information officer for the Maine Dept. of Fish and Wildlife. His e-mail address is [email protected].