It's been a huge goal to complete a single-season grand slam, but you've
always lacked the time, money and connections. But suddenly, a buddy who
moved to Florida invites you for an Osceola hunt in March -- and you scored.
Back home, you killed an Eastern during a half-day hunt. With six weeks of
season remaining, you managed a trip west for a Merriam's and were amazed
when you connected the second day. Suddenly, bagging the four subspecies
seemed like a legitimate goal and, better, your wife urged you to try.
But the wheels seem ready to fall off during your Rio hunt. One week of hard
hunting reminds you that turkeys are never a sure thing. One particular
gobbler has given you fits. The longbeard personifies the stubborn,
henned-up strutter that has no interest in working to a call. Worse, his
pattern indicate no places where he's vulnerable to a stalk or belly crawl.
The bird pitches from his roost and flies to the middle of a huge field,
where hens run to him the rest of the day.
It's the final afternoon of your last hunt. Coming back for another go at
the birds or visiting another state are not options. As you prep your gear
for your ultimate attempt, the ranch owner approaches you with a nifty
flat-shooting rifle in his hands.
"It's perfectly legal here," he says. "If you can't call him up, this will
put him down in a heap -- guaranteed." You look long and hard at the rifle.
Knowing your normal time and financial burdens, a single-season slam isn't
in your near-future.
A) Grab the rifle? Any turkey taken legally is OK in your book.
B) Thank your host for his kindness, but pass on his shootin' iron? Calling
a bird up to shotgun range defines the sport for you.
C) Take both weapons afield? You'll try to call in your trophy, but if the
bird sticks to his pattern, you'll rethink the rifle option.
D) Something else?