A story from Brian Walo.
I’ve spent most of my life Fishing every chance I get. So much so that I make numerous trips to the Gulf Coast to Florida every year to do nothing but fish for days on end. And regardless of the weather, the tide, time of day, or other factors, I always seem catch on the morning I’m slated to leave for home. There’s just something magical about that last day and the last chance it brings with it before the fun is over for a while. I’ve come to refer to this as my “last day luck”, and before I left home on Saturday morning, it seemed to me that my last-day luck might come in handy.
After a long month of distant gobbles, bumped birds, and unanswered calls while standing over fresh tracks, careful consideration was given to which area we would be hunting on the last day of the 2026 season. Francisco and I weighed all the options, opting for a ghost tom that had yet to gobble but that had been teasing me over the last few weeks with large tracks consistently in the same area.
The last day of the season seemed like a long-shot based on what I had seen and heard over the last month, but I walked in the dark with hopeful optimism to the area we picked out. Once I got setup, on a nice bench above a creek, my optimism began to fade as my calls produced no gobbles.
While I sat under a tree contemplating my next move, and taking turns between calling and wolfing down a breakfast bar, I finally got a response. Francisco was planning to join me, but his alarm clock never went off. So I sent him the pin of where I was sitting, and he was ready to make the best of the time we had left for the day. Fortunately, he was close by, and willing to come out.
Once he made his way into the woods, we took stock of what I had seen and not heard, and decided to move further north towards an area that he’s seen success with in the past. After a long walk on seemingly endless sandy roads, that plan also proved fruitless in both a lack of sign and numerous unanswered calls. It looked like the season was going to end the same way it began; quiet and birdless.
With about 3-1/2 hours left to the season we threw a Hail Mary, moving to a new location that was unfamiliar. It was a quick and hopeful ride but tempered with a sense that this was not going to be the year I got my first bird.
Once parked, we geared up and set off down the fire break all the while joking about what a bust this season was going to be. After only about 100 feet, I looked up just in time to see a hen doing the 40-yard dash up the road in front of us while watching us in the rearview.
That’s when it started to rain, and we laughed at our misfortune.
We ducked under the canopy of a large oak, intending to wait it out, and laughing about the seemingly bad luck we’ve had for the last month. Once the rain let up, we continued down the road for another couple hundred yards before spotting the same hen racing up the road. I felt it was necessary to point out the fresh tracks in the sand. I’m not sure Francisco appreciated the humor the same way I did.
Down the road we continued, toward a hillside next to a very pretty creek bottom, calling all the way. Then finally, we got what we came for. Franciso hammered his box call, only to be cut-off by a relatively close gobbler. The optimism and boyish hope came flashing back as we quickly made our way to what looked like the perfect spot to set up for a gobbler looking for love. We left the road and cut into the woods, making a direct line to our intended setup, only to have a Jake run right out of a bush to our right, and across the road to our left about 15 yards in front of us. All we could do was laugh and press on.
About 10 yards later as we were moving over the road to get set up on the other side for the gobbler, another Jake flew off from the opposite side of the road. By my count at this point it was Birds-4, Us-0.
And then it started to rain, again. And we laughed, again.
Once we setup and started calling to the gobbler, in the rain, what sounded like several birds began to cluck straight out ahead of us. I finally thought we might actually get a chance at a bird. So, I shouldered my shotgun in anticipation of a bird coming in while Francisco continued to call. After a very quick five minutes, while still listening to the birds out in front of us, I saw movement out of the corner of my left eye. Two more birds were heading right for us from my left side about 30 yards out.
Francisco was still calling, seemingly unaware of the newcomers, and I did my best to whisper “Jake’s”. As they came around, I lined up on the bigger of the two, and down he went. My first turkey ever was in the bag. I don’t think I’ve smiled that way in quite some time. The feeling of a successful hunt is a new one for me, and I’m filled with gratitude and appreciate for FLOCC as well as Francisco. Time is a gift, and he has been nothing but giving with his. For that, I am forever thankful for his guidance and expertise.
I had the good fortune this year of having time to dedicate to this new hobby and spent dozens of hours in the woods on the hunt. On the final day of the season, with just a few hours left, it finally worked out. Last-day luck strikes again.
-Brian Walo