It's too bad, I was thinking, that many would never experience this magical world. Even if they weren't going to hunt, I believe that at least once in their lives all people should be awakened and escorted under cover of darkness into the spring woods to hear a turkey gobble.

The people might be cranky at first, and sleepy, but those feelings would evaporate when they heard the first gobble. It is a sound irretrievably linked with hope and promise, a match and a symbol for spring and new beginnings.Each day of turkey hunting starts out that way, with hope and promise. Of course, by the end of the day turkey hunting may bring you to your knees. Because when you're turkey hunting, wee-hours wakeup calls and exhaustion trot right along with hope and promise. And after all of the struggle, all the lost sleep and lost chances, the turkeys get away most of the time.The first sight of a turkey ranks right up there with the sound of their gobbles in the dark. They just don't seem to belong in the woods, with all that black against the bright greens of spring. Plus, when your butt is on the ground, they seem to tower over you - especially when someone calls them practically onto your lap.I had been turkey hunting near Chataqua, New York, which is way over near the state's western border. That morning, my hunting buddy called three jakes to within 15 yards of me, but I hadn't taken a shot. I'd hoped the mature gobbler 100 yards away would come closer, but he didn't.He joked later that I'd been a "trophy hunter" and although we laughed about it then, as the hunt drew to an end I grew more steadily disappointed in myself. By the time I left for the drive home, I was in the mood for regretful country music and harmful introspection about my future as a turkey hunter.And then I had an idea. I could drive to the eastern side of New York, and hunt turkeys in the morning until legal shooting time ended. In the late afternoon, I drove while scanning the land on either side of the highway for a likely looking spot.There are tons of exits on Interstate 90. Something made me take the right one.By then the sun was low in the sky, at an angle that turned the arcs of telephone wires silver between their poles. Long shadows lent preciousness to the ordinary things, like a swing set in a yard or an old wooden table at roadside, with boxes of strawberries for sale on the honor system. I could smell mown grass and wild spring onions.I pulled into the driveway of the farm just in time to witness a family in the midst of leave-taking. Father and mother were saying their goodbyes to the young couple - I never did find out who was son or daughter. I was welcomed to hunt on the farm before I even finished the request.The next morning, I parked in their driveway and walked out around the pond and through thick meadow grass to the spot I'd picked. I was hidden at the edge of the woods on a knoll which overlooked a newly-planted cornfield as well as the farm house far below. I could see the moment when a light came on in the farmhouse. In the unfamiliar woods and near a town I'd never seen before, I felt a kinship with the far-away window of light and the family living there.I seemed to have stumbled upon a perfect world as I hunted home. I knew I would never forget this hunt, turkey or no turkey. Maybe hunting home was not just something you could do, but a place. Always, it would be the people who made a hunting home. Sometimes, you find one another. I'd been blessed.