I don’t know if animals have souls, but I do think they have extra-sensory receptors that alert them to the presence of invisible danger.

That’s why I take special satisfaction for sneaking into killing range of a wild animal. Not only have I fooled their acute senses of smell, sight, and hearing, but I’ve also evaded their highly evolved prey-animal sense that a predator is in the neighborhood.

Fear of trigging that “spidey sense” is why I never look directly at the animal I’m stalking. I’m convinced that critters, just like humans, have an innate awareness of and discomfort with someone staring at them. Just like us, they get alert and edgy under uninvited scrutiny. So when I’m stalking an animal, I’ll study it from a distance, but as I close in for the kill I avoid looking at it, or making even fleeting eye contact.

That may explain when, a couple of years ago, I stalked my most surprising quarry.

I spent last week calling in vain to north Texas Rio Grande toms. Rios are supposed to be dumb, Texas is supposed to be full of turkeys and the hunt (a media event deal with guides and a cushy lodge) was supposed to be a two-bird slam dunk. Wrong.

Longbeards were tough to come by and the ones we could locate rarely responded to calls. By ambushing fly-down areas and strut zones, all of us got lucky and were still able to kill a turkey (though another hunter and I took birds with scrawny beards) but it wasn't easy. Waiting for hours to hear even a distant gobble did give me some time to think about all the road blocks in turkey hunting. Usually it's not one factor that keeps you from getting your bird, but a series of unfortunate events. Here's what hamstrung us in Texas. Tell us about your biggest turkey hunting headaches in the comments section below.

Luke Tonlino of Otis, Massachusetts was admittedly a bit peeved. Upon hearing some odd banging sounds coming from outside his home last week, Tonlino decided to investigate. That’s when he spotted the source of the commotion—an adult gobbler. Apparently enamored with his own reflection in the bumper of Tonlino’s truck, the bird strutted back and forth occasionally pecking at the high-polished chrome.

“I went inside for the camera and watched him for 5 minutes,” Tonlino said. “He saw me and didn’t care—until I ran him off. I was afraid he would ruin the bumper.”

For many, Monday’s horrific reports from the streets of Boston spurred recollections of September 11. I was on the streets of Manhattan that morning, the first plane roaring directly overhead as I walked to the office. The ensuing mayhem was as much disorienting as it was frightening. I watched along with several co-workers as the second plane hit, and the towers fell, and people died. We knew that nothing would ever be the same. And, for hours, we were trapped like proverbial rats in NYC with no way out.

It wasn’t until mid-afternoon that we got word that city officials had lifted the Manhattan lockdown. I managed to squeeze onboard the first train out. Inexplicable though it was on that day, I just had to get on that first train out … and I just had to get to the woods. Somehow my gut was telling me that if I did, things would be okay again. And so I did.