Casually late (forecasters had called for heavy rain, but it didn’t), I hadn't park my truck at the local southern Maine farm until around 7:15 a.m. that cloudy opening “A Season” morning. After the walk into the far woods over a big green pasture, I’d heard gobblers sound off on their own. Cursed briefly by indecision, I took longer than I should have to find a good setup, but settled on one. My first series of yelps were cut off with multiple gobbles. I laid the pot and peg down at my side, and aimed my shotgun in that direction, scanning the woods the way we do. They hammered back, closing the distance. I felt that sweet tension we all hunt for . . .