The road (and country music radio this time) led me to more green fields, forested cover, and I hoped, a longbeard that wanted to work. Cold calling on the warming day, I raised nothing. Shooting hours closed at noon. I eased here and there, trying to get a gobbler fired up. As always, I called before easing into the next field edge, and hearing no response, slipped up there. At that, a hen bolted, sprinting into the woods. Game over? Hardly. I set up, blackflies found me directly, but I was content. A girl turkey might bring a boy turkey in if I could call her back. It took 45 minutes, but I did: same bird, softly calling to me at just four steps, peeking under a low-lying pine bough. She putted, spooked again. I stood, eased across the field to the far woods. Called.