Cutting short our spring gobbler season by a few days has become a standard routine for wife, Paula, and me, albeit one that always leads to concerns I’ll encounter a strutting longbeard with a fly-rod in my hand instead of my Remington 870.
It has happened before. Coming off Schrader Creek one beautiful late-May morning in Pennsylvania – comfortably within legal shooting hours – I rounded a bend in the old railroad grade that parallels the stream tight to the Bradford-Sullivan county line to the sight of a gobbler, in full strut, downright glowing in the sun.
