Say, a few years—when I strayed from the gospel of spring turkey and fell into the chaos of snow goose hunting.

It was bad, man. I willfully gave up sacred time in the turkey woods to chase those white devils up and down the Central Flyway with the best in the business. My longest stint on the road was 26 days in a row, and I don’t care who you are or how many birds you kill along the way—26 consecutive days of feed hopping across the country is the most exhausting adventure a waterfowler can experience.

But I did it, with a smile on my face, belly full of gas station goodies, and a camera around my neck to capture it all. In the moment, I thought I was chasing opportunity—when I was really just chasing chaos.

I wrote about it once for YETI—an article titled Chasing Chaos. I can’t find the damn thing now, but the essence is still tattooed somewhere between my shoulder blades: that thrill of the grind, the “kill 'em all” mentality, the constant motion—and how, at the end of it all, I came home more tired than fulfilled.

And listen—don’t run me outta town on a rail—there are moments in the snow goose game that are truly electric. But something always felt...off. Like I was feeding the wrong beast.

And then I came back to turkey hunting.

I was 12 years old in Elmwood, Wisconsin. Day three of a five-day season. The rain wouldn’t let up, but I was locked in—laser focused with a foam decoy staked in front and my dad calling behind me. A jake slid in silent, brushing the end of my barrel on his way to the call. My heart was pounding so hard I swore he could hear it—but outside, I was a statue. Cold. Still. Ready to bag my first tom, and I wasn’t about to let him or the weather stop me.

I’ll never forget what my dad said:

"Hang in there. As soon as this rain stops, we’re gonna get one."

Sure as hell, after two and a half days, the clouds broke. The sun cracked through and lit up the valley. We drove to a hidden cornfield tucked deep in the coulee bottoms of bluff country and spotted birds—a tom, a few hens, and a pair of jakes.

We quietly snuck out of the truck, slowly pushed the doors closed, and loaded the gun. With my dad on point, the adrenaline was racing through my veins as we Seal Team Six’d our way into the corner of the field. I picked a tree. He put out the deke and hit the call.

POW!

That first gobble lit up the valley like thunder. My heart rate was already through the roof—and now, it’s off the charts. What came next is now carved in stone as the beginning of a lifelong addiction.

That hunt changed everything for me.

Since then, I’ve hunted birds in nearly every way you can imagine—Except reaping.

I have yet to try that, and truth is, I don’t think I will. Nothing against it—I just love the cat-and-mouse game. I’ve hunted with friends. With my wife. Solo. Shit I brought my mom on a turkey hunt for Mother’s Day because it was the last day of the season and I still had a tag to fill! I’ve hunted in the pines. On beaches. Across cottonwood bottoms and in the steepest damn country you’ve ever seen. I’ve been humbled by henned-up toms, snuck up on by silent stalkers, and laughed my ass off when plans fell apart mid-hunt.

But Over Time, I’ve Realized This Truth: Spring is Better Spent Chasing Turkeys.

It’s not about numbers. It’s not even about pulling the trigger. It’s about the show. The strategy. The intimacy of that chess match where every move matters.
It’s reading terrain. Knowing when to push. When to shut up. When to coax. When to let ‘em walk.

I live for that moment when a gobbler cuts you off mid-call and you know—he’s coming.

I love the conversations, the late-night cribbage games, the near-misses, the misdirection, and the long silences when nothing happens—and then everything unfolds in a matter of seconds. And the morels! Don’t even get me started on the morels!!!

And yeah, I’ll still run solo if I have to. Some of the best hunts of my life have been just me, a bird, and the woods. But what I really crave now is sharing that experience. Bringing a buddy. Hunting with my boys. Watching someone else’s hands shake when that gobbler breaks into view.

That’s the good stuff, man.

The thing is—snow goose hunting always felt like a battle.
Chasing longbeards feels like a story. Each hunt is its own little novel. Some end in heartbreak. Some end with the cowboy riding off into the sunset. But every one of them leaves you better than you were. Sharper. Quieter. More tuned in to the land, the birds, and the people you’re with.

So yeah, spring is for turkeys.
Always has been. Always will be.

Because in a world full of noise, gobbles still cut the loudest.