By BEN GARRETT TnHunting.Com Publisher March 14, 2006 .

The dawn found me where every turkey hunter hopes to be: Working a hot, gobbling tom turkey on the opening day of the spring gobbler season. Sitting at the base of an oak tree, the songbirds singing their melodies of spring . . .

Playing this game — trying to lure the tom turkey away from his harem of hens, using any variety of clucks and yelps and purrs to try and sound as much the part of a seductive lady turkey as possible — everything else ceases to exist. It's you and the longbeard. One-on-one. The rest of the world isn't even there.

Except on this day, there was a third party taking part. As I sat at the base of a black oak, watching the longbeard chase an inferior jake around the ridge-top some 70 yards off — intermittently spitting and drumming and strutting for a while, then chasing the joke for a while more as he attempted to impress his female companions — a spotted skunk happened to emerge from the base of a hollow tree to my left. Waltzing across the ridge no more than three yards from me, he stopped and began paying close attention to the goings-on further down the ridge, where the longbeard was at that particular time attempting to sink his spurs into the jake's back.

Though not as prevalent as their striped cousins, spotted skunks aren't too uncommon. Nevertheless, this was the first time I had ever seen a spotted skunk, and I found the little critter nearly as interesting as the fighting turkeys . . . nearly.

As I softly yelped on a slate call, built by Robbins, Tennessee's Oscar Duncan, the skunk continued to watch the turkeys, chattering softly on occasion. I knew that the Mossy Oak camouflage had done its job when the skunk paid so much attention to the ruckus off in the distance while never even glancing my way despite the fact that I was less than 10 feet behind him. Not that I wanted him to see me, of course. Pole cats, striped or spotted, have a tendency to do rather reactive (not to mention raunchy) things when they are startled . . . and I had no intentions of startling this one.

For what seemed like an hour, but was actually only about 15 minutes, I continued to watch the turkey gobble and strut in front of me, while the skunk slowly sauntered across the ridge, intently watching the ground for breakfast — though that would probably be supper for him, since it was past bedtime for this little fellow — while pausing occasionally to take in the action on down the ridge.

Eventually, the tom chased the jake over the hill and I waited for him to finish kicking tail and come back looking for the hen that had been calling so enticingly a few minutes before. But it didn't happen.

Growing desperate to keep him from leaving the area with his harem, I started hitting the slate aggressively, calling with all I had in an effort to draw the ol' boy back to the ridge top. The hard yelps were a bit more than the skunk could handle, as he turned tail (as opposed to raising it, fortunately) and headed in a hard run for the cover of a fallen log. Scurrying behind the log and out of sight, I could hear him sounding the alarm for all creatures great and small that something had invaded the solitude of this oak ridge.

The skunk continued to chatter, joined by an alarmed chipmunk which had taken heed to what the skunk was warning, as a ruffled grouse drummed one ridge over and the tom turkey below me continued to gobble and double-gobble every time I hit the slate call, joined by two additional gobblers sounding off from just over the hill behind me. It all added up to compose a melody that could hardly be replaced by Sousa or any of the big band greats, proving that nature's orchestra truly is the best music there is.

Some several minutes later, the longbeard below me was continuing to gobble at my slate, but refusing to come back up the hill, while the toms behind me crested above me and began easing in my direction. Choosing a moment when the toms disappeared behind a tree, I swung the Winchester 1100 around, then waited until the closest had closed to within 12 yards before drawing a bead and completing the hunt. And, for the first time since daybreak, the ridge grew silent.

But not for long. The remaining tom putted around a bit, then continued drumming, still searching for the lady bird that had been calling him, not aware that the roar of the Winchester had just dropped his comrad. The ruffled grouse resumed drumming out his lovebeat, while the chipmunk continued to chirp. The spotted skunk . . . well, he had apparently decided to move on, and sauntered over the hill, pausing once to look back in the general direction from which the gunshot had just come, then continuing on his way.

Few people get to experience nature's awe like this. Those of us who do are dressed in camouflage and pay the TWRA annually for the right to do so. On this morning, I was able to experience one of those rare occasions (for me, at least) when everything goes perfectly right in the sport of turkey hunting.

No, the majority of people may not get to experience this game and may be unable to comprehend the awesome wonders of spring that combine with the excellent hunt offered by the wild turkey and propel it towards surpassing the whitetail deer for title of the big game genre's most popular animal. But me and the skunk . . . we know.

Got a story you'd like to contribute? Email tnhunting@evening-sun.net