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Bill Harmon and Mike Pearce with Turkey taken 1998
The last hunt
BY MICHAEL PEARCE
The Wichita Eagle
CHAUTAUQUA COUNTY - Ten years ago today, I took a dying friend on his last hunt.
It was the most amazing day of my life, filled with the deep love of friends, testaments to the power of the human spirit and, I believe, miracles.
Things happened that can't otherwise be explained. Most notably was an angelic tom turkey that helped my friend, Bill Harmon, fulfill a dream that had sustained him long past when doctors said he'd probably die.
That special bird, with Bill's help, pulled me from a deep sadness that had shadowed me for months.
A sullen spring
My 1998 turkey season was destined for disappointment months before it began.
For much of 1997, I had been near my father's side as he battled bone cancer.
Even when the diagnosis was grim I hoped his health held for at least one spring turkey hunt.
Dad and that dream died Thanksgiving morning. A hollowness hung with me well into spring.
It was gnawing so deep one afternoon near Sedan, I cut a hunt short and considered shelving the season.
That's when I walked from the woods and found Bill Harmon sitting in a lawn chair in a friend's yard.
It was the first day of the spring meeting of the Outdoor Writers of Kansas. Bill, an outdoors writer for several small-town papers, had been a regular at the bi-annual gatherings the 15 years I'd known him.
I heard Bill's quiet "Do any good?" before I saw him.
A look at his gray, gaunt face and deep, dull eyes initially brought bad memories.
When I told Bill I'd passed on a chance to shoot a young jake, he hissed, "Passed? I'd love to take a jake tomorrow."
When I asked "Tomorrow?" Bill whispered he hoped he'd feel well enough for a few hours afield.
I shouldn't have been surprised.
Turkey hunter
Bill always got his money's worth out of life. He found fun on even the most mundane of days.
Seldom without a smile, his loud laugh rolled like thunder. His handshake always hurt.
About the time my dad died, Bill was diagnosed with cancer and told by doctors he probably wouldn't see the new year.
Bill disagreed. He wanted one last spring turkey season.
Few things enthralled Bill as much as turkey hunting.
Most conversations eventually led to talk of gobblers. The sounds of his mouth calls often heralded his presence.
Many smiled when news spread Bill shot a jake on the season's opening day in April 1998.
Rather than load up on pain killers and await the inevitable, he headed to Missouri for an unsuccessful hunt.
Upon his return, Bill's doctor stressed, "Get your affairs in order... soon."
He did. Bill grabbed his remaining Kansas turkey tag and headed to the Chautauqua Hills with Thayne Smith for their last trip in 35 years of deep friendship.
They'd just arrived when I walked from the woods. Bill and I talked turkey hunting until he went to bed in the early evening.
I hated to see him go.
Many struggle to face someone in Bill's condition, worrying what to say to someone in their final days.
I felt better around Bill than anyone in months, no doubt because of the experience with my dad.
That night I asked Thayne if I could guide them the next day.
Thankfully, he accepted.
The final hunt
Bill was up before dawn and bundled in winter camouflage to stay warm on a mild spring day.
Hoping to improve our odds, I asked cattleman John Doty if he could take us to what we sometimes called the "Jake Pasture."
There the young toms were often plentiful and suckers for calls.
He regretfully declined. Famed camo designer and television host Bill Jordan was to fly in that morning and had sole access to that side of the ranch.
Doty was also expecting delivery of cattle that day.
At our hunting spot, Thayne guided Bill like someone helping a baby beginning to walk. He moved rocks and limbs from Bill's path, all the while holding him for balance in the five minutes it took to get a few yards.
Thayne layered coats and thick cushions behind and below Bill, hoping to spare his tender body from rocks and rough bark.
Thayne's "Good luck" was sincere as he drove my truck from sight.
Distant toms gobbled at my calls but wouldn't come. Bill repeatedly whispered, "What a beautiful morning," as he scanned the prairie.
I knew what he was thinking.
Bill needed help into Thayne's RV at mid-morning. Halfway to bed he turned, thanked me, and asked, "What time this afternoon?"
He was asleep seconds after he hit the bed, still dressed in camo.
After lunch I slowly drove back roads, marveling at Bill's tenacity while wishing for even such a challenging hunt with my father.
Later at the lodge, I found Bill ready to go. So was John Doty.
Jordan's jet had mechanical problems and he wasn't coming. The cattle shipment had been inexplicably delayed.
Despite a backlog of chores, Doty's time and land were ours.
In John's super-cab we slowly patrolled the rough trails amid the Jake Pasture.
Bill grimaced often but always insisted we keep hunting. It was if he knew something spectacular lay ahead.
Repeatedly we stopped and tried to start toms gobbling with my calls. After several hours, a pair of creek bottom gobbles raised our spirits.
Our optimism faded when we could drive no closer than 80 steep yards from where we needed to set up. Bill read the disappointment in my face.
"I think I can make it, if you'll carry my stuff," he said, using his hands to swing his legs from the truck.
He began a wobbly walk down a rutted and rocky hillside, not waiting for Thayne and me to catch up.
Many times Bill teetered and looked like he'd fall, only to be righted in time for the next staggering step.
He managed the stepping stones at a stream with a ballerina's grace.
Unfortunately the turkeys were twice the distance and heading away when I called again.
Bill, showing deep fatigue, cheerfully said he was content to sit against a tree until dark, listening to me call.
My eyes moistened as I thought of Bill's thoughts. He was probably down to the final minutes of something he'd so long enjoyed.
My mind slid to my dad's last days and his sadness of so many things he'd never do again.
As down as I'd been in months, I turned to prayer.
Most of my prayers are of appreciation and/or seeking direction.
That time, I clasped my hands and prayed hard only for something special for Bill.
When I opened my eyes I resumed calling, not knowing the prayer was being answered.
Heaven sent
Thayne and John later said it was about the time of the heavenly request that a mature tom, trailed by a hen and four jakes, passed within about 20 yards of where they sat talking in John's bright blue tuck.
The flock was headed into the valley, toward my calls.
We had no clue of the birds until the hen answered four of my yelps with four of her own.
They were coming from the west. Bill was facing east and couldn't see, let alone get a shot at, the birds.
We were terribly exposed from that angle and got busted.
The jakes stopped 30 yards from the creek, pacing and putting nervously.
The mature longbeard came to the stream's edge 15 yards away.
Something instantly seemed unique about the bird, especially his actions.
Wild turkeys are feather-coated bundles of fear that seldom stand still and panic at any perceived danger.
This bird was calm, standing on the stream's edge despite the alarmed jakes and camo forms he easily saw.
The young jakes eventually headed south. The older tom double-timed to the front and turned them with an imposing half-strut.
Like a collie working cattle, he hazed them northward up the valley. He paid the hen, who was yelping as she followed, no attention.
The flock faded from sight toward trees where I figured they were late to roost for the night.
By then, shadows deeply shrouded the valley.
I was calling more from habit than hope. A coyote began repeated howls close by.
Bill was slouched on his left side. All but dark, it appeared his turkey hunting career was over.
I was about to rise when I looked north and saw five familiar wattled faces coming through thick brambles with the special longbeard in the lead.
I was stunned the birds hadn't roosted. They had crossed the creek and were coming through dense cover into an area of known danger. I whispered, "There they are, Bill, in front of you."
Bill began the slow process of pushing himself back up against the tree.
As my eyes darted between Bill and the birds, I saw the old longbeard standing stoic as the jakes paced behind.
Bill struggled. Twice he didn't have the strength to shoulder the gun. The tom still calmly stood in plain sight.
Bill third try worked as he grunted and strained to get the gun's stock shouldered as the barrel bobbed wildly.
The tom then lowered its head and stepped to the side, revealing a jake in the clear.
For a split second the muzzle steadied, a shot sounded and Bill's requested jake dropped.
The surviving jakes flew as I ran to the downed bird.
Turning, I saw the longbeard standing not 20 yards away. Time seemed to hang as we calmly looked at one another. Eventually it walked into thick brush and disappeared.
Instead of being down in pain from the magnum's recoil, Bill was standing and smiling. His handshake had a grip, his voice echoed in the valley and his eyes glowed with life.
The next morning, that light was fading fast.
Bill Harmon died at his home in Durham 12 days following what he called "the best turkey hunt of my life."
Looking back
In the decade since our hunt, I've mentally replayed so many incredible things that still leave me in awe.
Bill's determination and desire have long motivated me.
Thayne and John both impressed me with their deep dedication to helping a dying friend on his last day afield.
But in my mind there's no question we had some truly miraculous assistance.
I can't see it as coincidence that Jordan had plane problems and Doty's cattle shipment was delayed.
Or that Bill had the balance to navigate the steep hill that challenged me and the strength to rise and make the shot.
No way.
Nor is there an explanation for the actions of the longbeard Doty never again saw on his ranch.
In 30 years of hunting turkeys across America, I've never seen a tom so calm, or one found on the ground so late in the day.
It had to have seen Bill struggling in plain sight, yet the feathered gift from above stood steady until Bill could fire.
I have long believed in good people getting their just rewards in the next world. Bill got his most cherished reward a bit early.
I was as much a benefactor from the day as Bill.
Even through its many frustrations, the day spent hunting with my cancer-stricken friend soothed me more than anything since my father's death.
In several ways it felt like I was again in dad's presence, especially toward the end of the day.
I know that from the time I was at Bill's jake, and looked into the eyes of that magical longbeard, the hollowness of not having a final hunt with my father forever disappeared.
