On paper, my game plan in most spring gobbler seasons isto take a longbeard – or, let's be honest here, a jake – with my bow.

And I'm serious. I practice religiously; everything I do related to turkey hunting is done with reverence. My shooting entering this particular season was as good as ever (translated: decent) and I was armed, in addition to the Mathews Z7, with a portable blind as well as an umbrella-type camouflage stabilizer on my bow which, in theory, would allow me to run and gun for gobblers.

And it almost happened. On the second day of the New York season, I dragged an Essex County, public land longbeard and hen – well,actually the hen dragged the gobbler – into shooting range. There were some tense moments, for sure; the gobbler bred the hen at about 55 yards, then bothbirds worked their way slowly toward my position, tucked into some cedars,standing up, my bow positioned with the camo umbrella shielding me from view.

In typical turkey-hunting fashion, my head pounded to the beat of my heart as I watched it all unfold, just as it did nearly 35 years ago when I toted – half-dragged, actually – a single-shot, Harrington & Richardson 10-gauge I used to bag my first tom.

But this was clearly a different game. Straining to peek through the holes cut in the camo umbrella, my vision blurred and I had trouble judging the distance of the birds at times. And after about 20 minutes, my arms  and shoulders began to scream for relief, which wasn't coming until I released an arrow at this beautiful strutter I was trying to follow through the fuzziness of my camo shield.

I was getting dizzy at this point, my eyes focusing on the birds then snapped back to the camo netting, then back to the birds again. But they were closing the distance, and I was thinking this may happen.

But I knew it had to happen soon. My arms were telling me that as I wavered with the bow in front of me. Balancing on my left leg, I wiggled my right foot in the leaves, simulating a hen feeding.

The strutter let loose with a knee-buckling gobble and moved closer.

Boy, am I good, I thought.

Boy, are my arms killing me, I was quickly jolted back to reality. And I hadn't even yet drawn the bow.

But when the gobbler strolled to 30 yards, it was time. And it was then I learned – was actually reminded – that, camo or not, turkeys get a little nervous when they see any kind of movement.

The hen gave me away first, putting with some disdain. And when I drew on the longbeard, he flared violently, flying down over a ridge andout of sight. I never got off a shot.

That was bad. But the good news was his hen – his lone hen– scattered with just as much terror in the exact opposite direction.

I finally relaxed my arms, placed the arrow back in the quiver, lay down my bow and waited to stop shaking. Then I hiked out of there, went home, had a cup of coffee, worked a few e-mails, planned a few phone calls for the day, checked the clock.

At 8 a.m., I headed back out.

With the Mossberg 835.

Keep in mind, it wasn't like I promised to kill a gobbler with the bow that spring. I simply wanted to. And I tried. Probably will again, within the blind next time. I can't hold full draw endlessly waiting for a bird to materialize.

When I went back into the woodlot, I gave the gobbler a wide berth, looping around below him before getting back on the ridge where it all unfolded a couple of hours earlier. A few soft yelps, and he answered with a booming gobble, the kind that says, "I'll be there in just a minute."

And he was. Breaking in and out of strut as he worked through the hardwoods, down a slight hill, just off to my left, he ultimately presented me with a 28-yard shot.

Hevi-Shot, without a doubt, patterns better than any broadhead. I toted the 2-year-old, 18-pound tom off the hill, feeling not one bit guilty.

Sometimes you need a backup plan. Especially when it comes to turkey hunting.