Strut Zone

While out of the country on vacation the other week, the Lone Star Outdoor News broke this story of an eastern wild turkey being taken that could possibly break the current world record for beard length on a gobbler.

Cody May reportedly shot the tom April 6 near New Boston. The bird is said to have sported a beard that stretched a whopping 22.5 inches, which if it holds, would shatter Virginia's Robert Tremblay's record of 18.125 inches taken in 1998.

Click here to read the entire report from the Lone Star Outdoor News.

The only problem May might have in officially garnering the record is that after the first official measurement at a game checking station (Easterns must be checked in Texas, not Rios), the brittle ends of the longest strands of the beard apparently broke off, leaving the tom with a still impressive 17.5 inch beard. The NWTF, which keeps records, reports that the tom can still be certified for the record if submitted with photos and a signed affidavit from the first official scorer, though the inability for others to inspect the potential record-setting beard in its original glory is sure to cloud May's claim.

The odd thing about this potential record setting turkey is that there is been very little chatter about it in the media or on many web sites that I admittedly quickly scanned. We'll follow up on this story and give you the scoop as there are more developments. Have a great weekend and get out there and hunt.

This morning began hectic like any other, scrambling to get myself and my daughter ready for work and for school. For breakfast she wanted bacon, something I don't usually have time to fix her, and chocolate milk, something we both enjoy, but that her mother would rather her not start her day off with. I fixed her both.

It felt good just doing something extremely normal, spending a few extra minutes with my little girl in the morning. Who cares if she is a minute or two late for school. In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't matter. Through it all, I can't help but dwell on and feel for the parents of Virginia Tech students who will never have that chance again—that chance to fix a meal for their child or share another laugh with them.

The images from the news the night before still haunt me, leaving me feeling sick and hollow, never mind that I don't think I knew any of the kids or the families. You don't have to to feel their pain.

I know a few kids that attend Virginia Tech, though not as many as I used to. I'm getting older now. The school has the best communications program and ag programs in the state, so my career in the media and my hunting life in Virginia have both been filled with friendships and interactions with plenty of the school's alumni. Go to any hunt club in the state, and there's a good bet the room will be a quarter full of VT graduates and current students. Heck, the school's mascot is a muscle-bound gobbler. How cool is that?

I remember playing their team in rugby when I was going to school and playing across the state at ODU, and one late night road trip that led to a hazy nighttime adventure on the campus. Good times...

But the tragedy yesterday has robbed those memories of some of their joy. It will take time to make sense of this, if sense can ever be made of such events. I remember returning to camp in Missouri after a morning of turkey hunting eight years ago, only to learn of a similar shooting at Columbine. The mood was somber throughout camp the rest of the day. What is it about April?

Already the anti-gun and pro-gun voices are bracing for the battle that is sure to come. The sound of the shots had barely died out and rhetoric was already flying on message boards across the web. You could already see the reporters on TV sharpening their accusations.

I'll leave those arguments to others. There will be plenty of time for questions and fighting later. For now, we should just extend our condolences to the university's faculty, staff, students and extended family. We should do whatever we can to help the surviviors heal.

We should hug our own kids and tell them how much they mean to us. Things can change in an instant.

I wanted to talk about turkey hunting today—I'm getting some great reports from around the country—but at the moment, it just doesn't seem as important as bacon, chocolate milk and a few extra minutes with the little one on a rainy, New Jersey morning.

My posts may not be as prompt as I'd like this time of year as I am here in Lancaster, Pa., at Lancaster Archery Supply where Outdoor Life is conducting it's annual bow test on 17 of this year's top models. It is THE most thorough test of bows in the industry. It's so tough, the requirements for even being a member of the test team have gotten to where few people even possess the skills to put these bows to the test. We've even been ordered to speak Albanian so no one can tell what we are discussing. Well, here, check out this video and see what I mean. Here's one of the testers in action...

Stay tuned. I'll do my best to bring you updates from Lancaster. Mirupafshim.

One of the bad things about being a writer is that when you screw up, it's there for all the world to see. Nick Wansha of Rochester, N.Y. was quick to jump on my case following an article I wrote for the Dec/Jan Outdoor Life where I recounted a trip I took to Alaska.

Nick wrote (the bolded words are his): "That has to be the biggest pile bull scat that I ever read! That article had to been fabricated. First, the author indicates that "Besides old-squaw and other diving sea ducks (are there any puddler sea ducks?), we also experienced prime shooting at mallards, black ducks, and other large dabblers. There are no black ducks in Kodiak, Alaska let alone prime shooting of them! The black duck resides in Atlantic and to a lesser extent, the Mississippi flyways. Obviously, this article is a farce and the author just shot down his and your magazine's credibility."

Wow, I did all of that with one mistaken identification! What a burden to shoulder. Nick is right, there are no black ducks in Alaska, but ease up dude! You're going to blow out a ventricle getting so worked up over one error.

It was one hell of a run and for long suffering Mets fans, we were thrilled to see our depleted pitching rotation holding up as it marched into the playoffs. It was the morning after New York lost to the Cards in Game 5, but the series was returning to Queens. I held a Game 4 World Series ticket in the event that the Mets made it that far so I thought it only fair to let Kevin Howard, organizer of my recent South Dakota hunt and a diehard Cardinals fan know that I might have to cut my trip to S.D. short by a day.

Unless you've been living under a rock, you know that the Cards and Mets went all the way to a dramatic Game 7 in their series. I have to admit, I was feeling pretty confident. Card-killer Carlos Beltran stood at the plate with bases loaded, two outs and his team two runs down in the bottom of the ninth, the dream drama scenario of every childhood ball player. It was his time to be a hero. The wind was still rushing around his face (and the confusion still in his mind) from Wainwright's third-strike curveball and already my cell phone started to ring.

I was in the upper deck of Shea Stadium with 50,000 other stunned and hacked off fans. It was so quiet, I actually heard my phone ring in my pocket.

"You don't have to worry about changing your flight now," Kevin gloated on the other end. As I took the verbal abuse, Winchester Ammo's Jason Gilbertson, with whom I had originally discussed betting the names of our soon-to-be born children (both of our wives are pregnant), but settled on a case of local beer instead, beeped in. I let Kevin get his jabs in and then checked the voicemail.

"Mr. Howlett, you have no doubt just watched Carlos Beltran strike out watching..." Jason's voice rambled. I'm not sure what else it said after that as I think I deleted it there.

I would have been disappointed had they not called and tormented me as you can bet, I already had them in the quick dial had Beltran come through.

To help rub salt in the wounds, Kevin wore a Cardinals NLCS Champion t-shirt (I couldn't believe he already had one. That took real planning.) each night after our hunt at Prairie Sky Guest and Game Ranch as we watched his team mount an improbable winning run against the favored Detroit Tigers.

I had honestly hoped that Detroit would slaughter the Cards and clinch the Series in St. Louis so that the fans there could suffer the same pain all of us had felt at Shea, but alas, it was not meant to be. For that, I offer my reluctant congrats to all the hunters last week who believed in their Cards even when the rest of the world rightfully doubted them. Besides the sight of a sky full of ducks and the staccato sound of a sky-bound ringneck pheasant, my most vivid memory from last weeks hunt will be Kevin's big, silly grin every time he walked by in that blood red Cards shirt. I'm glad the baseball season is over. Now I can concentrate on my hunting.

Oh, and Jason, your winnings are on their way!

While Bluegrass State hunters are enjoying great turkey seasons as a result of booming bird populations, some motorists are learning about the expanding populations the hard way--through their windshield.

WKYT in Lexington writes about one motorist's recent experience. For the complete story, click here.