MOULTRIE. Ga., — Recently I watched an old movie set around a Thanksgiving theme. The folks lived in the mountains of Appalachia, and it was their tradition to go out and kill a wild turkey for Thanksgiving dinner. Now if this was left up to me, we would be having ham or roast. The movie would have been really short with little room for drama since it’s not likely that one would get lost in the woods or accidentally shot while buying a Boston butt.

Even though I consider myself an outdoorsman, having grown up hunting and fishing with my dad and camping on Wolf Creek, I’ve only killed one wild turkey in my life.

It was the coldest day in December. My brother-in-law and I were riding around the edge of a field, having been squirrel hunting, when a big gobbler walked right out of the woods near us. I had never been this close to a wild turkey before. It was a godsend, I thought.

Now there was nothing sporting about what took place. There were no turkey calls, no fancy camouflage and no feeding the mosquitoes while awaiting a hunter’s prowess to culminate. There really was no story to tell my friends. I had not stalked my prey for days.

I stuck a 12-gauge Winchester pump out the driver’s side window and blasted the turkey. Obviously I hadn’t given this situation much thought. It was later that night before my hearing was restored. There’s a lesson there.

The big gobbler fell some 30 yards away. It had not moved, not even a flop after I pulled the trigger. When I reached down and grabbed the bird by its feet, it regained consciousness. You see I shot it with squirrel shot which is lighter than traditional turkey shot. I had only stunned it.

This gobbler then began to beat me to death with its wings. But I would not let go. It got on my head, in my face and down my back. At some point I was able to “dispatch” it. That’s a kind way of saying I killed it. No need for details.

I have never considered myself a turkey hunter, and like I said, this was not a display of frontier prowess by any means. I’m sure Field and Stream would not have accepted my story.

Then came the fun part. I ended up dressing this turkey by myself. I think I mentioned it was the coldest day of December.

 Now many hunters just breast a turkey and let the rest go. But that wasn’t the way I was brought up. If it was edible, we dressed it. It was my understanding that dressing and dumplings were invented to accommodate the other parts.

So I scalded and plucked the entire bird and then singed it with a flaming newspaper.

In this instance the gobbler became Christmas dinner.

Since that freezing December day, I have had no desire to hunt turkey. (By the way, gobbler season is in the spring, and I’m assuming the statute of limitations has long run out.)  Another lesson.

I’ve often wondered what Thanksgivings would be like if on that very first holiday the Pilgrims had celebrated with a fish fry. Several times I have suggested to my family that we break tradition and have a big platter of fried bream and catfish with hushpuppies, cole slaw, potato salad and French fries. So far, I’ve been voted down.

But like those true turkey hunters who exude much patience and stealth, I will keep making my case for fins instead of feathers.

Another note: If you’ve never plucked a scalded turkey or chicken, try it sometime. The smell of hot wet feathers will stick with you a while. It could actually be misconstrued as a weight loss program.

(Email: dwain.walden@gaflnews.com)