By Jay Pyburn — April 8, 2025 

As I get older, our annual turkey hunt in California has become more than just a hunt. It marks the passage of time and the passing down of tradition to the next generation. My dear friend Cowboy’s ranch in California feels more like home every year, even though it’s not the same as it used to be. The country remains untouched and pristine, but the people around me have changed, and the experience means something different now.

To me, turkey hunting is as pure as it gets. We’re not scoring antlers as a buck steps into a clearing or as an elk slips into bow range. Those are certainly passions of mine as well, and there’s a time and place for that, but there’s something pure about hunting turkeys. It’s simple. It’s either a longbeard or it’s not. It’s about woodsmanship and interacting with the bird, not scoresheets. There’s not much I’d rather do than spring turkey hunt.

What started as a yearly trip with my uncle Jay, my brother Will, and Cowboy has turned into a lifetime of memories and friendships. Back then, it was all about learning—when to call, when to be quiet, and how to soak in the silence of the woods. It wasn’t just about hunting. It was about being mentored by men I respected and admired. My uncle is a much better hunter than I’ll ever be, and Cowboy made it all look easy. I was just a dumb kid tagging along, but I learned a lot. It became something I looked forward to all year.

Then I became a dad.

I never expected how special it would be to bring Boone to this place—the same place where I really learned how to hunt turkeys. Watching him experience the same sights and sounds I did as a kid hit me harder than I was prepared for. Seeing that same fire in his eyes that’s always lived in mine has brought me to tears more than once out there. Social media can make it look like everything goes smoothly, but the truth is, those first few years with Boone were tough. There’s nothing easy about chasing turkeys with a three-year-old. I made a mountain of mistakes. And I still find myself asking Cowboy for advice, just like the old days.

Last season, in a place that’s meant so much to me for so long, Boone got his first bird. That moment stirred up a lot for me—especially with Cowboy there. That’s exactly where Boone was supposed to get that first one, sitting on my lap, Cowboy beside us. No doubt in my mind. It took me straight back to my own childhood. Sharing that moment with the man who taught me so much, and now seeing the bond between Boone and Cowboy, brought more joy than I can explain.

This past March felt like a new chapter. This hunt has always been a family-only trip. Cowboy isn’t a guide, and I’m not either. But this year, I asked him if I could bring a small group of close friends—guys who had to see this place I’ve been talking about for years. He didn’t hesitate. He opened the gates and welcomed them in for opening weekend.

I’d been trying to get Jimmy into turkey hunting for years so he could finally understand why I’m wired the way I am about these birds. And my wife Shannon, who I’ve been married to for nine years, had never stepped foot on the ranch. We’ve been together since high school. I used to bring her turkey feathers like little souvenirs. She’s heard about Cowboy’s ranch for 16 years from me—and for the last three, from Boone almost daily.

After a ten-hour drive, we rolled into the foothills. The place felt as familiar as ever. We got in early enough to roost some birds, and by nightfall, we had a solid plan for the morning.

I’ve talked about the challenges of hunting with young kids, but this year confirmed that getting them out early was the right call. Boone was confident, patient, and steady. On opening morning, he made a perfect shot on a great tom. He’d been saying all week that he was going to shoot the biggest bird of the trip. Sure enough, he did. It was the perfect way to start things off.

It was cold and raining, so we went back to camp to hang the bird and wait out the weather. Eventually, we struck up a lone gobbler in the middle of a light rainstorm. Just as he was about to clear the timber, the skies opened up into a full downpour, with hail mixed in. Somehow, the bird kept coming. Shannon made a tough shot through the rain and dropped him right there. Boone couldn’t believe it. He was just as proud of her as he was of himself. I think he realized right then that his mom might be cooler than he thought.

Later that afternoon, the rain broke again. We headed out with three more tags to fill. The good Lord was looking out for us that day. Cowboy had a spot in mind, and it was money. We hit a crow call and got responses from multiple gobblers. We scrambled to set up, and within minutes, four longbeards were headed our way.

I sat next to Jimmy as the birds crested the hill and came straight into the decoys. Jimmy made a great shot. My youngest brother Christian dropped another bird a few seconds later for a clean double. Then another gobbler fired off from across the ridge. A few minutes later, he was on top of us, and Josh finished out the triple. It was one of those moments you don’t forget.

I told the guys, hunts like that don’t happen just anywhere. These birds haven’t been pressured. They act like turkeys should. They strut, gobble, and fight. It’s special. We sat there afterward and just soaked it all in. We laughed until our ribs hurt and took a thousand pictures. Normally, I’d push back on tagging out too fast because I want the trip to last, but with more rain coming, we didn’t waste the chance.

Back at camp, the rain picked up again—but honestly, that’s when some of the best moments happened. We sat around and talked about everything—from God to everyone’s favorite conspiracy theory. We laughed, told stories, ate way too much, and crushed two days' worth of food in one sitting. Waylon Jennings played on the Turtlebox. There were shots of Wild Turkey, and Boone enjoyed his Sprite. It was the kind of night that sticks with you forever.

The next morning, we started loading gear into the buggies. We’d parked the trucks at the bottom of the mountain ahead of the storm, knowing the road would be a muddy mess. It was. We made a few runs shuttling gear, but it was all part of the adventure.

Right before we took the first load down, Cowboy turned to me and said, “Grab your gun. Let’s go shoot a bird.”

He didn’t have to say it twice.

I hadn’t planned to hunt on this trip, but when Cowboy says something like that, you listen. I climbed into the buggy next to Will. Our legs hung off the back like we were kids again. The rain had finally cleared. The sun was out. The old crew was back together.

I’d already packed all my camo, so I borrowed a jacket and a face mask from Josh. I didn’t realize until we were halfway out there that I was still wearing my Levis.

We struck up a gobbler with my coyote locator call, and about thirty minutes later, he came in full strut, walking right toward us. Sitting there with my brother and Cowboy—who, after all these years, still feels larger than life—watching that Rio Grande show off in the sun, was one of those rare moments you wish you could freeze.

Will worked his box call, and that bird marched right to us. I made the shot. It was the perfect end to a perfect trip.

Sitting under a tree with my little brother in God’s country, doing something we both love, reminded me how lucky I am. It was pure. Simple. Special.

Like I said at the start, the place hasn’t changed—but the trip has. Sharing it with my son, my wife, my brothers, and the people I love... that’s everything. I don’t know how many more birds I’ll shoot at Cowboy’s, but I know the memories we’ve made out there are what make that place truly special.

If wild turkeys have given you something too, there’s a way to give back. Pick up the 2025 Mossy Oak Wild Turkey Conservation Stamp, featuring “Off the Roost” by Jim Turlington. 100% of proceeds go to Gamekeeper Grants—funding real, boots-on-the-ground conservation to keep wild turkeys thriving for generations to come.