Thinking about turkey hunting gives me the shivers. It can happen late on a cool evening as I wonder where they’ll roost, or on a drive as a dark stump on the edge of the woods looks at first glance like a gobbler’s profile, or even on an early walk as flushing birds startle me with wings flapping. Yet what confuses me is how I can be addicted to something I’m allergic to.
My symptoms resemble those of most hay fever sufferers -- well, maybe worse. I cough like I’m hacking up a cat. My eyes water like I just finished a marathon of Love Story, The Way We Were, and Old Yeller, including the thought that would make most of us cry, the idea I was paying full price of admission to each film.
And it’s not like I haven’t sought medical help. My allergist ran a test with so many pin-pricks on my arm it looked like I’d been to an acupuncture telethon with Jackie Chan. After the results were back, all the doctor could do was stare and utter that ultimate of medical terms, “Hmmm.”
“Well, Doc, what’s it say I’m allergic to?” I asked.
After further study, he replied, “Easier to list what you’re not allergic to.”
“What would that be?” I inquired.
“Bowling balls.”
So with a diagnosis like that, the woods become a playground for things that make me sick. After the onset of such allergies, my eyes puff up like I was the loser at a Mike Tyson fight and my nose runs and becomes so irritated that I’d really like to leave it at home. Obviously, turkey hunting under these conditions is harder than finding the handlebars on a unicycle.
For starters, it’s practically impossible to call. I have adjusted how I use my mouth calls to have my own special sounds under these circumstances. For example, I’ve developed an effective fly-down sniffle. Then, there’s a call I refer to as the putt and hack, which is typically followed by my yelp and wheeze.
Sneaking up on those birds is difficult because I’m not a quiet sneezer. With a full-blown hoot, my hat lifts off my head and rings so loudly it echoes through the forest. Or possibly, those are the yells of nearby hunters telling me to quiet down.
I’ve tried pinching my nose when I sneeze, but it never works. I sound like a rampaging bull elephant with a knot in his trunk.
You’d think modern medicine would offer a cure. No such luck. I’ve tried every antihistamine, decongestant, and throat lozenge, with the primary side effect of driving me blind and putting me to sleep trying to read the fine print on the box. These things have more side effects than a bad idea at a carnival fun house. Some pills make me sleepy, some make me hyper. I should be able to take one of each and be just right. But no. It’s never that simple. The first is a four-hour dose and the second a twelve-hour dose, so it requires algebraic calculations the likes of which would cause Einstein to prefer working on his Theory of Relativity. A physicist faced with such a calculation would start like this, “If one train is traveling 25 miles per hour from the west and another is traveling thirty miles per hour from the east, where would be the best place to lie in the tracks to cure your sniffles?”
But getting back to the fine print, it also tells me to avoid operating heavy equipment. I interpret this as meaning I should be fine unless I decide to turkey hunt from a crane, farm tractor, or eighteen-wheeler. Luckily, it says nothing in there about ATVs, guns, or steep terrain.
Drug stores have yet to recognize the opportunity I offer as an allergenic turkey hunter. Nowhere have I found Real Tree Kleenex, Mossy Oak Handkerchiefs, or throat lozenges that also drive off gnats.
So I’ll throw this challenge out to the medical industry. You have two choices, but one’s got to work. You can cure me of either hay fever or turkey hunting. If you prefer to tackle the easier of the two, you should start with the first one.
