There are books that explain and there are books that entertain. Then there are books like Tenth Legion. A book that proves that you’re not totally crazy.
First published in 1973, Colonel Tom Kelly’s Tenth Legion isn’t a how-to manual or a hunting memoir. It’s a confession. A love letter. A self-aware rant from a man who knows exactly how foolish he sounds and chooses to say it all anyway.
It’s a book that doesn’t just describe turkey hunting, it describes turkey hunters.
Kelly opens the book with a reminder of who we’re all chasing:
In the southern part of the United States, there lives a remarkable bird. A bird that has lived wild in the woods for centuries. A bird who has no less authority than Benjamin Franklin put forth in candidacy as the national emblem of our country. A bird who, hatched in May, will at the end of the first summer weigh ten pounds. A bird with a long neck and legs, a blue head, and with breast and back feathers of a subdued though iridescent beauty. A bird whose sense of hearing is simply phenomenal, whose sense of sight is even better than that, and who bears about the same resemblance to a barnyard turkey as I do to Jack Dempsey—in his prime.
The name of this bird is Meleagris gallopavo sylvestris, the Eastern Wild Turkey.
Excerpt from TENTH LEGION by Col. Tom Kelly
I first heard of TENTH LEGION from this short film from Mossy Oak. I highly recommend giving it a watch if you haven’t already.
Any quote you see in this week’s issue are the words of Colonel Tom Kelly, not my own.
The Compulsion
Tom outlines this obsession plainly:
“I do not hunt turkeys because I want to; I hunt them because I have to.”
That sounds about right.
If I’m being honest, I’d rather not roll out of bed at 4 a.m. and drive into the middle of nowhere. I’d rather not hike into the woods in pitch-black darkness, find a tree, and sit with my back against it while the wind whispers through the branches and something crunches in the leaves ten feet away.
There’s nothing peaceful about it.
The woods at that hour are not for the timid. They’re cold, and still, and silent in a way that messes with your head. You can’t see your hand in front of your face. You don’t know if that tom you think you heard is 200 yards out or watching you from five feet away. Every step you took to get there is a distant memory you’re not sure you trust anymore. There’s no romance to be had until the sun comes up.
But still I go. Not because I want to. Because something in me says I have to.
In some cases, you could argue calling this dedication. But really, I know it’s a sickness. I’m just happy I’m not the only one who has it.
The Ohio Season
Turkey season in the Buckeye State opens later than most. By the time it rolls around in mid-April, I’ve already watched guys in the South tag out twice. I’m behind before I start.
Every year, I say I’ll scout. That I’ll wake up early before the season to find new birds. That I’ll do it right.
But every year, some other responsibility wins. A perfectly placed 9:30 meeting has killed my scouting plans more than once.
We get four weeks. That’s it. Four weeks to go to war with a bird that holds every advantage.
“He can hear you yelp at a quarter of a mile, can instantly from that single sound absolutely fix both your direction and your distance and could, if he wanted to, pitch directly from the tree in which he sits and light on your head. He is utterly and wholly suspicious of everything and everybody and unless he is taken over bait or is shot at long range with a rifle has all the cards.”
“Not only does he hold all of the good cards, he can read the back of yours."
If I had it my way, I’d quit my job for reasons of insanity so that I could spend every one of those days in the woods. But even then, there’s no promise I’d even see a bird, let alone kill one.
“Like all other contact with turkeys, you know that for every one that you do see there are dozens that you don't.”
I’ve killed one turkey in my life. The only one I’ve had in range. On paper, I’m batting a thousand. In real life, I’m failing to uphold my end of the bargain in calling myself a turkey hunter.
“The bird possesses a remarkable ability to turn arrogance into hopelessness.”
You don’t outsmart a tom. If he shows up, it’s because he let you get lucky. He’ll gobble hard on the roost, then ghost you as soon as he hits the ground. He’ll go silent when you think he’s close and blow your setup when you’ve already started walking away. He’s playing chess while you’re holding mismatched Uno cards.
Every time I think I’ve cracked the code, he reminds me I’m a damned fool for deciding to get out of bed.
Keep Going
In the end of Tenth Legion, Tom provides a clear call to action:
“Let me deliver the only final and absolute rule that must be followed to achieve membership in the legion.”
“All in the hell you have to do is TRY.”
If I had any common sense, I’d stop going.
There are easier ways to spend a spring morning. But I keep going. Even when it’s dark. Even when it’s pointless. Even when my wife questions why she married a adult onset wild turkey psycho.
I’m writing this newsletter the Friday before the season opener. By the time you read this, the first day of the season will have come and gone and I’ll likely be back in the woods when this hits your inbox on Sunday morning.
I will end my fiftieth issue of The Field Review with the most famous line from Tenth Legion:
“The first turkey that ever came to me on the ground did it a long time ago. I sat there with my hands shaking and my breath short and my heart hammering so hard I could not understand why he could not hear it. The last turkey that came to me last spring had exactly the same effect, and the day that this does not happen to me is the day that I quit. The last one that ever does come to me will call forth the same emotion that the second one did. I will sit there waiting, gun up and heart thundering, and say to myself what I have said on every single occasion since the second one.”
“I am glad I lived to see it—one more time.”
That’s it. This is why I will go out tomorrow, and every spring opener from now until the day I die.
In hopes to see it, just one more time.
P.S. - an edit coming to you on Sunday morning. I’m proud to share that I did get to see it one more time. My first opening day tom. Still batting .1000, more on this story later.
From My Desk:
What I’m Thinking/ Doing: Happy Easter! We’ll be enjoying time with family, sharing the gender of Baby Westerheide and (me) retelling my turkey success story from yesterday.
On Deck for Monday: I might just refer to tomorrow in the same way I refer to Mondays after the Cleveland Browns somehow win a game. Tomorrow will be a ‘Victory Monday’. Coming out of the turkey woods and into the business world is always a hard transition.
From The Field Review Archives:
The Field Review is a space for exploring the intersection of work, life, and the great outdoors. It’s about figuring ‘it’ out—whatever your ‘it’ might be.
Every Sunday at 10AM EST, I share ideas, insights, and conversations that help break through the noise, offering a real look at how we can all keep moving forward.
If you have any thoughts, questions, or topics you'd like me to explore in future newsletters, feel free to reach out!
Venture Onward,
Jack
Fantastic piece, Jack! I’ve hunted these birds in VT for 25 years now, and you hit the nail on the head. That emotional rush, that intense connection to a bird who is looking for you, and that tremendous thundering gobble just before he goes quiet. So addictive. For me, in that instant that we lock eyes and my forefinger tenses slowly, we are one. Beautiful piece Jack!
Congratulations on a nice bird!