VIROQUA -- The old hill road cuts a long and steep groove through the oak and maple on the side of the tall ridge, long and steep enough to require a couple of rest stops before I reach the top.

My legs quiver as I pause to look up at the pre-dawn sky. A million pin-pricks of light shine through the bare canopy, just enough to silhouette the arching limbs of the tall trees.

It's the second week of May, and spring in the Driftless Area of western Wisconsin is running late. Most trees have only buds or small, newly opened leaves.

I continue the climb, hunched like a sherpa under a bulging backpack, and consider what the conditions will mean to me, a turkey hunter intent on filling a tag.

In 15 years of turkey hunting, I've amassed a list of theories but comparatively few answers. The challenge of learning the ways of the incredibly alert bird is part of the allure, of course, part of the fascination that keeps me and others coming back to the spring woods.

I flip on my headlamp briefly to negotiate a rutted washout; my breath fogs the white beam. The temperature is 38 degrees and, to my liking, the air is perfectly still.

The day before featured high winds and some rain, both of which dampened the turkey activity. It's one thing for the birds to hunker down. But it's something else entirely when they don't gobble.

Like many, I can accept not tagging a bird. Wild turkeys are wary and supremely adapted for survival on the Wisconsin landscape —- they live through the vast majority of encounters with hunters.

But if gobblers don't grace the woods with a chorus of rattling vocalizations, if they don't at least talk to me a few times, my day is far less fulfilling. The gobble is largely responsible for my personal addiction to this grand game bird.

My expectations are colored, too, by my choice of equipment. Today, like many in the past few years, I carry a compound bow, a selection that will require me to get much closer and be far more patient than if I were using a shotgun. I'm also hunting without a blind, a decision that will allow me more freedom to change locations but will require me to use greater stealth.

I pause again near the crest of the ridge. A barred owl surprises me from a tree 50 yards away, calling "who cooks for you, who cooks for you all." Another owl responds from a distant ridge, and the two continue a duet for the next minute.

As in much of life, timing and location are paramount to turkey hunting success. I begin an internal debate about where to set up.

I've hunted this property for 10 years but still mull over options each morning. Hunting pressure on the farm to the east has caused me to move away from that border, a prime spot, and now I concentrate to the north and west.

The previous day I sat in an oak flat to the north. Although there was little gobbling, a fine tom and his harem of hens walked in on me at mid-morning as I sat and called at the base of a large stump, catching me off-guard and from the right side. Right for the turkey, wrong for me.

It's difficult if not impossible for right-handed shooters to turn 90 degrees to the right and execute a draw and release. Of course I tried. The result was predictable -— before I could come to full draw, the flock saw my motion, putted and ran.

Today I opt to go south, crossing a low point in the old pasture and into a wooded draw that is often used as a roost site. Spring peepers sing loudly from the temporary wetland, engaged in their own mating conversation.

I settle into an alcove of downed hickory and wait for the sky to brighten. In 10 minutes, a ruffed grouse helps jumpstart the day, drumming out a crescendo of wing beats.

Shortly thereafter a turkey serves notice with a "gil-obble-obble-obble." The bird is to my south, perhaps 200 yards. I'm encouraged.

The next 20 minutes features more gobbling, from near and far. The closest is about 150 yards to my west, along the edge of the ravine. The farthest is, well, perhaps a mile away, the sound traveling easily in the ideal conditions.

I make a few soft yelps on a box call and get a lukewarm response. The gobbling continues amid a growing chorus of hen yelps.

The eastern horizon transforms from pink to red to yellow. Although the gobbling continues, it grows fainter and fainter, my first indication that the birds have flown down from the roost and gone in a different direction.

I hold tight, telling myself the morning is young and my location is good. The woods continue to fill with light, clumps of mayapples rising like miniature palm trees from the brown leaf litter.

After an hour of sporadic calling, I finally get a response from the north. It is perhaps 500 yards away and I decide to cut the distance. I grab my bow and move about 150 yards, near the edge of a small clearing, and kneel behind a fallen oak and against the trunk of a mature sugar maple.

I stroke a few notes on the box call and get a gobble immediately. Although the sound echoes through the woods, it appears to come from the north. I nock an arrow and clip my release to the bow string.

The first motion I detect comes from my left. A white head, round and big as a cue ball, swivels and bobs, actively looking for the source of the calls. The bird has a nice beard hanging from its chest. And it's coming closer.

The hardwood stand -— and the fact the bird is quartering from the left and moving to my front -— offers me the chance to raise my bow and draw. As the bird disappears behind an oak, I am at full draw. After another two steps, I crow call with my voice, stopping the tom. The shot is relatively easy, 15 yards and broadside, and the arrow finds its mark.

In seconds I am standing over the bird, a 2-year-old tom with an 8-inch beard and five-eighths-inch spurs. As I affix my tag to the bird, another gobbler lets loose, just 100 yards to the north.

The bird in hand was not the one I anticipated, but it is no less a treasure. I heft the 20-pound gobbler over my shoulder and hike over to the hill road.

Wood violets grow along the borders, trilliums are beginning to bloom under the oaks and the West Fork of the Kickapoo River stretches out in the distance. I don't need any rest stops, but the trip down takes longer than the climb up.