Our turkey camp in South Carolina showed up exactly how it should.
There were five of us at camp this year—same crew, same tradition—although it was supposed to be six. We gave one a pass this time… he got the call for a hunt of a lifetime, so we’ll let it slide this year. This just meant he couldn’t defend himself during the firepit banter.
From the first morning, it felt like we never missed a beat. The weather was perfect ranging from 45-80 degrees from Thursday thru Sunday. This resulted in cool starts, birds talking, and that mix of anticipation and chaos that only turkey season always brings.
Between us, we struck three good longbeards. Each one hard-earned. The kind of hunts where things don’t go perfectly, or maybe one did, but that’s what makes it stick. There were plenty of close calls too—hung-up birds, a bust or two, and a few that will definitely get another shot next year.
But like always, the hunts were only half the story.
Back at camp, it was everything you hope for. Fresh shrimp out of Beaufort hitting the table, a smoker rolling with Boston butts all weekend, and a steady rotation of cold beverages in hand. Stories got better with every retelling, laughs came easy, and for a couple days, nothing else really mattered.
That smoker, though—that’s got a story of its own.
It was a wedding gift from this same crew. We’d joked for years about how I needed something portable for weekends like this—something easy to throw in the truck and take to camp. Their logic was simple: the best gifts are the ones you can benefit from too.
So, they showed up with a Weber Smokey Joe—and from day one, it earned the nickname “R2D2.” Small, round, nothing flashy. But you know it flat out gets the job done. And just like this weekend, it proved again that big things come in small packages.
On Saturday we had it going nonstop—smoking BBQ, feeding the crew, keeping everyone close to the fire a little longer than planned. It became the center of camp in the same way these weekends always revolve around something simple.
We watched the Masters, talked about old hunts like they happened yesterday, and just slowed things down a bit. For a group of guys that don’t get together nearly enough, that time means more every year.
That’s what this weekend has become.
Yeah, we’re chasing birds. Yeah, we want to strike. But at this point, it’s just as much about showing up—for the tradition, for the friendships, and for a weekend that never seems long enough.
Three birds on the ground is a win.
But the time spent together—even the guys who couldn’t make it—that’s the part you carry with you.
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