The Grand Slam of Wild Turkey is the successful harvest of an Eastern, Rio Grande, Merriam’s, and Osceola. Then there’s the Royal Slam, which is a Grand Slam plus the Gould. Add an Ocellated, and you have the World Slam. After 35 years of chasing turkeys, I completed my World Slam!
It started when I was 17 years old. I shot an Eastern with my Remington 870, a birthday present from my dad the year prior. I harvested this beautiful bird in the woods behind my childhood home in Orchard Park, New York, home to Quaker Boy Game Calls and founder/turkey hunting legend, Dick Kirby.
On that same birthday, my high school girlfriend’s mother bought me video on VHS tape from this fantastic homegrown company. One segment included in the video was a how-to about roosting a wild turkey. My birthday falls in October, but the New York spring turkey season wouldn’t open until May. During this agonizing six-month stretch, I watched that video at least a hundred times and practiced my owl hoot thousands of times. I drove my family up the wall, but when May finally arrived, I was ready to roll.
My mother always did a fantastic job with dinner, and my father made damn sure we were all at the kitchen table for her wonderful creations. I remember wolfing down my supper, absolutely dying to hit the woods behind the house to try roosting an elusive gobbler at sunset. When I say elusive, I mean elusive. Back then, the turkey numbers were nothing like they are today, which is a testament to hunter dollars and the great work of the National Wild Turkey Foundation (NWTF)
My dad could tell that I had something important on my mind. He finally gave in. He looked at me, half annoyed, half proud, and just said, “Go!”
I was excused just in the nick of time. I grabbed my black-plastic, can-style Quaker Boy owl hooter, laced up my K-Mart hunting boots, and hit the ground running. We had an enormous block of beautiful hardwoods behind the house that went on for miles, with railroad tracks bisecting the big tract of forest. The year before, a buddy and I tried to work a bird just off the tracks to no avail. That was the first time I ever heard a turkey gobble. We didn’t end up killing that bird. We bumped him off the limb—just being young and dumb.
Anyway, I finally reached the exact location from the year before and pulled out my owl call. Per Dick Kirby’s instruction, right at sunset, I let out a “Who cooks for you, who cooks for you all!” My hoot rang out across the big hardwood bottom, and I’ll be damned if a bird didn’t immediately answer the call with a deep, hard, Eastern turkey gobble not 100 yards away. I went into a mild state of shock.
I darted home to dial my best friend, Jeff Bevevino (aka Bev), who lived just down the way. Remember when you had everybody’s phone number memorized? This was 1989.
(Bev’s father, Jim Bevevino, to whom I am forever grateful for introducing me to hunting two years earlier).
The phone conversation went something like this:
- Bev: “Hello?”
- Me: “Hey, it’s Pawlak. Man, you’re not going to believe this…I just roosted a gobbler behind the house.”
- Bev: “No way!”
- Me: “Yep, he’s on the other side of the tracks, off Middlebury Road, by the pond.”
- Bev: “I guess we’re not going to hit that party tonight. I’ll be at your house at 4:45 a.m. sharp!”
If it was the weekend in Orchard Park, New York back in the late ’80s or early ’90s, there was a high school party going on somewhere, and Bev and I were typically in attendance. Not this time. Bev came rolling up in his cherry red 1970 Ford pick-up at 4:45 a.m. on the dot. I set my shotgun behind the seat and jumped in. We discussed how neither of us had slept a wink and devised a plan of attack.
We decided to drive down Knob Hill Road, hit Middlebury, and park at the dead end. This would save us a long walk through the spooky, pitch black, haunted forest. Instead, we would take the long way and walk the tracks to the dominant tom’s roost.
We finally arrived. It was still pretty dark when I hit the owl call. We were rookie turkey hunters, but again, that ol’ tom let out a thunderous gobble high from his perch. Bev’s eyes opened wide. “Wow, he’s right there!” he whispered.
It was an extremely steep bank off the railroad rock apron leading down into the hardwood bottom where the bird was perched. We were whispering back and forth, trying to figure out how to descend from the tracks to the forest floor without making a racket. Just then, way off in the distance, we heard the whistle of the morning train.
It was decided. We would wait. When the train came rumbling by, we would use the noise as cover and slip into position. The massive smoke-breathing locomotive was finally on us, and we dropped in. We found comfortable ambush sets at the bases of two big silver maples, about 10 yards apart. This way, we figured we could cover a larger area should the gobbler commit.
As the train rolled on, it became quiet again. I don’t remember the Spring woods coming alive as the sun began to rise. There was dead silence. And then, when it was just light enough, I hit the plunger on a Quaker Boy Easy Yelper four times: yelp, yelp, yelp, yelp. Way too loud—I had no idea how effective a light tree call could be back then. But, unbelievably, the bird answered me with another thunderous gobble. He was still on the limb, not 80 yards from our turkey-hunting setup. At least I had the sense not to call again. Two minutes later, we heard him hit the ground. I called again. He hammered back and it shook us to our core. I didn’t dare touch the call again until he gobbled on his own. I then answered back with my way-too-loud series of four yelps.
Unbeknownst to me, Bev was able to watch the entire show, the flydown, the tom in and out of strut, and his methodical approach. Where I was positioned, I could only hear him. I later learned that Bev could have killed him on two different occasions, but the bird was still closing the distance, so he let him come. What an unselfish young hunter! The old tom then swung around to the direction of my call and I smoked him at 10 yards. We ran up to the flopping longbeard. We were in utter disbelief. Speechless and still shaking, we just looked from the dead tom to each other.
That was it. I was hooked. In 35 years, I’ve never missed a Spring turkey season.
My Best Hunt
If you ever get the chance, head to the jungles of the Yucatan Peninsula and hunt for the Ocellated. This place is impossible to describe. The best outdoor writers on the planet cannot adequately put this Indiana Jones-type adventure into perspective. All I can say is, call WTA, ask for Mike Mason, and book with WTA-owned outfitter Balam. This adventure deep in the jungle is something you will never forget.
My Biggest Bird
In 2004, I took a 26-pound Rio in Stafford, Kansas with a 12″ beard and enormous hooks. However, the best part of this hunt wasn’t the size of this bird. It was meeting Dr. Fritz and Judy Farmer and their two pet wolves, Cubby and Bear. Judy has since passed on. She was a wonderful, sweet, generous woman…the very best. Fritz became a friend for life.
My Merriam’s
In 2002, I took my first Merriam on a DIY hunt on a stunning stretch of property in Gregory, South Dakota. It consisted of incredible draws stretching out forever, it seemed, but eventually ending at the mighty Missouri River. One of the best aspects of pursuing The Slam is the country you get to see.
My Gould
This bird took me two attempts. In 2008, I was unsuccessful when I traveled to Chihuahua, Mexico on an exploratory/DIY hunt. This past Spring 2025, I hunted with Muy Grande Outfitters and got it done on the first morning. I love hunting in Mexico. There is something special about the Mexican culture and the landscape. It’s like stepping back in time. I can’t get enough of this wonderful country.
My Osceola
Again, it took two attempts for this stubborn Florida bird. But in 2007, I got it done on client Lake Lytal’s masterpiece of a Florida farm. I killed him during the last second of the last day before I had to catch an afternoon flight. We were just about to give up when we heard a bird gobble. We quickly set up on him. I got lucky and killed him at 40 yards. It was my first Osceola and the first time I ever ate pompano, the best-tasting fish in the ocean!
35 years is a long time. These days, I just want to chase turkeys near my home. Specifically in Nebraska’s Pine Ridge with my 12-year-old niece, Gracie. It’s a run-and-gun-style hunt in rolling, gorgeous country where we walk for miles and miles. She’s into it. Her eyes and ears are gaining the sharpness of a turkey hunter, and her constant questions are priceless. Someday, if she wants to, we’ll travel all over the place and hunt all six species of the wonderful wild turkey. This brings me a lot of peace.
I know all of the ardent turkey hunters out there have stories, and I would love to hear them all! This is my story, and I hope you liked it.
