Not long ago I was at a dinner party where a friend of mine—I'll call him Junior—talked at length about his outdoor adventures of turkey hunting. He talked of the brown and green camouflaged clothing he wore, the weight of the gun on his shoulder as he tiptoed through the brush, the release of adrenaline a spotted turkey, and the sense of adventure that came from felling it, bagging it, and taking it home for dinner.

I was sixty-one years old with a busy schedule that included a dozen meetings, taped interviews, and speaking engagements. But the idea of that type outdoor adventure was more than I could pass up.

Junior and I made a plan and that spring we took to the Ozark Mountains, dressed, armed, and ready for adventure. He drove, leading us up winding forest roads deep into the back woods of the Ozarks. When we'd reached the end of a narrow dirt road, Junior looked at me and grinned. "Now we foot it!"

"Great!" I grabbed my gear and my gun and the two of us headed out.

We began walking. Up and up we went, moving as quietly as possible and searching the brush for any sign of movement. Some three hundred yards up the hill, through bramble and brush and dense vegetation, we heard what sounded like a turkey. A few seconds passed and suddenly there it was. The largest, grandest wild tom I'd ever seen.

"The first one's yours," Junior nodded at me.

At about that time I began to feel chest pains.

In the back of my mind I recalled that both my father and brother had died of heart attacks before their sixtieth birthday. In fact, I was the first Smalley man to survive beyond age sixty without having a heart attack. Also, Junior and I were a good fifteen miles from the nearest paved road and an hour from any medical facility.

But all of these details were only a momentary news flash in the control center of my brain. The important thing was this: I had my first wild turkey in firing range! My outdoor adventure was just getting good, which meant my chest pains would have to wait.

"Okay, be real still." Junior crouched down beside me, slow and deliberate. "Get the bird in your viewfinder."

I raised the gun and the pain in my chest ratcheted up. "I've got it!" I whispered, not so much because of the turkey but because I couldn't find my voice.

"Shoot!" Junior hissed.

The pain tripled as I pulled the trigger. As the turkey fell to the ground, so did I.

In typical guy fashion, Junior did not notice that I was now lying in a heap amidst the leaves and shrubs. He ran for the turkey, grabbed it by the feet and carried it back to me. "It's huge!" he announced. "Way to go!"

So the outdoor adventure would've been perfect except I was pretty much paralyzed on the ground in the middle of what I was fairly certain was a full-blown heart attack. "I'm … having … a heart attack." I gasped the words, using all my strength to make them loud enough for Junior to hear.

"Very funny." Junior shot back, He thought I was kidding, and he waved the turkey at me and said, "Look at this thing, will ya?" That's a great bird for your first shot, Gary."

"Junior … " my strength was waning, though a part of me was deeply proud of the turkey. "I'm serious. I'm … it's bad, Junior. I can't walk."

Though I'm often the cutup in a group setting, Junior suddenly realized I was telling the truth. He snapped into action, recognizing that we had just launched into an altogether different type of outdoor adventure.

"You can't walk? Really?" Junior's face was pale now. He rubbed the palms of his hands on his camouflaged hunting pants. "I'll go call for help—don't go anywhere."

No danger of that.

Junior swung the turkey over his back and made off through the brush. Now remember, we were at least three football fields away from our car when this happened. From my spot on the ground, I watched Junior and the turkey leave, and there I was, my face smashed against the damp sod, curled in a ball, struggling for every breath.

A fly landed on my nose, but I didn't have the strength to brush it off. I pictured other turkeys—or bobcats for that matter—circling me, pecking at me. Nibbling at my arms and legs in a kind of outdoor adventure I had never anticipated. They could have done whatever they wanted to me because I was too weak to move, too weak to care.

Thoughts raced through my mind. Thoughts that aren't entirely unheard of for a man in the midst of an outdoor adventure.

Okay, God … if this is it, thanks for such a great life … Thanks for my family … Let them know how much I love them … Let me live long enough to tell them goodbye …

Finally Junior returned, huffing and looking alarmed. "The paramedics are coming! We have to meet them down the road." Sweat beaded up on his forehead. "They aren't sure about this area."

That left us one option.

Junior picked me up much the way he'd picked up the wild turkey, heaved me over his shoulders and draped my body across his back. Now I've been eating right for three years and I'm a little lighter than I used to be. But I still say it's a miracle that Junior was able to carry me through the Ozark brush, over fallen trees and under low branches, three hundred yards back to his car.

"Hang in there, Gary," He said several times.

I was busy praying and breathing, so I moaned a little in response.

But here's the amazing thing—Junior got us to the paramedics, they got us to the helicopter, and the helicopter got me to the hospital in time to save my life! So what started out to be a basic outdoor adventure turned into a death-defying race against time—a race that involved speeding emergency vehicles, blaring sirens, and emergency air travel in a medical helicopter.

Which meant it was an outdoor adventure I'll never forget.

On a serious note, I believe prayer and Junior's heroic efforts saved my life. Doctors performed angioplasty on one of my arteries which was completely blocked—the result of fifty-eight years of poor eating habits. My cardiologist and hospital nutritionist said that my change in eating habits over the past three years helped me avoid heart damage and aided me in a quick recovery. (I detailed those eating changes in my recent book Food and Love.)

I was sitting up in my hospital bed the next day, sending out emails about my adventure. Junior was the hero, and we'll always remain best friends because of that fateful day. I know I'd be in heaven had he not been there. And the bottom line was this: I had bagged a wild turkey in the process.

Many of us guys already have the relational tools necessary to relate to other men. We enjoy a good laugh, a shared experience, or an outdoor adventure, and we're friends for life. These types of guy relational tools are important. But if these are the only relational tools in our toolbox, we're limited—not just in our relationships with women, but with each other.

The truth is, our relationships with each other would be better if we'd learn a little more about the deeper relational tools. That way we can share more than a laugh with a brother, father, son, or friend. We can share more hard times, our concerns, and our questions. We can listen and be a support to the guys in our lives.

We can even tell them we love them.

If you're one of the guys who can already do this, good for you. Our guess is you've already got a grip on one or more of the relational tools. But it never hurts to rummage through the toolbox and see what tool. That way we can share more than a laugh with a brother, father, son, or friend. We can share more hard times, our concerns, and our questions. We can listen and be a support to the guys in our lives.

Click here to buy this new book Men's Relational Toolbox

© Copyright 2003 Smalley Relationship Center

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