Back in October, The Boss waved his magic job-wand and made me an outdoors columnist, much to the chagrin of my mom (who thought I’d get lost), and many readers (who thought they should get the job instead). Since then, life has been busy.

First, I had to successfully complete a hunter safety course in which the average age was about 13 … and at which I found out that I fit in quite nicely.

Shortly after that, I figured out that if I’m going to hunt in this state – and write about those who do – I’d have to learn to talk turkey.

The spring turkey season, plenty of folks assured me, may well spoil a fledgling hunter like me. Everyone told me about the excitement involved, and the adrenaline rush that came when a turkey answered your call … and strutted into view.

Of course, there was one complicating factor: In this state, if you want to talk to the turkeys, you’ve got to win the lottery first. Permits are allotted in a random draw.

Of course, being an eternal optimist, I didn’t worry about that part. Every family has one member like me. My brother and sister are the smart ones. My mom and dad are the hardworking ones. And me? Well, I’ve always been the lucky one.

Honest.

My first memories of being lucky revolve around the Bangor State Fair. At some point in our yearly family fair forays, Mom would always bow out for an hour, belly up to the Bingo table, and try to win a prize.

But before the rest of us were allowed to amble off, guzzle lemonade and gobble doughboys, I had a job to do: I had to touch Mom’s Bingo cards.

You’re the lucky one.

And as such, I never assumed a silly little lottery would foil my plans to do a bit of turkey hunting this spring.

Unfortunately, I did the single thing a previously lucky one can do in order to mess up his genetic tendency toward being fortunate.

I planned ahead.

I know. I know. It was a bad idea, bound to foul up some perfectly good karma.

But you’ve got to remember. I’m an outdoors columnist. And opportunities to plan ahead abound in this line of work.

Like a couple of weeks ago, when I checked the mail and found a book called “Turkey Hunting Tactics of the Pros … Expert Advice to Help You Get A Gobbler This Season.”

I quickly checked out the book and tried to see if the author would teach me the difference between a “yelp” and a “cluck” and a “purr” and a “cackle” and a “putt.”

The book covered calling and scouting and everything else you’d need to know about turkeys. Heck, they even had a chapter about “Hunting Henned-Up Gobblers.” I figured the book was worthwhile, and a good first step toward turkey town.

Ah, turkey town! In my book, that’s Alna. I have a sister and brother-in-law who live there, and as it turns out, they were going to play a key role in my little turkey-hunting plan … though I never got around to informing them.

You see, my sis and her husband have three things the turkey-hunting experts maintain you need when it comes time to bag your henned-up gobbler.

Land. Birds. And an eager relative who is lucky.

Of course, that entire branch of the extended family tree – the Urquharts – are avid hunters, and also planned on chasing a few henned-up gobblers of their own. My sister’s husband entered the lottery. So did his dad. Heck, even my nephew, Ryan, entered. And he won’t turn 10 until after the first season opens.

The Urquharts are, I’ll admit, eager hunters. But (I told myself, further complicating the jinx), they’re not lucky. Not really. Not like me.

Location and tactics accounted for, my planning wasn’t done. I needed some snappy-looking decoys. I needed some camouflage clothing. I needed a shotgun.

So I went shopping … almost.

A few quick Internet browsing sessions later and I had mentally outfitted myself for the hunting trip to follow.

But I didn’t buy anything. Nope. That (I realized, way too late) would be a sure way to convince the lottery gods that I didn’t deserve a permit.

Then, last week, the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife held the drawing. Since the drawing was a mere formality for a lucky guy like me, I didn’t immediately check the results.

When I did, I was stunned.

Some Holyokes won. Three, in fact. Somehow, the self-appointed luckiest Holyoke didn’t show up on the list.

I checked all the H’s, praying for a misspelling I didn’t find. Then I checked the J’s, hoping I’d filled the form in backward. Same result.

Finally, dreading what I’d find, I moved the pointer toward the U’s, clicked the computer mouse, and checked the list. I quickly found out where my luck had gone.

The Urquharts, it seemed, had stolen some of it while I wasn’t looking.

My brother-in-law, Carl, will be hunting this year. So will his father.

Even 9-year-old Ryan was granted a permit he can collect as soon as he turns 10 … which is just before the second season begins.

After a bit of pouting and a couple days of venting, I decided the Urquharts can have the turkeys this year.

I’ve already got another plan, you see.

There is, after all, a moose lottery coming up.

And I’m feeling lucky already.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 1-800-310-8600 or 990-8214.