What a difference a day makes in the game called turkey hunting.

Ask 34-year-old Sunderland hunter and Northampton native Ray Cichy II. He killed what may prove to be Massachusetts’ second-largest gobbler taken since records have been kept. Cichy’s 5-year-old trophy tom, taken last week in Hatfield, registered at just under 85 points, according to the National Wild Turkey Federation scoring system. The bird weighed 24.82 pounds with two beards measuring 11 and 6.5 inches, and spurs 1.250 and 1.1250 inches long. Cichy weighed the bird on certified scales at Stop & Shop in Hadley and left with a printout in hand (Hey, I guess international big-box stores can serve some local purpose). The NWTF score is computed by adding the weight, length of beard doubled and length or spurs multiplied by 10.

But that’s just the end of the tale. How Cichy bagged his bird is what should be interesting to anyone who’s hunted and been frustrated by a boss gobbler’s whims, not to mention those who have not and never will hunt turkeys but have a passing interest in how it’s done.

Actually, Cichy killed his bird like most serious turkey hunters do, starting with preseason scouting, almost a must. After that it was topographical assessment, setting up, calling, altering location, interference by another hunter, patience and geniality, and finally connecting by persevering and, of course, being in the right place at the right time. Isn’t that what it always boils down to?

“When it finally happened,” recalled Cichy, a Verizon lineman speaking last week on his cell phone, “it was easy. Text book.”

Arriving before first light, Cichy set up a solitary hen decoy along the edge of a field, sat against a large tree just inside the woods and waited for gobbles. Then he called the bird, which gobbled several more times before flying out of its roost and landing 15 yards in front of the decoy, immediately going into its last strut. Cichy placed his shotgun bead on the bird’s head and neck, squeezed the trigger, sent the bird into the Curly shuffle and was soon standing triumphantly beside it. His watch read 5:45 a.m. The date was May 3.

“I literally heard the bird fly out of its roost and over my head,” Cichy recalled. “Then it landed right there, 25 yards away, almost too easy.”

On such days, which most veteran turkey hunters have experienced, a man might believe that any fool could call in a monster tom. Well, maybe so, but that was only the way it happened for Cichy on the day of kill. Everything hadn’t worked quite so smoothly prior to that. No sir. The path to this potential all-time state-runner-up gobbler began three days before the April 25 opening day. Cichy had done his homework during those three days day by traveling to the site and observing his bird from a concealed location.

Determined to assess what was happening relative to the mating season, Cichy sat in his spot on the mornings of April 22, 23 and 24 to watch, listen and develop strategy. Because the big gobbler had already gathered a harem of five hens, the hunter knew it wasn’t necessarily going to be an easy task to kill it. Gobblers roost near their harems and jealously guard them, typically waiting for the hens to fly out of their tree or trees at first light before flying down to join them, at which point it can be quite difficult to entice the tom away with the plaintive call of an outside suitor. This is especially true right off, before the big boy has tended to his ladies and they have wandered off to set on their nests. And, indeed, it didn’t take long for this very scenario to confront Cichy, immediately complicating matters and necessitating Plan 2.

On opening morning, Cichy said he had the big boss man “all fired up” on and off the roost, but the bird was content to follow its seductive harem down into the open field at first light, then proceeded to trail them away from Cichy’s calls. Undeterred, Cichy waited for the birds to get out of sight, retrieved his decoys (two hens and a jake) and departed, determined to return the next day and adjust his setup. When he did that the next morning, everything was working to perfection, the birds moving in his direction, before another hunter cut him off, which in turkey-hunting jargon means got between him and the birds he was calling, blowing up what likely would have been a successful hunt. Frustrated, Cichy picked up his decoys, spoke in passing to the intruder who claimed to be unaware of his presence (that’s what they all say), and departed, determined to return. But the fact was that his troubles were just beginning.

Day 3 found Cichy at his spot before first light and the forest was silent, not so much as a gobble. No sightings, either. Damn, he thought before leaving, that gobbler must have been onto him after the previous day’s commotion. But when he returned to the scene the next morning, sure enough, more gobbles preceding five hen fly-downs with the tom right behind them, and all six birds again headed away from Cichy. He surmised they must be wise to him and decided to give them a break by taking Friday off and returning Saturday morning, which ultimately proved to be his shortest hunt of the season. With two unfamiliar vehicles parked along the road, obviously weekend warriors, he didn’t even bother stopping, just slowed down a bit, pondered his next move and went home. Hopefully, Monday would be different.

Getting itchy midday Sunday, a curious Cichy took a ride to his site at around 4 p.m. and spotted the big boy out in the field with a hen, just one. Things were looking up. But then he took ill overnight and decided to sit out Monday morning. Coughing and sniffles are never good turkey-hunting companions. Still, he went out that evening to roost the tom and was happy to find it alone. He lingered long enough to hear the bird fly up into its roost, where he could see it “bouncing around in the branches” until dark. He left feeling confident that the next day could be productive, which turned out to be prophetic.

Before daybreak, Cichy sneaked in as close as he dared to the roosted tom and furtively put out one hen decoy before taking a comfortable seat against a big tree. The rest is history. The Hatfield slammer was dead before 6 a.m., but not before it had planted its seed for posterity, now likely being set upon by the harem hens that had abandoned their mate for its final roost.

Soon that big boy’s progeny will be trailing their mothers through hot bottomland hayfields, jumping up to devour bugs and berries and whatever. If any of those birds reach the ripe old age of 5, as few do, they’ll probably resemble their trophy dad; and maybe, just maybe, one of them will become future newspaper fodder.