Turkey Season '06

Tyler with "tag teamed" gobbler.

The bird gobbled from somewhere behind us, just as Tyler and I had given up on the creek bottom field as a viable spot to call in a tom. We looked at each other, and without saying a word, began walking back in the direction we had just come from and toward the single gobble that had pierced the persistent chatter of the rain-swelled creek that borders the entire length of the field. The shin-high grass was soaked with dew and the soil, made porous by a succession of welcome rains, clung to each step while cold water managed to seep through layers of worn Gore-Tex® to soak our pant legs and socks.

The tom gobbled once more, muffled by the lushness of the canopy and underbrush it was nearly impossible to ascertain how far into the woods the tom was or if he was still roosted. Choosing to err on the side of caution, we set up the decoys in the middle of the creek bottom field 30 yards from a wind-row of wild plum & buckbrush and a towering wild cherry tree that offered up a concealing vantage point to watch the field and an effective backdrop to break up our outlines. I chose to ease out a few hushed yelps from my glass call, just to let the gobbler know we were in his neighborhood, and he responded as I had hoped with a gobble or two.

The gobbler remained predominately hush-mouthed though he gobbled just enough to keep our hopes up. Naturally, another hen began calling from the adjacent wood lot, just up the hill from the tom, which seemed to please him greatly as he cut loose with a series of gobbles. I began calling a little more vigorously to insure that he knew right where we were at and then I put the glass call down. "Sounds like he's going to be busy for a while, Tyler," I said half-defeatedly. "He knows where we're at though. It might take him an hour or two, but eventually he'll come out into this field... probably. Keep your eyes peeled though, cause I guarantee he'll come in silently." Second guessing wild turkeys is a futile practice, but after hunting them for around 15 years I sometimes, despite all odds, manage to guess right and set up in the right spot; and although I had no reason to believe in imminent success this time, I liked our chances.

The morning was pristine and calm after a windy and stormy night, which often makes for good turkey hunting weather. The sun peeked through thin, grey clouds leftover from huge columns of thunderheads that had swept through the area only hours before. The scent of fresh gooseberry blooms rode on the breeze lightly and were more pleasant than any potpourri or synthetic fragrance one can find on a store shelf. Grass, weeks ahead of schedule due in part to an early spring, swayed lazily in the wind that also rattled the tender leaves of the cherry tree, lulling us into a daze. A united, vibrant pulse surges through all living things in the spring; the world never feels more alive and you never feel more a part of it.

A short time had passed since we had last heard from our friend, maybe twenty minutes, but we still scanned the edges of the field in earnest, assuming the tom would finally emerge from is forested refuge. Then, a gobble. A loud gobble at that, in fact it sounded like he was in the field with us. I raised up from my seat against the cherry tree and stretched my neck out to examine the field more closely, carefully. There he was, a mere 150 yards away and gaining. He had entered the meadow shielded from our sight by a small rise in the field and grass that was even taller than I realized. I used my diaphram to call out a soft purr and cluck. He cut loose with a thunderous gobble, he was coming in.

"Tyler, get ready," I said. I looked over to my left at Tyler and realized that his sight line was slightly obstructed as he was sitting down a little lower than I was. "Do you see him?"

"No," Tyler replied. I began gradually moving my hand so slowly toward my gun that it was nearly imperceptible, the tom could see me clearly now and was less than 30 yards out. I had wanted Tyler to shoot the bird, but I began to wonder if he would ever be able to get a good, clean shot off. "I see it," Tyler said as he took a bead on the gobbler's head.

Tyler seemed to be searching for a shot as his gun barrel moved sporadically while he kept glancing up over the barrel; my left hand moved forward quickly for my gun. "BOOOOOM," Tyler's 12 gauge BPS rang out through the creek bottom. The tom fell backwards and though he was hurt, he began furiously flapping his wings and after a few awkward steps the bird was airborne. My worry of a bad shot was realized, but luckily I had half-expected it and was ready for the follow-up shot, jumping up from my seat the moment Tyler had shot. The injured tom offered a little bigger target than the ringnecks and mallards that I'm used to shooting on the wing so when I pulled the worn, gold trigger of my old Belgian made Browning A-5 I was fairly confident in the outcome.

The unfortunate tom fell back to earth and Tyler ran out to secure it- just in case, while I gathered my calls. It was our first "tag team" effort on a turkey, and thankfully it was a successful one. It was likely a two year-old bird what with its slightly thin 11" beard and roughly 1" spurs, but the reward I receive turkey hunting is the succulent breast meat and the time spent outdoors during this glorious time of year while in the pursuit of a beautiful bird that all to often proves to have a mind (even if it's only a bird brain) of its own.

There is not much else to convey regarding the 2006 turkey season for me. The season itself was a touch late and the birds were decidedly mute, demure, and cautious. Oh, there were a few missed opportunitiess, but what turkey season isn't rife with "shoulda, woulda, couldas?"

Peace.