Struttin' His Stuff

The changing of the seasons is one of the reasons I dearly love living in Western Wisconsin. There's a lure, a pull, a quickening of the pulse, as things change. Spring has definitely come, and winter has released us from its' icy clutches. The daffodils have bloomed, trees are budding, and the songbirds share their music each morning and evening. Shortly before the official trout streams open, it's turkey time in Wisconsin.

As I sit sipping coffee, looking upon my bird feeders, pond, and gardens, I can't help but think of my first spring turkey hunt. All of nature's signs direct me to the gobbler woods. As it will be a few weeks before I get a crack at old Tom, I'm left with the memories of past hunts, and anticipation of what is coming.

"Sure! Come on up. Take two if you can! Those darn gobblers have made a mess of my bird feeders, and are tearing up the yard," said Pat. Pat lives along the lazy, flowing, Trimbelle. His house tucks up against a steep, long, and beautiful ridge. There are a stretch of Norway Pines that lead up that ridge, and the so-named defamed bird feeders sat below these green wardens of the woods. I believed them to be the roost of old Tommy. Along the back of the ridge was an open field with multiple access points. I spent a pleasant afternoon up there taking in the sights and smells, and planning my first spring gobbler hunt.

The way I figured, I'd sit just off a set of trails near the field edge, and ambush the turkeys on their way to that quiet, protected field. I could even set a decoy, and make it feel more "ducky." I spoke with the Haffer of my plan. He concurred, but warned me "Make sure you don't spook 'em out of the roost as you get up that derned hill!" The following day he gave me a little present, an owl call. "Just hit 'em with this, and you'll know right where they are."

"How do you work this contraption?" I tried a feeding call, to no avail. Perhaps, a hail?

"C'mon! This is no mallard! It is what the Mrs. tells me nearly every day, who cooks for you?"

With the proper training, and a few practice calls, I felt proficient, and looked forward. "I'll be meeting you personally, Mr. Tom!" That evening, I drove by Pat's, and tried it. "Whoo whoo who who!" I hadn't even finished the call before being yelled at by Mr. Tom. I went home with a grin, smiling, and happy.

The coveted morning came. I awoke at a quarter to four, made my way to the kitchen to prepare that special elixir that would see me to victory... coffee. Sheer java. Coffee. You can't do this kind of work without it, or if you do I don't recommend it. You may as well go off without your gun! No, no, no... You can't be out of doors without a supply of this black gold.

My thermos was full. I placed it within my "new and improved, water-proof" camouflaged back-pack, double checked the rest of the gear. Shells, check! License and tag, check! Knife, check! Owl call, check! Hen yelper, check! Gobbler call, check! Snacks, check! Gun, check! I loaded up the truck, and was ready to go!

I love the quiet stillness of predawn. There were some low-lying, cumulostratus clouds taking up parts of the sky, but you could still see the stars shining down. I always think of my grandfather when searching the cosmos. Especially when looking upon the heavens before or after a hunt. I'm much indebted to the man for my love of the Wisconsin woods and water. I offered up my silent prayer of thanks, and looked to the east. The gray of dawn was beginning to steal away night.

The arrival at Pat's found me parked in the designated area. I painstakingly opened the truck door, grabbed my pack, gun, and closed it up again. The trek up his hillside is steep. The glacial meltwaters cut deep banks, and river valleys all along the area. The closest thing to it I've found is in Colorado. We may not have the height and peaks of the Rockies, but we have the grade! It was no simple task to make it to the trail and field edge during daylight. Darkness was no help, and I feared using a headlamp to spook the birds. Add stealth, and I had all I could muster, but thankfully made it to the spot.

I sat facing the southeast, imagining the birds would make their way from either this woods, or the one across the way. I set my decoy along the edge, and worked to conceal myself. Full camo, gloves, face net, hat, the works, and set in to enjoy the show.

Nature is a musical thing. There was nothing short of a symphony that morning. It started with chickadees, finches, jays, robins, and that singing cardinal. The morning doves joined the chorus, and a few pheasant roosters near the Trimbelle added their flavor. A flock of mallards conversed before taking flight, and the late sleeping geese joined later. Everything was singing... save turkeys.

Had I erred? Was this not the spot? Was I too noisy coming in? Had someone spooked them last night? My confidence began to falter. I had felt so certain, and then not fifty yards from me, I saw a black form drop from a nearby oak. He landed, and shook the forest with his gobble. Mr. Tom! He wasn't headed for the field, he was headed for the trail below me fifteen yards, and traveling north... right to me!

I made a hasty decision, and rushed, no slithered downhill about ten feet to a nearby poplar. Facing south along the trail, I positioned myself in Tom's direction, propped my shotgun on my knee, and readied myself. Tom moved to the south. He was moving away! I gave a yelp, and he spun around, fanned, and gobbled all the same time. His head turned from blue and white to bright red! It was unbelievable. I'd heard of this happening, but folks it is something you need to see.

Tom started my way, and was coming quickly. My heartbeat quickened, and my senses tingled. I knew it was going to happen, but at 35 yards, he paused in the shrubs. Tom was just short of the opening. He just need to take another step, and I'd have him. Tom looked around, gobbled, fanned, and danced around that shrub, but he hung up. He started heading the other way, so I yelped. Back he came as fast as he could, but again stopped.

At this point, I had a choice to make, take a risky shot, within range, but not clear, or wait and enjoy the show. I decided upon the latter. It was only 7:00 and there was no place I had to be. Again, it is difficult to put watching a big Tom Turkey strutting into words.

Another fifteen minutes went by. Tom would move, I'd call, and he'd rush and hang. I questioned moving to the next tree up, but feared messing it all up. As my internal debate raged on like a bill in congress, executive action was taken by nature. Tom gobbled, and I caught movement above. Fourteen birds came out of the trees above me and into the opening!

I couldn't believe it! They all milled about, clucking, purring, and watching. Tom fiercely gobbled and kept them in check. One stood five feet from my legs! There is something unnerving with fifteen sets of eyes looking about. I wondered if I shouldn't try a gobble! How do grab the call without being seen?

It was within a minute or so of the turkeys landing when I heard the unmistakable snap of a twig behind me, and the sound of hooves. A young buck was making his way south along the trail I was situated upon. The trail that was covered with fifteen turkeys, and human reeking of coffee. "No way!" I whispered to myself.

This deer would smell me, make no question. He would bust this whole thing up! I couldn't see tom through the flock of turkeys in front of me, and the deer was moving ever closer to the poplar I sat wedged into.

Fortunately, Tom and his harem saw old Bucky too. He wasn't having it! He gobbled a challenge at Bucky and started coming through the bushes towards him. I readied a shot, and slowly brought the bead to Tom's blood red head. He gobbled again, his fan in full span and beauty. I was about to pull the trigger, when Bucky walked right in front of me and my shotgun!

Turkeys made way for Bucky, and Tom charged the deer! He actually charged the deer, spurs loaded! Bucky jumped out of the way, I took quick aim, squeezed the trigger, and the sound of the shot resonated through the field, and valley below. Tom lay on the ground. Everyone else froze, not making a sound. They were trying to figure out what happened. I stood, and all heck broke loose!

An animal bomb exploded! Bucky leapt over a pair of turkeys, jumped the barbed-wire fence, and sprinted across the field. Turkeys flew in all directions, making an awful noise of wings rushing, and yelps. It was an entirely different symphony. My heart was racing as the adrenaline pumped. What a hunt!

Pat heard the shot, and met me as I walked a little taller down that steep hillside. "Did you get him?"

The smile I wore must have been my tell.

"Nice bird, but I told you to take two!"

I'd have never imagined my first spring turkey hunt would be this way. It couldn't have been scripted. Like all things of nature, the processes is the same, yet the results always different.

It is with that thought I finish this tale. Perhaps in a few weeks, I'll have another go at Tom. I highly doubt I'll have Bucky to thank for meeting him, but you never know what will happen in the Western Wisconsin Woods and Waters.