Lessons Learned: Turkeys Teaching a Turkey

I couldn't wait to get out of the house. We were in the first of the three sisters, April, May, and June. April is an absolute beauty, yet runs hot and cold. She can get you all revved up with warm, gentle winds, green shoots, your first casts with a dry fly, smells of fresh flowers and earth. Then she'll get a bee in her bonnet and pepper you with winter gales and nine inches of snow! Her sisters are a little less temperamental but it makes my infatuation with her all the more infectious.

Turkey season was fast approaching and I had drawn the second week. That is a crap-shoot too! I didn't know if it'd be eighty degrees or if we'd still be locked in ice! Regardless, I started putting time on the road scouting. By scouting I mean driving by various fields, stopping by numerous trout access points, wetting a line, then driving to the next spot... rinse and repeat! My two-year-old daughter helped me in many of these scouting trips. She managed to catch her first brown trout and help me land a few too! She may have also had her first dip/trip in the river but it didn't slow her down one bit! She has also been versed in the finer points of crow and owl calling. Truth be told, she's better at it than I.

In spite of my daughter's prowess with the locator calls, therein was the challenge... We had put on miles and had not located any birds consistently. Places which produced birds year after year, heck a month prior were now greening nicely and empty! Trips were made morning, noon, and night. As my season approached things had not improved. Fortunately, I had an ace up my sleeve... the Hafer.

Of all my friends, acquaintances, associates, and colleagues nobody knew turkeys or burned fire for gobbling monsters than the Hafer. I reached out with a call. He was ready, willing, and able! "Come on out and let's put the smackdown on old Tom Turkey!" quote the Hafer. The game was afoot!

The first afternoon of the season he already had a blind up and decoys set! I pulled out my gun case and he said, "Shoot mine! That baby can take 'em at seventy yards!" the Hafer had a single shot 10 gauge loading 3.5" #5's. It had an action you had to slam shut but he swore it knocked turkeys down at distance. I conceded and agreed. We made our way into the spring woods near a field edge and got to it. If the Hafer played any musical instruments they would be the butternut box and pot call. If being serenaded by hen yelps and purrs is your idea of an orchestra, the Hafer plays a Stradivarius! Whatever it was, it sounded like turkey to me! Unfortunately, he played to an empty house! Outside of a pair of deer sneaking by at bow range, nothing happened that first evening.

"This was much better than last week. That snowstorm was awful. I was still shivering to the core with a heater in the Taj Mahal blind!" All that suffering and only a couple hens to show for it. One gobble! Don't fret tonight. We'll get Turkzilla or Frank the Tank yet!" said the Hafer.

Turkzilla bested me last year. I thought all was quiet on the southern front after he'd been gobbling early. Perhaps I could get the drop on him by changing things up midday. My feet were getting cold and I was needing a change of scenery. As I moved south along a deer path edging the field I'd been hunting, I came to the clear-cut and fifty yards to my right was the beast! He had a hen at his feet and I'd interrupted spring romantics. Love is a strange thing of itself but turkeys... both heads popped-up in my direction! Feeling a little abashed, I slipped sheepishly to the inside brush and pressed myself to a tree away from the fruckus.

Turkzilla was aptly named! He fanned and strutted. I offered a few yelps and a purr of my own and that low-down-sneaky devil sent his mistress to check things out while slipped back to the pines neer to be seen again! I had not met Frank the Tank yet but if the Hafer bestowed such a name, a tank I took him to be and would happily make his acquaintance.

At any rate, the Hafer needn't have worried about me getting discouraged. I hadn't been this relaxed or happy in some time. To be out in spring, smelling new earth, feeling the breeze, and sunshine with some umph... That of itself is enough to make one take pause. Doing so with a good buddy chasing turkeys, I hadn't a care in the world.

Schedule coordination made hunting impossible until Saturday morning. During that time, we separately scouted different regions and came up with a game plan for Saturday. We'd go for Toms at Tom's. The home of Turkzilla.

I met the Haffer roadside of Tom's place a little after five. We quickly hoofed-it along a mowed path in high ground. A unique feature of Tom's place is the elevation. It is up there as some of the highest land in the county, yet it is some of the most saturated ground one could find outside of a marsh. Every step shot water up my boots. The bottoms of my pants were caked in muddy water well before placing decoys and getting into the blind. Songbirds had already been up but to hear their chorus made my senses come alive. Sparrows, morning doves, the wood-pewee, cackling rooster pheasants, redwing blackbirds, amidst the cawing of crows permeated the chill spring air. Then we heard the first gobbler. Then another, and another, and another! At least four if not five toms were in the area.

The Hafer took out his instrument of choice, the pot call, and put out a few clucks and purrs. If that didn't get those boys riled up! I was sure we'd have them coming from all sides like chickens coming home to roost! Thus as it was and often is, those darn turkeys kept us entertained but were invisible... until I put binoculars up and glassed the brushlines. Yes! There he was! Was it Turkzilla? I couldn't tell but he was several hundred yards out walking a hilltop and headed our way!

I relayed intel and pointed the direction to the Hafer. "Get your hands down! Don't put anything near the windows! Let's see what he wants to do." I, being used to hunting solo and sitting besides a tree took his scolding to heart.

That feathered butterball inched his way towards us, always keeping to a brushline separating fields. At an intersection with a ravine, he veered and disappeared. We both knew he may come out at any moment and didn't lose heart. Love was in the air and maybe he'd found a hen who found his crooning gobbles worhty of swooning. Whatever the case, we stayed the course.

Some time later, a hen popped into the field not far from the direction our Tom had dropped into. She didn't stay long. Just enough to watch her with the sun making the iridescence of her feathering shine in lively greens and blues. She wandered off. Minutes later, a jake with a solid beard came from the southwest. I spotted him near the clear cut power lines where I'd interrupted Turkzilla last spring. A few calls from the Hafer had his interest and he ambled our direction. Boy, the sunlight hitting those birds really makes them pop. Some think turkeys an ugly bird but by God, I could have spent all day watching that Jake. Unfortunately, he didn't like something and hung-up a hundred yards out. i'd have taken him but it wasn't meant to be.

The Hafer and I tore down the blind and tried the south side of Tom's not far from the lines. All we got was sleepy from the generous sunshine streaming through the scant forest cover. We called it quits a little after one. The blind location was moved closer to the lines between pines, grass and old corn rows. We had had some action and now a plan for morning.

It's crazy what can change in a day. Morning broke and found us well situated to tackle turkey. The Hafer had brought a surprise... Buster, the fully plumed Tom! That decoy had a fan on it that could be seen for miles! Buster was put in line with a receptive hen. "This ought to drive them crazy," said the Hafer. "There isn't a Tom yet who'd let Buster get the drop on old Sheila! She's been Tom's temptress and executioner many a time."

The usual suspects serenaded us with the morning chorus of chirps, calls, and cackles. Around 5:30 we heard our first gobble some ways north of us followed by another gobble southwest. Then nothing. The day before... an hour plus of gobbling. Today, two within seconds of each other, then nothing. The temperature had dropped a good deal and it felt quite late Octoberish with a breeze chilling us from the northeast.

Things had been quiet but to my right I caught motion and heard a crow. Then I saw a white form flying low towards our blind and two more crows following from above and beside. The crows were attacking an owl! The owl would call "Who Who...Who Who Who Whooo." The crows were relentless. That poor owl repeated his call for a full ten minutes! I'd never seen nor heard anything so ridiculous. It took effort to not burst out laughing at that poor owls plight. It was like he was saying "C'mon guys. Knock it off already... Really? Really!"

Of course the Hafer and I both had hoped this ruckus would cause an instinctive gobble but those tight-lipped Tom's weren't having it! We set-in for the long-haul. The wait was real and confidence began to waiver. The breeze seemed cooler though the sun shone stronger. It is always that way in those moments. We'd be rewarded... right? Then the action picked up.

A hen cackled from behind us. The Hafer was quick to return the call. Silence. Minutes passed. Five, ten, fifteen? It felt much longer but then I saw them. Two hens made their way from the woodline to the corn field from our left. I was going after my binoculars to look for a beard when the Hafer scolded me in a hushed rasp, "Put your goggles away. Put your goggles away! He's here!!"

Coming along the same line as his harem, the gobbler paused entering the field to fluff up and strut. What a magnificent site! Instead of following the hens towards the blind, he made his way further out in the field. Every few steps, he'd puff-up and strut some more. The Hafer tried a few quiet clucks, it made the hens come right for us left of our decoys. Mr. gobbler wasn't having it. He kept venturing and strutting to the middle of the corn field. To show off his prowess? Only a turkey would know. For a time I worried it wasn't going to happen but then he turned eyeing his gal pals. I was going to get a crack at him.

The Tom kept coming back towards the hens, who were dusting themselves only ten or fifteen yards from us. I thought I'd be getting the shot across the Hafer's lap! Then old Tommy turned his head and made eye contact with Buster and Sheila. He gave a thunderous gobble, turned, fanned and started making his way for Buster. I knew it was going to happen and gave a slow smile. The Hafer, anticipating my excitement whispered, "Don't move!" I wasn't worried. It was time to take in the show! The line old Tommy was taking made me think I might get shooting in the original blind window. I readied the Haffer's 10 gauge. Tommy gobbled again, strutted the crossed my blind spot between windows.

I readied myself to take the shot when he passed into the center window, minding the Hafer's instructions. I whispered "I'm going to take him!"

The Hafer mentioned something about "Get ready." All was calm and the turkey came into view. He was still walking and stopping to strut. There was this moment as I drew a bead to where the neck met the body. Should I take the shot or enjoy the display? Old Tommy was just extending his neck as the Hafer was whispering something when I squeezed the trigger. The report felt good as the the butt of that 10 gauge fit snug to my shoulder. The bird flinched. I thought, game over when the Hafer yelled "Put another one in. Get another shell in!"

I quickly broke the action, ejecting the shell and put another in. I couldn't get the action to snap shut. One shut, no. Two. No! Three! No! The Tom had now moved closer to the hens and was giving me a shot out the original window. I finally got the action to lock, drew on the turkey as he walked, stopped. I drew a bead but must have rushed. The bird jumped back, then flew into the pines from which he came.

The utter silence that followed was momentary but in my mind hung for an eternity.

"You missed him!" decried the Hafer. "And you shot a hole in my blind!"

Indeed, just below the center window with a breeze making the blind laugh at me was fabric dancing. i had indeed shot through the Haffer's blind. I'll be...

Oh the lessons I learned in that moment. 1. Shoot your own gun. 2. Put your barrel out the blind window when ready to shoot. 3. Wait for a full head extension. 4. Humble pie is still pie!

"I can't believe I missed him!" I decried in utter disbelief.

"You must have rushed it. I was just telling you to wait, he's coming for Buster when BOOM you blew that hole in the blind."

"No, I was calm, cool, collected... Hell smiling! I drew the bead right on, squeezed the trigger. I thought I peppered him. I'm so sorry! I'll replace you blind."

"Oh don't worry none about it. I sort of like it!" said the Hafer. "Plus, I shot through my buddy Eb's last year... but I killed my bird!"