Turkey Hunt Ends — One last humiliation

It’s over. Angus and I came out of the woods around 10, but not before giving a long look over last year’s food plot, and off into the forest filled with dogwood and redbud, and wishing that the season would go on forever. We took the long way back, walking through the woods instead of going back through the pasture– one more time in the Spring woods before hanging it up.

The weekend was not without its treasures. On Saturday I got a humiliation at the hands of a gobbler. From 0400 to 0830 we had pouring rain and 15 mph winds, so we slept in. As soon as it started to clear, Angus and I started gearing up for the hunt. At 0845 I looked out the back window and there was a nice fat 2 yr old gobbler standing in the middle of the pasture gobbling. He was calling for hens that he expected to be in Hootin’ Holler, and he got mighty worked up before giving up in disgust and waddling off towards Gobbler’s Knob, all in view of my binoculars. As soon as he was out of sight, we got going and beat a line to the back door of Broken Corners and prepared for a long sit. After two hours with only a few half-hearted gobbles Angus became dispirited and we went back in the drizzle for lunch.

Along about happy hour, I asked Angus if he wanted to go back out. No? Okay, I’m done for the day. I went out to the thoughtful spot, had just poured my scotch, when here comes the gobbler, coming back the way he had left in the morning. I put down my drink, grabbed my shotgun and headed for the barn. My idea was to intercept him as he came past. Ten minutes later, I was huffing and puffing and starting to load up, when I looked out and saw the fellow waddling past. The plan had worked almost perfectly. It was a split second thing. I saw him, he saw me. Another two minutes and I would have had a call out and been ready to woo him.

Now here comes the problem. I have been hunting for 25 years, and yet I have never been faced with a shot where I absolutely could not tell the range of the bird. Here was a freak instance where all I had was waving grass– waving grass in front, behind and to the all sides of the gobbler. I could not tell if he was at 25 yards or 85 yards. I figured now was time to put my 40 yard gun to the test. I leveled the scope at the base of his neck.

Blam!

Stepping it off later, my guess was anywhere from 50 to 80 yards. I saw the wad of the Federal #4’s heading straight for him and veer and fall harmlessly to the ground. The pattern was probably the size of the average dining table by the time it reached him. The gobbler had time to grin at me before taking flight. I thought about racking another in, but there are few sounds as hopeless and futile as the sound of three shotgun blasts echoing out over the ridges. I had been bested, and I owed it to my opponent to let him leave without further jeopardy. He flew out over Hootin Holler and passed out of sight at a half-mile. I doubt his feet touched the ground before the next ridge. In all honestly, I was about just as happy. He lived to tell the story to his buddies, and I was back in my thoughtful spot, taking my first sip of scotch in under 15 minutes.

Sunday Morning was cool and crisp and perfect. If the birds had cooperated, it would have been better, but as it was I had four hours with my youngest son, talking turkey strategies in between false-alarms. By Ten, we knew the game was up, and it was time to head in.

Standing down from Spring Gobbler Season used to be a simple thing, taking less than a half-hour in my bachelor days. With two sons, it has become a ritual lasting over two hours. All the dedicated turkey gear needs to be stowed. The bags get emptied and the contents sorted– Ammo, calls, flashlights and so on. The clothes get sorted and the ones that will be used for deer hunting are bagged for transport home for a washing. Three shotguns now have to be cleaned and cased. Cold weather sweaters and coats that we broke out for the early season need to be treated with sodium bicarb and packed away so that they will be scent free in the Fall. All the licenses and tags get moved to the haversacks we use for squirrel season. We drive out and pull all the preset blinds in. Lastly, the Winter sleeping bags got moved to the loft and the summer bags came down. Next weekend we shift from hunters to campers and fishermen. The canoe and tents come out. Summer at the farm begins.

Before we left we hiked around a bit. This was our last chance to scout for changes in the winter deer trails before the foliage swallows them up. I have three new stands to place this Summer. Of course, just before we left, a gobbler had to sound off a couple of times to let us know we had been beaten again.

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