2010, my 24th season chasin’ these three toed turkeebirds, started out quite auspiciously. Caught the crap flu from my kid evidently and while I heard 9 birds sing their glory openin’ morn, I couldn’t stomach a chase. Not that it mattered, as the new backside property line yahoo’s shut up every bird within a mile firin’ off about six consecutive shots in a row, just as the birds were getting’ really fired up. Ain’t quite figured out their game plan but I suspect it’s no good, for me or the turkeys.
Spent the next 10 days at home, makin’ turkey callers instead of usin’ ‘em. Pretty soon though, I was fit as a fiddle ‘er in my case, a big ol fat stand up bass. Winter grub has been too good to me. Went into the season just wonderin’ how many of them Culloden hills I could walk.
Finally, vacation came and I had 12 days of mountain man livin’ ahead of me. Early to rise, late to settle. Day light savings time still perturbs me and now that it comes earlier, I just get aggravated earlier. Fine for fishermen and those who can’t hunt the evenings but for us that can, it shore makes for a long day when you come back to camp at 9pm, have to cook, do a little cold beer drinkin’ by the fire. Before you know, it’s midnight.
Just the same, first nine mornings of the twelve, I never missed a beat. Met several new birds that I worked for a couple days each. Ol’ Elvis, a tom with a brood of five hens each morn that lives on a farm that grows nothing but rocks. I ain’t kiddin’, this hillside has more rocks than any quarry you’ll ever step in to. Elvis loved to roll out his gobbles over that hillside and usually pitched off into a pasture along with his five companions. Seems like I could never get the right setup, first off, and thus Elvis departed without me and yes still lives.
Then there’s Jeremiah and the Bullfrog. No, there ain’t a gobbler named Bullfrog, that’s a true frog. One that croaks in rhythm with the loudest gobbler I’ve heard in quite some time. This ol’ boy has a baritone of a voice and can be heard up and down the line. He roosts in this swampy area of the property along with Bullfrog. Nice place to set up and look at. Ain’t so hot for sneakin’ up though, as he can see from all angles when on his perch. Once he flies down, it’s off to the races, no hangin’ round for the gals to show up. Often wondered ‘bout that, why the heck would a tom gobble himself til he’s literally blue in the face while on the limb, then fly down and march off. Is it impatience? Ya’d think he’d wait for some lady friends to show up, Afterall, ain’t that why he was shoutin’ his love song.
While I’ve let many ah jake walk in the last two years, it seems I’m always going up against these older birds, educated to the ways of the caller. Or perhaps, it’s just not their day to die. Always said turkey huntin’ easy, long as you can find that bird with a death wish.
Well, sometimes it takes more than that. Sometimes it just takes good karma and I’m always open to avenues that will improve mine, especially during turkey season.
I’d followed Jeremiah the morn I met him, most of the day, and he ended up roosting over Horse Creek. A familiar territory that I’ve had great success in during past seasons. Dang deep banked creek that will work up a sweat crossing it. I remember “Dubya”, a gobbler a friend and I chased and before we’d finished with that hunt with Jimmy doing the dead bird rodeo, we’d crossed that creek enough times that if ya’d followed our tracks with a marker, it’d spelled out a big ol’ W, with a creek crossing at each point in the letter W.
The morn I eased into the hollows of Horse Creek, ol’ Jeremiah woke up the sun with his gobbles and led me on another creek crossing chase before he ended up way a top a ridge, complete with a bevy of hens. Another bird had joined his chorus but by the time I’d changed quarries, he’d shut up also.
Rather than bugger the birds with a hard chase and excessive calling, I left him to his business and returned mid-day. Imagine my surprise as I rolled down the logging road to meet up with 4 men in crisply starched Pike electric company shirts walkin’ up the road. I stopped, said hello and they asked how far til the main road. They explained their gator had a tore up rear end and they were afoot now. I told ‘em to hop in and cut their walk by some two miles. This one ol’ boy, ‘bout my size, was so grateful, pattin’ my arm with thanks and offering of money. I declined and just told ‘em to shoo the gobblers my way if they run into any. He smiled and we parted ways.
Never went back for the afternoon hunt, saw those boys retrieving their gator and figured it was of no use to try those bottom birds until the next morn.
The night fires burned mighty fine, sky clear, stars bright. I love a good campfire and enjoyed some good ol’ taters and onions with fried bologna over the open coals, along with two or ten good cold beers. Sleep found me ‘round midnight and that rude alarm awoke me a 5 am. Man, I hate that alarm. Most annoyin’ piece of machinery I own.
I eased on down the loggin’ road, parkin’ just short of the downhill descent. It was still early and my regular callin’ found me inspectin’ the bumper, as is the customary practice in the wilds of Culloden.
All done with the tators and onions, clean and still dark ‘nuff to think, I decided to ease on into where he’d roosted the night before.
I was just ah slow walkin’ down this loggin’ road, all is quiet, pines borderin’ each side when all of a sudden, whoosh whoop, whoosh whoop about fifty times and a heck of a lot faster and louder than I can relate in the written word, did this turkeebird come outta this limb directly over my head right, smack dab in the middle of the road, and catch wind clean outta there in nothin’ flat. Talk ‘bout scart, I was scart so bad, I was glad the remnants of the tators and onions wuz up at the bumper cuz if not, they’d be in the backside of my britches.
Dang, I was discouraged. I felt sure that was the gobbler. Not a putt nor a cackle did the bird make upon me disturbing his perch of the night. I just sat, Indian style, in the middle of the road and contemplated what to do next. Twelve minutes past gobblin’ time, I was convinced the gobbler had done got up and left outta there.
Then, bout 7 am, 80 yards to my right and slightly uphill, did I hear the most glorious gobble come from the woods just inside Pike Electric companies line. With my truck at the top and knowing the bottom and a good setup, I eased on down the hill, cut into the wood line, found a tree just inside my side of the line and got ready. Lord blessed the whole event as he’d placed his hens on the other side of Horse creek directly to my left. They did some cackling while aloft their perches and I did the same. The tom gobbled some on the limb but wasted not a moment to flop to the ground. I could tell from the gobble, it wasn’t Jeremiah and frankly that was fine by me. He quickly strutted to the creek and showed his glory to those hens so I offered up some more sweet talk on my aluminum two track player and he turned ‘bout face and went back to where he landed. Some more sweet talk from yours truly and here he came, half strutting just inside the wood line, I looked for the right opening and just a few steps more and he entered the rodeo circuit via an ounce of Nitro from my trusty Remington SP10, circa 1987. Up and at ‘em, it was only a moment before his daggers were subdued and he was fannin’ my backside with those powerful wings.
Thankin’ the good Lord above for my blessin’ and His gift to me, I took special note of the gobblers struggle to stay alive. So strong were his last gasps of breathe that a bit of sadness entered my realm, then his toes straightened in the palm of my hand, then utter relaxation. He was heaven bound.
I love the walk back to the truck with a gobbler over my shoulder, no matter how far or how short. I think it disrespectful to the tom to go and try and stuff him into a bag sized for doves. Just ain’t right. Let the blood drip over your pants or upon your seat. A wild gobbler deserves the best of displays, while both alive and dead. On the way back up the line, I noticed a pair of yellow rubber booties the linemen had left yesterday and I thought about Karma. I thanked the good Lord again. So there I had it, my name for this noble bird that gave up his life for me, Pike – Boss of the Yellow Rubber Booties.
So fellas, never pass up the chance to do a good deed, especially during turkey season.
No dirt nap for my tom. He's restin' on a vintage Primos Gobbler Elite vest pillow, circa 1988.
