The Saga of "Piper - Camp Boss"

redbeard

By redbeard
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redbeard 10-Pointer

redbeard

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“Peep, peep, peep, peep…..peep……….PIPE, PIPE!”, was the sound of the little turkeys as they follow’d Mama thru the clover field, just ah feedin’.

Who said PIPE”, said the Mama, “Now who said that, tell me”, she urged.

All the little poults pointed to their bigger brother, Mama hen went over and went to town ah peckin’ on brother’s head, so bad she give him red warts all over his head.

"Now, you’re gonna get us et iffn you keep takin’ like that.”, warned Mama.

Little Piper as he became to be known, couldn’t hep it he was born with a deep voice. His mind was sayin’ peep but it just came out Pipe.

Sadly, his behavior forced the mama hen to banish the teenage Piper from her brood for the safety of the others.

“Now Piper, I hate to do this but I must for the good of the your brothers and sisters.”, Mama told him.

“I’m gonna leave you here by the hunter’s camp, you stay in sight of this camp and these food plots in the pipeline and keep your pipe shut especially when you see them leave in the mornings.”, explained Mama.

“Don’t ever gobble if you see ‘em and run hide in the woods should you ever see any movement by the hunters”, said Mama.

Little young Piper was plenty ah scart’d to be left alone by his self but he followed Mama’s advice and stayed put. Year after year he witnessed many of his brothers being carried out on the shoulders of the hunters. There was Tractor Tom, Pipeline Pop, Raspberry Joe, Ol’ Moses, Coyote Tom and he couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw that Gasline Ghost had fell to the hunter known as Redbeard. He thought Gasline was invincible.

Piper grew old livin’ right there behind camp, he’d heard the jollies goin’ on at night and see ‘em leave out in the mornings and on those days, he’d remain unseen and unheard.

A quiet week, late season, had me searchin’ out the hollers and hills, high and low, far and near for some turkeebirds willin’ to shout their presence and give me the confidence birds remain to be challenged.

I feared the Calvin’s on the backside club had taken my quarry of four years in Lucky Lucky Lucky, as I’d not heard a word outta him nor the other three birds that had been roosting on the backside line.

If any name befitted these boys better, I know of none. Ain’t that guy that’s always whizzin’ on something, you know the sticker some good ol’ boyz decorate their truck windows with and he’s ah whizzin’ on something they don’t like. I stand to be corrected but I believe that character is called Calvin. Can’t say as I much care for that name anymore.

See I’d accidentally busted their hunt one more after they’d come in durin’ a talkin’ session I was havin’ with Elvis and shut him down with some excessive box callin’. With Elvis shut up, I decided to use our back roads to get to the other side of our property. Both properties are owned by the same timber company, just two different clubs lease the some 1800 acres. Our roads feed into their club and we have permission to use them at our discretion to get to the backside of our property.

After crossing through and trying to get a bird fired up on the line with no luck, I decided to come back and try Elvis again. ‘Bout an hour or so had passed and when I passed back through, there was this fellow flaggin’ me down. He was pretty irate in that I had busted his hunt up. Evidently he was set up on one side of the road and had a gobblin’ tom on the other. I apologized profusely to deaf ears and he went into a tirade about how he didn’t hunt our club. ??? Couldn’t quite figure out why he said that as I’d never even accused him of such. I did ask him if he came in on my bird that morn and shut him up with some loud box callin’ while the bird was already gobblin’ and he just turned and went off cussin’. I said I was sorry once more for bustin’ his hunt up and went on my way

Well, the next Monday, I meet the son, Calvin Jr. We have a nice gentleman’s conversation about our love for the sport of wild turkey hunting and I agree to defer from driving the shared roads until after 10 am or so and would come in prior to daylight. He was fine with this and we shook hands and exchanged names. Fair ‘nuff in my book, I certainly understood their viewpoint and again sincerely apologized for bustin’ up their hunt the previous weekend.

That afternoon, I decided to hoof the extra mile or so, so as to not interfere with Jr’s afternoon hunt and I’m walkin’ up the same gas line as I’d walked earlier that morn on a hunt for Jeremiah and lo and behold what do I find, just above our food plots but a facemask that was not there 4 hours earlier. I walked further on up and could see Jr’s tire tracks in the line and could only assume the worse, as he and I were the only hunters present that day. I guess his actions told of his value in our seemingly newfound mutual respect for our passion.

Tried to return the mask to his father, not mentioning where I found it and he nearly whizzed his own britches tryin’ to explain to me and literally show me a dozen different masks he had in his truck. I just smiled nicely and said all I was doin’ was returning it. Thought it perculiar he never asked where I found it. It was like he was expecting the question sooner than I’d asked.

I fully understand the lure of the wild turkey and the temptations it can put on us humans, all I ask is a little respect. Don’t be chasin’ ‘em on my property when I’m there.

Weeks had passed and while I heard shots ah plenty coming from their side, they professed no success. Makes a fella sort leery and worrisome that more turkeys are dying than the law allows and this had my mind filled with doubt that any birds still existed on the fourth creek. Yet still ever hopeful, I eased through to the backside, oblivious to the dark clouds comin’ fast from behind me.

Upon my exit from the truck I gazed upon a rainbow but could not tell it’s landin’ point as the clouds darkened it’s treasure point. I ventured a short walk to check the food plots and found them empty and by the time I turned back, I was holdin’ onto my short bill cap as the winds were comin’ fast. Rain fell slightly and all I could think of was the season supply of kindlin’ I’d chopped every afternoon out to get soaked.

Got to the truck and it was Dukes of Hazzard time and I was makin’ time along our once dusty roads rutt’d badly by the loggin’ trucks. Forgot about one bad wash out and I believe my tires saw what was comin’ and fold’d plumb up as I hit dirt with nuthin’ but frame. I could envision the oil leakin’ as I turned the curve for camp. Just as I crested the slight hill in the pipeline I saw ol’ Piper headin’ woodz bound.

Brakes still worked just fine as all the door handle change that had gone airborne in that last wash out jump slid forward. I threw her into park and said kindlin’ be wet. My patience was rewarded as the ol’ tom turkeebird strolled out for some more pre-roost feedin’. He stayed by the edge of the woods for the longest time, keepin’ an eye on the chrome grilled monster peerin’ at him atop the hill some 600 yard away. His boldness grew as time passed and he fed out of my sight. I left the comfort of my truck for the wet chigger ridden tall grass in the middle of the line. I wanted to see which side of the line this ol’ monarch with the foot long beard would roost on.

A hour passed and my eyes were full of temptation to give him a try right then with an Injun sneak but decided against it. I could only imagine the hooks that went along with that beard that swept the grass as he fed. ‘Bout 8:15 pm, he flapped his wings and walked down hill, cuttin’ our distance apart by a quarter. Dang, I thought, I coulda been right there by now. Heard no flappin’ in his fly up and really didn’t know the lay of the land at that point, all I could be sure of was the side of the line he’d be in the next morn.

I took the long route back to camp for fear of a drive by causing a fly off. The camp fire was extra special that eve knowing of the Camp Boss and his roost being a mere 100 yards behind my ol’ ’74 Scotty camper. You can bet the snooze button was left untouched the next morn’ when it sounded at 5 am.

It was a nippy morning and I re-stoked the fire was some small cut timber to warm the air and give thought to my approach. I could either go below or set up above him and the age old thought of being above best winnin’ out. I slow walked the 60 yards down the camp road and set up just off the line.

'Bout 6:15 I was rewarded, surprisingly, with a deep ol’ throaty gobble. You could just hear the age in short length of his baritone voice. I offered no callin’ until he touched the ground, some 30 minutes later. Unfortunately, I’d chosen the wrong avenue in my setup as his glide off the limb sent him right smack dab into the clover patch by the creek. I didn’t hear a peep nor a pipe outta him for nearly 30 minutes and my mind was cursing my ol’ age and laxness it my pursuit. A younger Redbeard would’ve risen an hour earlier and used the darkness of night to creep the woods to the point where I could’ve counted toes grippin’ the perch, insurin’ a quick and early death upon his ground arrival. But no, here I sat, now a 100 yards away with no sight of the bird just wonderin’ if my subconscious did this on purpose, assuring a challenge for myself and a sportin’ chance for the bird that I’ve grown to admire.

Feedin’ clucks and purrs from my pocket player line was all I’d offered upon his landing and had not gotten a single response. I heard not a word from this bird until some crows tricked him into gobblin’ some thirty minutes after he was on the ground. Once they got him goin’, he continued on his own for a spell then went shut mouth but he’d talk’d long enough for another gobbler on up the creek to answer

Problem was, I thought it was Piper that had gone up the creek and I immediately rose and started a trek to give chase. Fortunately I wasn’t in a Duke of Hazzard mode and eased down the line in the shadows of the over hangin’ hardwood branches. When I crested the hill I noticed one of those familiar red topped weeds and gave it a look see in my nocs. That wasn’t no red topped weed, that was Piper and he was in full alert. I stood still until I saw him drop neck to feed and I eased my butt down ever so slowly

Set up again, the next turkey talk I heard was two deep gobbler clucks. I was thinkin’ this may be the other gobbler that had gobbled up the creek comin’ to see what ol’ Piper was gobblin’ about, so I pulled out my deepest toned peg and did the same on my 11-track player. That pulled out the most direct gobble I’d heard all morning and I knew I had him interested, yet he got no closer for the next hour.

A hour and thirty minutes waiting on a gobbler you know you could see if you just moved a little closer is a long long time. Another fifteen minutes of silence was all I could take and I eased myself into the wood line and took advantage of the crows givin’ him the whatfor to mask my movement through the oak leaves. Heavily blinded by the foliage, I moved the 20 yards needed for me to see him clearly and found an oak to set up against. He started fussin’ with the crows with his age old gobbles and I decided to see how he’d react to some aggressive calling. In went a diaphragm and I went to cuttin’ and cacklin’ which he gave an immediate response and looked to the woods for it’s source.

Last I offered, before his approach began, were two deep gobbler clucks on my call and a few feedin’ clucks on my time tested Lathem slate and pickin’ a spot to shoot was the new order for the day. As he neared my set up, I could only see one little bitty opening with some mere maple leafs and twigs in the way and I heard my ol’ Gus tellin’ me to shoot, sapplin’s and all.

Once again I was watchin’ the cock of the woods doin’ a back flip and I was off for the dead bird rodeo. His death fight was strong and his inch and a quarter spurs sliced my hand. Death came hard causing me to grab neck and in doing so pulled out half his beard in one big clump. Thought I had a 11 inch double beard when I saw one layin’ in the dirt and him still sportin’ a fine beard on his chest. No matter though as I hate to put my foot on the head and neck of a wild turkey with life still left, just seems demeaning in some way and I’m reluctant to use such a method of closure.

Again, joy only a turkey hunter can know and sadness in knowing this noble bird would sing no more came over me almost at the same time. If only he’d listened to his Mama and kept his pipe shut………..May Ol’ Piper be long lived in the broods sired by this ancient bird.

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Flintlock1776 Monster Buck

Flintlock1776

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Great story and cool pictures!

I miss Georgia and if you ever need another hunter to join you I could bring my Lifetime Georgia License with me, hunt and visit folks I need to see. I bought one of the very first ones ever offered many years ago. I had an inkling I needed to buy that and I was right. I moved. I hope when I pull the FD pin I'll retire back to Georgia.

Again, congrats on the deal!~!~~!:gunsmilie:

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