Thursday morning we rolled out after roughly 3 hours of sleep, the result of a late start and a loooong drive across the prairies. Jr. and I barely talked as we munched our microwaved breakfast sandwiches and washed them back with Vault while I drove even further west. The stars were bright, and the hills loomed ahead of us as we bounced and skidded down the potholes and loose gravel of the township roads.
We stopped twice in known locations, and I got out and yelped a couple of times - finally getting a response at the third spot. We hopped out of the truck, grabbed our gear and took off trotting down the ditch and into the flooded field. An abandoned farmstead surrounded by gnarly trees was our goal, but we were stopped short when I made out the forms of three birds in one of the trees ahead of us. Further advance was impossible. Carefully I belly-crawled out through the grass to slightly higher spot, where I stuck the decoy in the ground and retreated to the brush, where Jr. had donned his facemask and gloves, and propped his gun over his knees.
I gave a soft tree yelp, and the gobbling was thunderous! Then, just as our anticipation reached fever pitch, the tree yelps of real hens broke in. Interlopers!!!
The hens sailed down first, landing just beyond our decoys - within range, but without beards and spurs. The gobbler followed a few seconds later, and out of the corner of my eye I watched Jr.'s gun barrel track him from the tree down to the ground - - - just out of range. A few moments of waiting, a little game of calling, and the gobbler followed the hens as they quickly moved away.
The rest of that day we saw more turkeys, chased a few, called to a few, and couldn't quite solve the problem. Our day ended in a rainstorm, as darkness descended and the gobbler that was trotting towards us took off when the neighboring rancher and his hired hand came along on their horses checking fencelines. We were tired and a bit discouraged. Most of the gobblers were henned up, and some of the turkeys were still in their large winter groups, and not susceptible to calling.
The second day was a mix of excitement and heartbreak, as we got tantalizingly close a couple of times, only to have the gobblers break off at the last moment, leaving us shaking our heads and wondering what the heck we had to do. Stalking, calling, ambushing and even an improvised turkey drive had all proven unsuccessful. It was always close but no cigar.
At our final spot of the second day, an ambush planned along the route leading to the roost of a large group we had spotted that morning, we were treated to a violent thunderstorm. Huddled against some trees halfway down the steep valley, with our hoods pulled up and our heads down, I heard a noise. Over the sound of the rain and the booms of the thunder I realized Jr. had fallen asleep a few yard downhill from me. Chuckling a bit, I settled back to listen and watch. Jr. awoke about an hour later, just in time to witness the turkeys go on roost about 200 yards further up the valley. We slogged the two miles back to the truck tired, demoralized, and more than a little wet.
The rain continued all night, and after 7 hours of sleep total in the previous two nights, I decided we needed a strategic break. We slept in! My buddy finally rolled us out around 9:00 a.m. with coffee and a breakfast pizza, as Jr. and I pulled our dried gear off of curtain racks and doors and cupboard handles and anywhere else we had hung it. "Some turkey hunters!" he said, giving us the needle for being slugs.
It felt strange driving the roads up towards the hills in daylight, and we sipped our cans of pop and discussed our options - which sure looked bleak! We decided to take a run at the gobbler that had been scared off by the ranchers on horseback a few days earlier, and also check out the area we had started our first morning at.
As we drove along the rutted little secondary road, I kept glancing across the pastures to the breaks and coulees in the hills, and finally spotted a dark blob about a mile out. Glassing, we saw a turkey working across the hills, following a fenceline towards an area I had hunted some 20 years earlier. I quickly consulted my plat book to make sure land ownership was the same as I remembered - it was - and we parked the truck and took off at a run. I knew that bird was heading for a stock pond hidden from the road, and with plenty of nearby cover. Unfortunately, the turkey beat us there.....
Curses!! Foiled Again!!!
Back at the truck we picked off dozens of ticks, and sprayed our clothing with Permethrin. The ticks had come out in full force, and it was pretty nasty.
"We're taking a little drive" I announced, and we headed back towards what I refer to as The Flatlands, an area of long-abandoned farmsteads and scattered CRP, flooded fields, and the area we had tried on our first morning.
As we approached our target zone, we were crestfallen to see a couple of stray dogs chasing ducks and pheasants and generally raising Cain. The dogs trotted right past us, stopping only to sniff the truck tires as they continued with their mayhem.
"That tears that!" said Jr. bitterly. "No way those turkeys are still there after that crap!"
Looking over things I kept thinking to myself that the turkeys had to have gone somewhere - - and if I was a turkey which way would I have gone?
Looking at an abandoned farmstead a bit over a mile away, I couldn't shake the thought that the turkeys had gone thataway... Pulling the truck off the road, we grabbed our gear and headed across the CRP, picked up the fenceline and followed it down to the old farmstead.
Jr. looked at me in faint disgust - with a slight shake of his head.
"Dude, they're close" I whispered.
I looked around again, placed the decoy in the mowed grass, and motioned Jr. over to the tumbled-down chicken coop. As he cleared a spot and settled in with his back to the house, I slid in a few feet away, and started pointing out distances to nearby objects. Jr. listened intently - after the 50 yard turkey incident of the year before, he is particularly sensitive to judging range in the heat of battle.... He noted each "safe zone" landmark, and then settled in, preparing to be bored.
My initial yelp had barely ended when a gobble came from the grove in front of us. I answered, got a double-gobble back, and winked when Jr. turned and smiled at me.
The gobbler stepped to the edge of the brushy grove, and was soon followed by another - and another - - and yet another! Four gobblers stopped just outside of range and mostly obscured by brush, as the leader craned his head and spotted the decoy. The foam decoy was weathervaning in the breeze, and the gobblers dropped all hesitation and trotted out into range.
The little 20 gauge sounded like artillery going off next to me, as the first gobbler dropped in a heap. The other 3 stood up straight, and Jr. shot again, drawing a spray of feathers from the nearest bird. That bird took off, flew straight into the branches of the nearest tree, and fell backwards to the ground.
After the trials of the previous days, Jr. had filled both of his tags in the span of a few minutes. This picture shows the abandoned house in the background.
"I have redeemed myself!" crowed Jr. and we traded high-fives and shared our relief. The hunt itself is great, but there is no denying the rush that comes with success.
You can see the old chicken house in the background here, as well as the decoy.
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Topic: Turkey 2007 (Read 3536 times)
