Grouse Hollow Journal for April 18, 2013 by Greg Koelker

Grouse Hollow Journal for April 18, 2013 by Greg Koelker

I opened one eye at first. The red numbers on the alarm said 3:00. No, 5:00. I moved a leg and then lifted off my warm covers. I managed to turn the alarm off before it went off and then I flipped on the hall light. I piled my clothes up in one arm and tried to leave the bedroom as quietly as I could. Out the kitchen window, the yard light illuminated another joke played on us by Ma Nature. A Saturday morning snow and ice cover on the ground and in the trees. The outside thermometer read 31 degrees. Brrr. I could hear the wind hitting the house. I kept telling myself you can't go back to bed, Eli's coming. It is amazing that I was waiting by my truck 15 minutes later when his headlights lit up the driveway.

We parked his truck in the farm yard at my friend's. The dawn was beginning to show itself as we headed down the field road. We each carried a sack of decoys, a cushion, and a shotgun. I had Wilma, my famous turkey killer .10-guage single-shot turkey special. Even in the wind and cold, it didn't take long to warm up with Under Armour and heavy coveralls on. We had gone a 100 yards when we heard a gobble – behind us. We listened and there were more. After an about face, we headed back to the farm and across the road towards a deep wooded ravine that held many tall pine trees near a pond, no doubt ideal for roosting in this weather. The toms kept on gobbling.

After a short hike, we set up. I crawled in along a fence row leaning my back against a wooden fence post and a cedar tree, and Eli got set under an apple tree. He had put out a decoy a few yards down the hill. What was most likely the boss hen started calling agressively across the ditch from us. Eli tried mimicing her with his striker and slate. At least three toms gobbled! We were in business, so we thought. There is a general rule among turkeys that toms don't cross ditches or fences or streams to come to lonely hens or turkey hunters' calls. (I think maybe the legislature or the DNR could see about changing this rule.) Eventually, Eli and I split up and tried to surround the woods where the birds were calling from. That proved fruitless, so we called it a morning and came in to get warm and have some breakfast – coffee, scrambled eggs with cheddar cheese, mushrooms, and onions, marble rye toast and Ellen's homeade strawberry jam, and pork sausage.

On Sunday morning, somehow I again managed to crawl out of my nice, warm bed. This time I made coffee and took a steaming travel mug full with me. I got out the door at 0-dark thirty and drove up the coulee. I parked at my friend's other farm yard. It was snowing, no sleeting, really when I stepped out of the Ranger. I bundled up behind the truck and headed out in the dark to where I thought I might be above the birds should they have chosen the Pines Motel again. This was new ground and I appreciated the little bit of light afforded by a shy dawn as I made my way down through the strange field. They have been cutting some trees in the fence rows and piling them along the woods, making a perfect hiding place for a nimrod like myself. I was able to nestle up against an oak tree that was surrounded with piles of slash. The cover still allowed me to see around me. I waited.

The wind was blowing hard outside my “blind.” The pines held it off, but they didn't stop the onslaught of ice crystals and rain. Wilma's barrel was coated with ice. I could barely hear sometimes from the snapping of ice and rain on my hood (some people who are close to me say I can barely hear any time). There was no gobbling or boss hen this morning. Rats. They fooled me and moved. I tried calling a bit. I used a lonesome hen call and some putting. Nobody showed any interest.

I finally had it. I was cold; there was water running down my back. The turkeys had apparently gone into caves or maybe into the next county. I decided that a hot cup of coffee and some more breakfast would be better than freezing here. I managed to scramble to my feet, picking up Wilma and my gear in one smooth move. Okay more like one fragmented, drunken sailor style, lurch would be more like it. Anyway, I was about to walk out of my slash baracade when I spied something moving on the horizon. It was a strutting tom, some 80 yards away, but still headed my way. I was able to drop to my knees and take a stance where I might actually be able to life my shotgun should the turkey come in range. Again, the turkey rule of “I don't cross things” came into play. There was a fence between it and me. Rats. The tom hung up on the fence some 60 yards away. Even worse, he had a buddy following him whom must have been tagging along for the fun of it. Anyway, nuttin' honey. The two eventually turned back the way they came. I tried a sneak on them, to no avail. They were gone.

As long as I had moved a hundred yards, I thought I'd try calling again. Who knows? I yelped a bit and then tried some purring and putting – sort of like a long and short in Morse code I guess. Anyway, after a bit, two deer came along. I have to try this during bow hunting next fall. They were browsing some of the green grass trying to establish itself in the field road. Cool. I always enjoy watching deer. I was relaxed against another oak tree enjoying the deer – freezing to death can be pleasant so I am told. Anyway, I was again thinking about that coffee when I noticed another movement back from whence I came. Dope slap comes to mind. There was a tom turkey coming from the spot I had been set up in the first place. He was moving steadily toward me and my whitetail buddies. I relaxed and waited. Just keep coming, Buddy.

Anyway, as so many of my hunting stories end, the wind must have swirled warning the deer of my presence. They exited stage right, tails in the air, and bounding high. Of course the turkey is no dope and he goes with them. At least I can walk back to the truck now. Killing one of those toms would have been okay, but the morning was still exciting and entertaining.

On the way back, I stopped to take a few pictures of an old 1950s vintage baby blue Mercury that is up on blocks under a huge oak in a pasture. Interesting setting for an old car. Pretty cool.

Until nex time, get out – I purchased another turkey permit for May. Perhaps there will be morel mushrooms, jack-in-the pulpits, and a turkey dinner involved in that column. Think spring. Enjoy.