When I first went out on the patio to
check the weather on Wednesday morning last week, I almost went back
to bed. I could hear wind roaring through the tree tops up in the
woods. I would have if the coffee wasn't almost done. The
horizon in the east was beginning to show the ridgetop horizon in
silhouette as I drove along Chipmunk Ridge Road and turned off on a
side road on my way to the back way onto our ridge. After bouncing
over a nearly a mile on dirt field roads, I parked at my favorite
opening-morning-of-turkey-season spot in a corner of our property. I
poured myself a cup of coffee from the thermos and sat on the
tailgate of the Ranger to listen. There was wind, but it was toning
down a bit. There it was, the first gobble of the morning, probably
over on the next hill top. I sipped my coffee and more gobbles came.
I dumped my cup, slung Wilma, my 10 gauge turkey special shotgun
over my shoulder, picked up my boat cushion and camo possibles belt,
and tucked a couple turkey decoys under my arm. Thus laden, I
crunched and slid to the other end of the place half-a-mile away.
There was snow and mud everywhere. The day before we had almost
three inches of new snow.
I had to stop and repack my load
several times before I got to the spot I figured to try and ambush my
tom. I set up my decoys, a jake and a hen, as if the jake were
breeding the hen. I saw this in the Wisconsin Outdoor News
last week. Theoretically, the mating decoys are supposed to anger a
tom who sees it, making it charge right in to chase away the jake.
In the article, Vernon County Fisheries Biologist, Jordan Weeks took
a dandy gobbler using this set up. I set up against a tree behind a
blow down some fifteen yards away. My camo boat cushion kept most of
my backside dry, but as I was sitting in snow, after awhile it was
clear that it wasn't going to keep said body part very warm. I was
wishing I had that cup of coffee back.
After a bit, I used my Knight and Hale
lonesome hen call, to announce our position to any of the gobbling
toms close enough to hear, and there were a bunch with at least three
really close! They all started gobbling at once. It sounded like
they all started coming in too. Ya gotta love opening morning. I
could determine one gobbler coming in from behind me from down in the
Stairway Hollow, one coming from the front from the Grouse Hollow,
and one coming from my right from the Corner Woods. I was thinking,
“Come on boys, first come first serve.” I only called once more.
I held Wilma up on a knee until my hands started to fade and my legs
ached. I had to reposition a bit to keep the blood flowing. Then it
got quiet. Nothin', nada, nobody home. What the heck? I called
again. Did I spook them?
Then I saw him, or should I say I heard
him and then saw. This was a long beard and he was angry. I could
see him stretch out his neck and gobble in the direction of my
decoys. He strutted, fanning out his tail feathers while walking
back and forth right on the horizon some 60 yards away. I could hear
him cutting and purring, or was that the blood pounding in my
temples? I love hunting turkeys, but this moment in turkey hunting
is the best, when you know you have one coming in to your calls. The
big bird came closer a few steps. I had my gun up and I waited.
There were downed trees and brush and distance to contend with. For
half-an-hour, the “angry” or jealous tom, repeated itself,
gobbling and strutting and moving just a little bit closer. My
patience was growing thin, my body hurt, and Wilma had tripled in
weight by now. I had picked a spot for the shot, a hole through the
trees and brush I figured would be perfect, or at least close enough.
Finally, when the bird went behind the tree, I shouldered Wilma,
cocked the hammer, and aimed for the opening. The tom, didn't come
out. “Oh no, nuts. Did he pick me up? @#$!” It gobbled again,
strutting just out of sight. Then it moved into the spot. I know I
rushed my aim, and I was shooting wrong-handed to get the angle.
When I fired, the tom leaped into the air striking out with his spurs
and claws and flapping its wings as if to fight. Then it just
dropped to its feet and turned and warily walked away. “What?”
I called again, but the bird was gone. I must have shot low. I felt
like an idiot for not being more patient and making a better shot. I
searched for almost two hours to no avail. I called it quits for the
day.
On Thursday morning it was cold and
windy. I set up along a field in some slash and stumps left from
fall bull dozer work. When I put my stuff down, three turkeys
flapped out of some nearby pines. It seemed that every time I moved
to get more comfortable, more birds took off. Eventually, I think at
least 20 turkeys had been in those pine trees. One was a crazy
gobbling tom. It gobbled for at least 45 minutes before it flew
down, probably 60 yards from me and then shut up. I called some and
far off a tom answered. I was about to move and make a pass at that
bird, when a gobbler answered just down the hill from me. It gobbled
again, coming closer. I waited, ready to finish this. It was quiet
for a bit, and then a gobble came from 10 yards away. I know I
started, moving just a tiny bit, but come on . . . I never saw the
tom. I heard again a bit farther away. It kept gobbling. I tried
calling softly. Nothing. I finally got up and tried to see it, but
nothing. Still it was exciting.
On Friday morning, it was perfect.
Clear and cool, little wind. I set up and moved three times. At the
third spot, I managed to get three gobblers going - along with some
hens. I called aggressively after awhile and they gobbled, but
didn't come in any closer. After an hour of this, I decided to just
be silent. The sun was warm and the seat pleasant enough that I
drifted off. I am not sure how long it was before I was startle
awake by a nearby gobble. I slowly scanned the area and finally saw
the tom in the corn field maybe sixty yards away. It was angry at my
decoy set up but wasn't trusting it either. The bird gobbled,
strutted fanning his tail, purred and putted; it didn't come closer.
I just enjoyed the show. It worked his way up the corn field to the
horizon and then just kept on sounding and showing off. I tried some
quiet calling, but the bird was having none of it. I waited a bit
after the bird went over the hill, and decided to try and call it
from around the point. I scrambled out of the brush and around the
end of the corn field, crouching over (as much as I can crouch) and
stopping every little bit to stand straight and take a peek over the
next rise. I maybe went 75 yards like this when I heard a gobble,
just ahead. I stood up with my gun up, and there it was, all fanned
out heading back the way it had come. This time the shot was good
and the tom died with little fanfare except for a fist pump by me and
maybe a tad more spring in my step. I got the pickup and then sat on
the tailgate with a cup of coffee and my phone and registered my
bird. The computer registrar is a bit annoying, but it worked and I
could just go home rather make a trip to La Crosse to register my
bird. It weighed in at 24 pounds with a 9-inch beard. Ellen is
going make roast wild turkey and mushroom and wine gravy over wild
rice one of these next days.
Until next time, get out - the Stoddard
Bergen Fire Department Big Walleye Tournament is this weekend and
Gordie is coming to fish with me. Should be another story to tell.
Enjoy.
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