The season is drawing to a close.
Not quite the 11th hour, but it's getting near. We've
spent the better part of our weekends calling and guiding for other
hunters, but this last weekend of the season will be ours to hunt.
The spring woods has thickened
and changed over the past month. The hillside to my front is now
covered in green. Every hue and shade on a color wheel, lime, mint,
olive and emerald. The leaves, grass and foliage have all now matured
and the blooms have burst. A few ivory pedals on the dogwoods hang
on, but this afternoon's downpour is sure to send them to the ground.
The clouds have come and gone
all day, bringing with them steady showers and rumbles of thunder and
distant lightning. In most cases, foul weather sends us indoors, but
spring rain storms bring the birds to the fields. Turkeys by nature
are the perfect prey for every carnivore in the woods and the heavy
rains take away their sense of hearing. In my observations over the
years, the big birds feel safer in the open fields in this damp, gray
weather.
We get a break between showers
and the boy and I head out. He's opted to tote his 12 gauge since the
clock is ticking. Stubborn, I'll still clutch my old recurve bow
hoping to get an arrow into a Tom. I know my chances are slim, but at
this point in my hunting life, I'm more interested in the process and
the “how it's done” rather than the end result. I smile at the
kid's enthusiasm as he hikes off up the steep, muddy hill, gun over
his shoulder.
The rains have made it steamy,
muggy and damp. Feels more like mid July than early May. I settle
back in my blind overlooking the wet field and wait. Cow birds make
their dripping water sounds just outside of my shooting window and
blue jays and crows sound off at each other. An hour into my sit and
there, on the hillside a distant gobble. I cut and purr back at the
bird and he responds. I yelp and call, doing my best hen imitation
and the old boy answers me regularly. We talk back and forth for over
45 minutes, sometimes he sounds closer, other times I can hear he's
marching further up the hill. My best guess is that he's still a few
hundred yards away and not much hope that he's going to step in front
of one of my arrows. I try to lure him down the hill and into my
field, but he's hung up for some reason. I continue to call at him
and he continues to answer on cue, but I'm certain now that he's
making for higher ground as he's heading towards his roosting spot
for the night.
He's gobbling less frequently
now, several minutes in between his calls. He belts out one final
gobble, angry at a noisy crow somewhere up on the hill and then all
is quiet. My thoughts turn to my son and I wander where he might be
on the hillside and if he's heard the Tom's gobbling. A few moments
later, the loud report of a shotgun answers my question...Just one
shot, no follow ups can only mean one of two things; A clear hit or
complete miss. Unless someone else has sneaked in, I'm sure it was
the kid that fired.
The steep hillsides and deep
valley keep me from calling or texting him, so I'll just have to
wait. I'm anxious to hear and see if he was the shooter and to listen
to his story. Five minutes turn to ten and ten to twenty. Just when I
don't think I can wait any longer, I catch movement to my right a
couple hundred yards down the field edge. The tall, lean figure of my
son emerges from the woods and the bouncing, black wings and tail fan
of a turkey thrown over his shoulder leave no doubt to my curiosity.
I shout out to him, but he's too far to hear my voice. I gather my
gear and double time it to try and catch up to the kid, but one of
his steps is like two of mine.
We finally meet back up at the
truck. A smile, a firm handshake, a pat on the back and then I
listen to a story from the young man who proves every time we step
into the woods, that this is where he belongs.
 |
| Drew's 2014 Indiana Eastern Wild Turkey. 21lbs, 31mm spurs, 10" beard, 4-5 year old bird. |
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