After all, I was used to hunting turkeys against a backdrop of vibrant green; listening to birds gobble amidst the fragrant beauty of blooming dogwoods or watching them strut proudly through a meadow of spectacular bluebonnets. So now, looking out at the striking yet arid terrain of the badlands, it was difficult to imagine that this barren-looking parcel of real estate held these proud birds. And yet, when the first majestic gobble of the morning cracked through the sunrise, I knew that the steep hills and rugged draws before me were blessed as a Merriam’s turkey mecca.
Merriam's turkeys are approximately the same size as their Eastern cousins, but with distinctively lighter, nearly white plumage on their lower back and the tips of their tail feathers. The feathers are not as pure white as the Gould’s turkey of Mexico, but are none the less strikingly beautiful in contrast to the darker feathers that cover most of the rest of the bird.
As an avid turkey hunter, I had long admired the beauty of the Merriam’s subspecies and it had always been my intent to hunt and harvest one of these turkeys at some point during my hunting career. Thus, when I was notified by the North Dakota Game and Fish Department that I had drawn a spring turkey tag for the 2008 season, I was justifiably overjoyed. Not only would I have the opportunity to fulfill my goal of hunting these spectacular birds, but I would be hunting them in some of the most fascinating territory in the state: the incredible North Dakota badlands.
My turkey tag was for a hunting unit north of interstate 94 in a vast area of public hunting land. Work obligations had kept me busy prior to the season’s opener so as I prepared to make my first trip afield in search of turkeys; I solicited the help of my friend Brad, a life-long North Dakotan and successful badlands hunter, to help me become familiar with this new area.
Brad and I spent the better part of a beautiful Saturday scouring the forest service roads in search of lonely gobblers. Although the early morning hours produced a group of hens and toms that we were able to call to within 25 yards of our position, the gobblers were not in an optimal position for a clean shot with the recurve bows we carried.
And in the end, though the strutting birds put on quite a show, all we could do was watch while they followed the hens and disappeared into the clay hills and cedar-choked draws that surrounded our location.
The day with Brad ended without either of us filling our turkey tags, but with a broader sense of familiarity regarding where to look for turkeys in the future, I felt much more prepared to meet the challenge of the rest of the hunting season. In addition, I was committed to continuing my in-season scouting efforts in the hopes of filling my tag before the conclusion of the season.
A full two weeks passed before my next opportunity to go afield in search of a majestic Merriams'. When I awoke very early on the Saturday morning I planned to hunt, I was stunned to find a fresh three inch blanket of snow covering the ground. With more snow continuing to fall from the dark May sky, I decided that perhaps I should delay my hunt until later in the day when visibility improved and the roads were more likely to be clear. I reluctantly crawled back into bed to wait for sunrise and more favorable turkey hunting conditions.
As is so characteristic in the springtime West, the morning’s frosty weather gave way to afternoon temperatures of nearly 70 degrees, permitting unfettered highway travel and giving me the green light to drive into the badlands in search of a late day bird. I drove into a number of forest service areas on my quest for gobblers that day, but was unable to find a Tom willing to respond to my calls more than casually.
It was clear that the gobblers were with hens and as a result, they were not willing to part company from the females to investigate the sounds of a newcomer. Still, I made a note on my map of every area that held turkeys and I was determined to return on Sunday to try again.
My alarm went off at 3:30 AM the next day which coincidentally, was Mother’s Day. Since my Mom was 1300 miles away at her home in Kentucky, I decided that it would be a fitting celebration of her contribution to my life by trying to bag a Merriam's turkey in her honor. And so, to increase my odds, I hung up my trusty recurve and grabbed my old faithful turkey gun: a NWTF special edition model 1300 Winchester 12 gauge shotgun. The use of the shotgun would allow me to extend my shot range if necessary and since I knew that I would have limited hunting time after this day, I was looking for some advantages. With the Winchester I knew I was ready!
I arrived in the badlands just about 4:45 AM and drove immediately to an area that had seemed highly promising the day before. I positioned myself in a location within 400 yards of where I expected birds to be and as daylight seeped across the land, I used my locator call to see if I could entice a turkey to gobble.
Silence.
I called again and waited.
No response.
Time passed and by now, it was well after fly-down time. I knew that the turkeys were probably moving out of their roosting areas and beginning to feed in more open terrain, so I packed up my gear, jumped in my vehicle, and began to drive to an area about a mile away.
I was barely on my way when I caught movement on a grassy hill some 250 yards off the gravel road. A full glance confirmed that it was a small flock of turkey hens followed by one persistent gobbler. My brief assessment of the situation suggested that because of the hilly topography where the birds were located, that if I hurried, I might just have a chance of getting set-up ahead of them without being noticed. It was a long shot, but as any true turkey hunter knows, sometimes a long shot is the only shot!
Crouching as low as possible, I ran as quickly and quietly as I could into a draw adjacent to where I last saw the foraging turkeys. Then, on my hands and knees, I crawled up the far edge of the draw and peeked through the scrub brush and prairie grass to get my bearings and to choose a place to try and call. When I peered through the dry underbrush, I could see that the birds were only about 150 yards away and would soon be parallel to my location. It was clear that my window of opportunity had quickly opened and that if I didn’t immediately react that it might just as quickly close
I crawled backwards a few feet so that I was just below the edge of the draw and slightly lower than the turkeys' field of view. Pulling out my slate call and striker, I was already striking out the soft notes of a hen yelp as I settled by back against a three inch diameter sapling and hoped for a response.
The Tom responded immediately and when I softly yelped again, his gobble told me that he was closing the distance. I pulled my knees up toward my chest, readied my shotgun, and carefully slipped the safety off in anticipation of a shot.
It took only minutes before I saw the brown, feathered heads of two curious hens peek through the swaying grass and appraise me from only 10 yards away. Seconds later, another hen and the gobbler emerged from behind them. The Tom was strutting proudly, displaying his spectacular plumage and dancing through the prairie grass like an apparition. As he drummed to impress his harem, I steadied the bead of the Winchester on the big bird’s wattles, uttered a silent prayer for a clean shot, and squeezed the trigger. In an instant, he was done.
Turkeys scattered at the report of the gun and as I rose to my feet, I removed the remaining shells from the Winchester and walked the 15 yards toward the Merriam’s gobbler now lying motionless against the backdrop of the historic badlands. What a beautiful and majestic bird, and what an incredible gift to have been fortunate enough to harvest him in such spectacular surroundings.
Chasing Toms in the North Dakota badlands has left me with memories I will never forget. Whether the breathtaking views, the thunderous sound of gobblers resonating through the wind, or the harvesting of my first Merriam’s turkey on a cool Mother’s Day morning, by any measure this hunt was not simply a success. It was a blessing.
I stared out across the North Dakota badlands with a sense of intrigue. After years of hunting Eastern turkeys in the lush springtime forests of the South and chasing Rio Grande gobblers through the live oak motts of west Texas, I viewed the dramatic western North Dakota topography as a surreal variant of typical turkey habitat.