Old Man Winter, with a former might and icy bite that shocks your breathe away, had surrendered and given way to the genesis of Spring. Morning thunder announced his demise. Looking out my office window, the geese were taking turns executing graceful skid landings on the pond as they performed their mating dances and squabbled over hierarchies. A great blue heron fluffed and folded his wings, gracefully stepping in the periphery of sagging dead cattails.
This visual drama held me spellbound, but my thoughts were somewhere else because Spring held new meaning this year. I was going turkey hunting.
The bright April sun made the freeway asphalt sparkle like black diamond sandpaper, as my seventh hour of driving ticked away. The stereo pounded out my favorite rock as I yammered on the cell phone and munched Teriyaki jerky with a cold coffee chaser. Par usual, I was loaded with far more hunting gear than I really needed, but being a "what if" kind of person, I always liked to be prepared for every variable. Okay okay, so I'm an anal fanatic obsessive, but I'm not alone. All my turkey hunting friends had been going crazy for the last two weeks. Since this was my first turkey hunt, I was an outsider looking in at their frenzy. As a tax accountant with April 15th being just two days past, I didn't have the mental energy to psych myself either. Oh, I had methodically accumulated most of the required turkey hunting accoutrements, but the anticipation and thrill of this sport still seemed somewhat foreign to me. I am not one to emotionalize things or attain excitement vicariously through the passions of others. I'm not a good faker, and I need to embrace an experience myself. And besides, how could the pursuit of any critter compare to my love for whitetail deer, bear, or duck hunting? I was going to find out.
I pulled into the tiny Kansas town, where our lavender painted motel sat at the junction of two cattle truck routes. Representing five States, our six member hunting group was organized by Blaine, a friend and business associate from Ohio. He and his buddy Terry, were on a mission to see that I got a turkey. We assembled for scouting by 10am, and by 4pm we were all out hunting in our respective areas. We hunted hard, and by the second day, two in the group had each harvested nice gobblers. The second evening I took a stand alone, and finally had the guts to practice my diaphragm call. To my astonishment, four gobblers pursuing a hen came racing by me at 60 yards, stopping twice when I called again. I saw 16 turkeys that night and nearly called one within range at final legal light. My curiosity and excitement were mounting.
By the third day, it was pouring rain. We trudged a half mile through various muddy fields and took a stand under oak trees at the edge of an old corn field over sown with wheat. Blaine started calling, and within an hour, five gobblers answered and came through the woods, stopping at the field edge 15 yards to our right. Obviously educated to decoys, they spooked and did a hasty retreat back into the woods. I shoot both left and right handed, and began the slow motion process of switching to shoulder for a left handed shot. The gobblers made a second appearance, only to retreat again. By now, 25 minutes had elapsed, and the fever pitch of my excitement was starting to make me burn inside. Our intended prey made their third appearance at the field edge and I was ready. I steadied my shotgun, elbows on knees, with the lead turkey's lower neck in my site picture. The first birds stepped into the clear, and I began to slowly squeeze the trigger, just as I had done a few days before when patterning my shotguns up at my hunting shack in Minnesota. My first turkey hunt and I was ready to get a turkey! My heart rate was aerobic, but I willed myself still. Steady, steady, I pulled the trigger and CLICK.
CLICK !!
It was the loudest click I ever heard. My gun had misfired ! Blaine thought I had not chambered a shell and frantically waited for me to reload, but the gun was jammed. I whispered "shoot, SHOOT, my gun misfired !". He yanked his shotgun off his lap and as the birds simultaneously busted us, he downed the largest one. It flapped wildly so he bolted to catch it before it escaped. He held it upside down till it was quiet, cutting his hand on a spur, and then laid the gobbler down. Walking up to him, I reached out to shake his hand in congratulations, but my feigned happy face wilted when I saw his look of utter disappointment. We were both so stunned that the gun misfired. "This does not feel good. This is your bird", he said, getting misty eyed and choking back tears. "Its OUR bird", I replied. "TEAMWORK is why you shot it... better this bird, than NO bird. You did great ! " We hunted for another hour in the rain but our demeanors were as gray as the sky. The silent dusk walk out through monstrously huge fields was like walking a moonscape, and the accompanying relentless rain mirrored our sentiments.
Day four, and the sun was out. After an uneventful morning, we were headed for a new spot near open fields bordering roosting trees along a meandering stream. Our stand tree was ensconced by gnarls of branches and brush, perfect for ground concealment. We both agreed, it just felt right. The sun was at our backs and the tree was surrounded by a secluded meadow full of grasshoppers. This was a good sign. We started calling. Before two hours had passed, Blaine indicated that there was a gobbler at my 10 oclock position. Since he had been like a pesky little brother playing on my gullibility, with kidding and bugging me during this trip, I thought he was joking and whispered "Youre joshing me, right?". I turned slowly and let out a gasp... "Oh .... OH ! ". WRONG! There was a turkey... a big turkey, at 35 yards straight off my left shoulder. This meant I would need to turn and do an off hand shot, and since I was shooting a borrowed gun, I just prayed I could pull it off.
The bird then turned and started straight for us... bad since this gun had an extra full choke and a close shot might miss or not be pretty. Now in position, my turkey hunting mentor whispered "shoot shoot!". His line of site was clear since he was sitting 90 degrees away from and about 2 feet higher than me. My line of site was obstructed with the twisted branches, but the tom was making his way to my left. Feeling like a pretzel at this point, an off hand shot was going to be a challenge, and might even send me to the chiropractor. The bird was moving away now and I was quickly losing my opportunity. FINALLY he stepped into an open shooting lane. Totally focused, I squeezed the trigger of the Remington 11-87 and boofed the gobbler in his tracks. One wing flapped for a moment as Blaine did a sprint to the kill site.
I sat there for a second feeling both elated and stunned. I stood up, and crumpled to my knees. I stood again, and started to crash through the branches and brush in front of me... and crumpled again. My legs were like Jello. I crawled out of the branches and through the field grass for several feet on my hands and knees like a baby, so totally jazzed I could not stand up. Nearing the lifeless bird and an excited smiling hunting buddy, I stood up... shaking from head to toe. Blaine delivered high fives and a congratulatory back slap. "Wow, was that ever cool", I said. "Just wait till you call one in for an hour and see a gobbler in full strut. This is nuthin" he replied. If this was nuthin, what he described might very well give me heart failure. After some photographs, I was coached as I field dressed the bird. The tom weighed 25 pounds, had a 12 inch beard with only one spur at 1.25 inches, having lost the other in a fight. Last night the skies wept, but tonight as I walked to my truck with my turkey on my back, the Kansas hillsides celebrated with a thousand little fires as farmers did controlled burns in preparation for planting season. I could not stop smiling.
The final day, as the coyties barked and howled just yards from me at daybreak, I hunted out of a T-3 Double Bull Blind with my Jennings Rackmaster Light bow and carbon arrows, but didn't see anything. As far as the overall TF, or what I call "Thrill Factor", I still rate Bears #1, and now Turkey as #2 and White Tail Deer as #3. The sustained TF of turkey hunting was unlike any other hunting I had ever done.
This was a trip of contrasts, with many elements indelibly etched in my mind. There was thrill and disappointment. There were hot sunny days and cold rainy evenings. One realized their relative insignificance in the universe while standing alone before God under a big sky in the center of a thousand acres of croplands, or in climbing to the top of the huge hills in the area for an eagle eye view. There was laughter and tears. We were adults, but with the wide eyed excitement and appreciation of children. Binding it all together was the comradery and mutual acceptance of each member of the group. It was a privilege to be in their ranks.
How does one come from a mountaintop experience and plug back into reality? The anticipation of next time, thats how. It is 360 long days till next years hunt, but excellence is worth the wait.
I guess you could say..... I like turkey hunting.
