Southern Sportsman
Well-Known Member
Long read, but I have to share this one.
Saturday morning, I took my son (8) to the little farm where my dad grew up. There was a gobbler I'd seen in the same general place each of the two days prior. We heard turkeys and saw turkeys, and briefly thought we were about to kill a turkey, but it didn't pan out. We'll be back for them. Before we left, though, we found a little patch of morels. They were a few days past their prime, but it was the first time my son had ever seen one. He had a blast. It was like he stumbled into a spontaneous Easter egg hunt.
After the morning hunt, we went to Cottons Cafe in Trenton for brunch and made our afternoon plans.
A good friend of mine (good duck hunter who never really took up turkey hunting) has a son the same age as mine who is obsessed with all things hunting. My buddy took him that morning and heard a few, but he farms and had to be on a tractor by lunch. The boys have been friends since birth, and I knew they would enjoy hunting together, so I picked him up about 1:00 and the three of us headed out. We ended up going to some of their family land, so my friend's boy was first up on the gun. We didn't strike anything during the first 1/2 mile, but we dropped into a beautiful hardwood creek bottom with steep ridges on either side. We set up to call for a while. It's tough finding a set up capable of hiding two fidgety 8-yr olds, but we sat down facing east, with our backs to a big fallen cottonwood tree. I brushed us in good in front and figured the log would have to be our cover if a bird came in behind us. I gave the boys my kindest "sit right here, don't move, and be quiet" speech, then I walked south across 60 yards of creek bottom and climbed the ridge to call from higher ground. I planned to make a few series of yelps from the top, then ease my way back down to the boys calling as I went. On my second series of yelps, I thought I might have heard the tail-end of a distant gobble just as I quit yelping. But I wasn't sure at all, and even if it was a gobble, I didn't know which direction. I yelped/cut back — nothing. I slowly moved 20-30 yards towards the end of the spur ridge I was on. One last yelp before starting back down to the boys. This time, he rattled the ridges when he gobbled. He was ~150, following the ridge to me from west to east. He and I were both on high ground, but the boys were down the ridge in the bottom, 75 yards to my north. Which means I now have to go back down the ridge and cross 60 yards of open hardwoods, with a gobbler on the ridge above us. A gobbler that had already covered hundreds of yards in less than 5 minutes. There was no way to sneak back to the boys. It was too open between me and them. If the turkey was on the crest where he could see down into the bottom, we were beat. Period. I was anything but optimistic at this point, but the only chance was to (1) hope the turkey was still over the ridge crest, and (2) get back to the boys before he crested. So . . . as quietly as I could (not very quiet at all), and against every instinct that tells you to hide when a turkey is that close and coming to find you, I slid down the ridge like a playground slide and sprinted across the bottom like I was trying to beat out a double play. I slid into place out of breath and absolutely confident we would never hear that turkey again. I told the boys he probably saw me, but I had to get back to them and I was sorry for screwing this up. Once I caught my breath a little, I yelped softly, just to confirm that he was gone. He cut me off, already in the bottom, 70 yards to our west (behind us). I physically held the boys' heads below the cottonwood log as we twisted around, kneeling now, then I let them peek over. I eased the gun over the log, checked the safety and red dot, and handed it off. As soon as everyone was situated the gobbler stepped into the open, 50 yards away.
Best I can figure, the turkey had not yet crested the ridge when he last gobbled from the top. I hadn't called at him from the bottom, but he obviously heard me scampering back to the log and I suppose he dropped into the bottom towards that.
Maybe he walked down a drainage that blocked his view. Maybe there was some other topography that kept him from seeing me run across. Or maybe God just granted the desperate prayer I muttered while sliding down that ridge. However it happened, there he was, shining bronze in the dappled sunlight, bright red head absolutely glowing. I'll never forget the boys simultaneously whispering "I see him! I see him!" His final approach was slow and perfect. 5 steps, strut, head stretched tall to look, 5 more steps, strut. Me whisper-yelling "be still!" the whole time. At 35 yards, he started acting a little nervous, knowing a hen should be there. I wanted him at 30, but the gun is plenty capable at 40. When the turkey started veering left I figured we'd pushed our luck enough. I whispered "shoot him," but only made it to "shoot . . ." before the .410 drowned out the rest. The turkey folded into a heap, and as I took the gun, the worlds newest member of the Legion jumped onto the cottonwood log, yelling:
YES SIR!!!
YES SIR!!!
I GOT HIM!!
I GOT HIM!!
I've enjoyed some damn fine days in the turkey woods in my life. But they don't come much better than this one.
Saturday morning, I took my son (8) to the little farm where my dad grew up. There was a gobbler I'd seen in the same general place each of the two days prior. We heard turkeys and saw turkeys, and briefly thought we were about to kill a turkey, but it didn't pan out. We'll be back for them. Before we left, though, we found a little patch of morels. They were a few days past their prime, but it was the first time my son had ever seen one. He had a blast. It was like he stumbled into a spontaneous Easter egg hunt.
After the morning hunt, we went to Cottons Cafe in Trenton for brunch and made our afternoon plans.
A good friend of mine (good duck hunter who never really took up turkey hunting) has a son the same age as mine who is obsessed with all things hunting. My buddy took him that morning and heard a few, but he farms and had to be on a tractor by lunch. The boys have been friends since birth, and I knew they would enjoy hunting together, so I picked him up about 1:00 and the three of us headed out. We ended up going to some of their family land, so my friend's boy was first up on the gun. We didn't strike anything during the first 1/2 mile, but we dropped into a beautiful hardwood creek bottom with steep ridges on either side. We set up to call for a while. It's tough finding a set up capable of hiding two fidgety 8-yr olds, but we sat down facing east, with our backs to a big fallen cottonwood tree. I brushed us in good in front and figured the log would have to be our cover if a bird came in behind us. I gave the boys my kindest "sit right here, don't move, and be quiet" speech, then I walked south across 60 yards of creek bottom and climbed the ridge to call from higher ground. I planned to make a few series of yelps from the top, then ease my way back down to the boys calling as I went. On my second series of yelps, I thought I might have heard the tail-end of a distant gobble just as I quit yelping. But I wasn't sure at all, and even if it was a gobble, I didn't know which direction. I yelped/cut back — nothing. I slowly moved 20-30 yards towards the end of the spur ridge I was on. One last yelp before starting back down to the boys. This time, he rattled the ridges when he gobbled. He was ~150, following the ridge to me from west to east. He and I were both on high ground, but the boys were down the ridge in the bottom, 75 yards to my north. Which means I now have to go back down the ridge and cross 60 yards of open hardwoods, with a gobbler on the ridge above us. A gobbler that had already covered hundreds of yards in less than 5 minutes. There was no way to sneak back to the boys. It was too open between me and them. If the turkey was on the crest where he could see down into the bottom, we were beat. Period. I was anything but optimistic at this point, but the only chance was to (1) hope the turkey was still over the ridge crest, and (2) get back to the boys before he crested. So . . . as quietly as I could (not very quiet at all), and against every instinct that tells you to hide when a turkey is that close and coming to find you, I slid down the ridge like a playground slide and sprinted across the bottom like I was trying to beat out a double play. I slid into place out of breath and absolutely confident we would never hear that turkey again. I told the boys he probably saw me, but I had to get back to them and I was sorry for screwing this up. Once I caught my breath a little, I yelped softly, just to confirm that he was gone. He cut me off, already in the bottom, 70 yards to our west (behind us). I physically held the boys' heads below the cottonwood log as we twisted around, kneeling now, then I let them peek over. I eased the gun over the log, checked the safety and red dot, and handed it off. As soon as everyone was situated the gobbler stepped into the open, 50 yards away.
Best I can figure, the turkey had not yet crested the ridge when he last gobbled from the top. I hadn't called at him from the bottom, but he obviously heard me scampering back to the log and I suppose he dropped into the bottom towards that.
Maybe he walked down a drainage that blocked his view. Maybe there was some other topography that kept him from seeing me run across. Or maybe God just granted the desperate prayer I muttered while sliding down that ridge. However it happened, there he was, shining bronze in the dappled sunlight, bright red head absolutely glowing. I'll never forget the boys simultaneously whispering "I see him! I see him!" His final approach was slow and perfect. 5 steps, strut, head stretched tall to look, 5 more steps, strut. Me whisper-yelling "be still!" the whole time. At 35 yards, he started acting a little nervous, knowing a hen should be there. I wanted him at 30, but the gun is plenty capable at 40. When the turkey started veering left I figured we'd pushed our luck enough. I whispered "shoot him," but only made it to "shoot . . ." before the .410 drowned out the rest. The turkey folded into a heap, and as I took the gun, the worlds newest member of the Legion jumped onto the cottonwood log, yelling:
YES SIR!!!
YES SIR!!!
I GOT HIM!!
I GOT HIM!!
I've enjoyed some damn fine days in the turkey woods in my life. But they don't come much better than this one.
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