"Turkey Country"
Spring time in Alabama. The very words evoke quiet images and familiar smells of a Southern state in bloom, set ablaze by the yearly explosion of azaleas and other flora. Before long, all of Alabama will be awash in a brilliant, impenetrable green courtesy of native sons like the pine, the kudzu, the honeysuckle, the pecan, and the mighty oak. For a brief period of time between Alabama's puny excuse for winter and its criminally oppressive summer, spring will embrace the state and her people with soft, cool breezes, blue bird skies, and stunning imagery of a grand old place bursting with color.
For a small and fanatical number of Alabamians, the arrival of spring is looked forward to year-round with more anxious anticipation than Christmas morning, the two big races at Talladega, the beginning of summer vacation (for the kids), the end of summer vacation (for the parents), and the leviathan gridiron clash between Alabama and Auburn, all put together. Days are counted backwards from a revered spot on the calendar and then crossed off one-by-one as the winter months plod slowly along towards spring. As the Big Day grows ever closer, work days are cut short by quick scouting trips to the woods; shotguns are cleaned and patterned; old vests are emptied out and their contents inventoried, repaired, and in some cases replaced; small, semi-circular diaphragm woodwind instruments are taken out of their cases and sanitized in order that daily rehearsals may begin in preparation for the big concert before the harshest and most discriminating of audiences; old analog cassette tapes along with new digitally mastered CDs are played repeatedly and their contents scrutinized until the sounds, rhythms, pitches, tone qualities, and cadences are committed to memory; some of us even spend hours at a time sitting motionless under trees in our back yards with our knees bent and our arms held up in front of our faces to condition our bodies for long sits during which any errant movement, no matter how slight, will ensure defeat.
For those of us to whom the foregoing applies in whole or in part, the arrival of spring in Alabama means one thing: turkey season.
The Eastern Wild Turkey that considers Alabama part of its native range is a truly astounding creature. Unlike its human adversary, the wild turkey's fairer sex is the male, to which God and nature awarded the characteristics of grace and beauty. The male turkey boasts rich, colorful plumage and a brilliant red, white and blue head. Among its numerous unique physical attributes, the male exhibits the odd physiological dichotomy of being hideously ugly and breathtakingly beautiful at the same time. The male turkey, or tom, captivates its audiences - comprised interchangeably of female turkeys, juvenile males, other toms, and human hunters - with its dominance-inspired strutting while it spits and drums its monarchical superiority in the hopes of wooing a female long enough to procreate. This arrogant springtime display has seduced many a hunter right along with the hens, adding to the mystique and reverence for the wild turkey.
It is the gobble, the call of the tom, however, that gets first-timers addicted to the sport of hunting wild turkeys. When experienced live and up close, whether from high on the roost or mere yards away on the ground, the turkey's gobble infects the listener and sentences him to a lifetime of hopeless yet euphoric pursuit not unlike the crippling effects of heroine on a first-time user. It only takes once and you're hooked. Part-time, semi-professional wildlife biologists - also known as hunters - will swear they know not only exactly why toms gobble but also precisely when they will gobble. Being well-adjusted enough to recognize that I am neither much of a wildlife biologist nor a turkey hunter, I am settled in my own personal certainty that toms will gobble at just about anything. I have heard them gobble at the sunrise, at dogs, at owls, at crows, at slamming car doors, at paper mills, at trains, at slapping camp house screen doors, at cows, at tugboats, at hawks, at other toms, at hens, and sometimes, amazingly, at me. Hearing a throaty gobble at daybreak and tearing off in the direction of the sound is enough to classify a hunt as a success even if eventually the bird is not harvested. There is just something mystical and special about Alabama turkeys in the spring.
Alabama turkey hunters are among the most blessed anywhere. Our state is home to an estimated half million wild turkeys, a number sufficient to sustain the existing number of hunters as well as the growing number of people flocking (sorry, couldn't help myself) to the sport and spontaneously declaring themselves turkey hunters. The habitat in Alabama is excellent for wild turkeys as it offers the four things they need most - trees to roost in, water to drink, food to eat, and grit to help them digest it. The hens, of course, need also good cover in which to nest, and their poults need it to evade predators for their first few weeks until they learn to fly. Turkeys are incredible at adapting to just about any environment in which they find themselves; as such, Alabama's widely diverse natural habitat offers a broad range in which they flourish. Sweet Home Alabama, indeed.
The visual beauty of the Alabama woods in spring is another part of the allure of hunting turkeys in Dixie. By mid-March in most parts of the state the dogwoods have erupted and dusted the countryside with clouds of soft white flowers. For years the conventional wisdom (translate that as folk lore) was that turkeys will not gobble until the dogwoods bloom. Still today you will hear turkey hunters say that, despite an ephemeral date on a calendar somewhere in Montgomery where the Department of Conservation & Natural Resources decrees the opening of turkey season, the season does not truly begin until the dogwoods bloom. Whether there is a real scientific correlation between the flowering of the dogwoods and the increased testosterone in male turkeys that entices them to gobble in a blatant display of male superiority, or whether these two events happen to occur naturally around the same time every year in utter indifference to one another, I cannot say. I suspect the latter. But I can speak with absolute authority of the true native precursor to turkey season, without which, at least for some of us, turkey season cannot be said to have properly begun.
For a very select few of us turkey season cannot begin until one of Alabama's homegrown authorities is consulted on the matter. There is a small but loyal faction that cannot enter into another turkey season until Tom Kelly's Tenth Legion has been pulled from the book shelf, dusted off, and read one more time. In his classic bible on turkey hunting, Colonel Kelly reminds us what is right about hunting the wild turkey and why it is something to be damned proud of not only to sit down with him to play the game in the first place, but to play the game by his rules, on the ground of his choosing, and with an all too sobering understanding that he will win better than nine times out of ten. Modern advancements in turkey hunting weapons and equipment have leveled the playing field somewhat, as has Alabama's recent legalization of the use of turkey decoys. Embracing those advancements is, thankfully, voluntary at least for now. One can still elect to pursue the wild turkey the right way, without the assistance of decoys, ground blinds, electronic calling devices, or dogs. If you are among those who so elect to hunt the wild turkey, knowing full well it means having to hear success stories from those others more often than you have your own to offer, you should sit down with Col. Kelly and read Tenth Legion before the next turkey season. Not only will your perspective feel strengthened, but you will be proud Alabama is home to the poet laureate of modern turkey hunting.
Alabama is home to some of the best turkey hunting and turkey hunting successes as well. This is turkey country. You will know you have entered it when you cross over the Ben Rodgers Lee Memorial Bridge in Washington County. Winner of five World Turkey Calling Championships and the recognized "father of modern day turkey hunting," Ben Lee, Sr. had as much to do with bringing new people to the sport of turkey hunting and encouraging young turkey hunters as anyone before his death in 1991. The Coffeeville native was and is a state treasure and advanced turkey hunting in Alabama and throughout the country in a way few have before or since. You will know you're in the heart of turkey country when on any given day you are likely to hear a judge or an accountant or a welder or a preacher or a lawyer tell tall tales of past turkey hunts, near misses, and that boss gobbler that got away and haunts them still; when every sporting goods store you enter offers a chance to win a brand new 4-wheeler or bass boat just for killing the biggest gobbler; and when both wives and employers are expected to make do with the spotty attendance and vacant attention of their turkey hunting subordinates who at every other time of the year are so loyal and dependable.
Alabama is a turkey hunter's dream. Just one morning spent in a cool, misty fog among towering pines and behemoth oaks listening to the world and the woods come to life will restore your soul. As the sky slowly brightens to the point you can distinguish it from the tree tops, barred owls begin to announce the coming of the sun with their six-note preludes, while lesser birds begin chirping the understory awake from its slumber. The old boss tom is very jealous of his air time and can only stand hearing others fill it for so long before he feels compelled to step in and throttles a reminder of his self-imposed dominance in the form of his long, vexed gobble. Ah, rapture. The sound that stirs every turkey hunter never sounds so good as when first it is made on a still and silent morning. That first gobble that thunders throughout the woods and shatters the early morning hush jump-starts the turkey hunter's heart and reaffirms why he's there, despite all the stomach-turning defeats of the past.
It is spring in Alabama. The dogwoods are blooming, the birds are singing, the hardwoods are budding, the hens are playing hard-to-get, and the longbeards are gobbling, strutting, spitting, and drumming. As the woods and the countryside experience their annual rebirth so, too, does the turkey hunter. This is when he feels most alive; alone on a woods road before dawn, ears perked and neck arched straining to hear that distant gobble. There it is. He sets out quietly down the road, grateful for one more day in the woods that ring true with the sounds of the wild turkey.
(c) Roger Guilian 2007
For a small and fanatical number of Alabamians, the arrival of spring is looked forward to year-round with more anxious anticipation than Christmas morning, the two big races at Talladega, the beginning of summer vacation (for the kids), the end of summer vacation (for the parents), and the leviathan gridiron clash between Alabama and Auburn, all put together. Days are counted backwards from a revered spot on the calendar and then crossed off one-by-one as the winter months plod slowly along towards spring. As the Big Day grows ever closer, work days are cut short by quick scouting trips to the woods; shotguns are cleaned and patterned; old vests are emptied out and their contents inventoried, repaired, and in some cases replaced; small, semi-circular diaphragm woodwind instruments are taken out of their cases and sanitized in order that daily rehearsals may begin in preparation for the big concert before the harshest and most discriminating of audiences; old analog cassette tapes along with new digitally mastered CDs are played repeatedly and their contents scrutinized until the sounds, rhythms, pitches, tone qualities, and cadences are committed to memory; some of us even spend hours at a time sitting motionless under trees in our back yards with our knees bent and our arms held up in front of our faces to condition our bodies for long sits during which any errant movement, no matter how slight, will ensure defeat.
For those of us to whom the foregoing applies in whole or in part, the arrival of spring in Alabama means one thing: turkey season.
The Eastern Wild Turkey that considers Alabama part of its native range is a truly astounding creature. Unlike its human adversary, the wild turkey's fairer sex is the male, to which God and nature awarded the characteristics of grace and beauty. The male turkey boasts rich, colorful plumage and a brilliant red, white and blue head. Among its numerous unique physical attributes, the male exhibits the odd physiological dichotomy of being hideously ugly and breathtakingly beautiful at the same time. The male turkey, or tom, captivates its audiences - comprised interchangeably of female turkeys, juvenile males, other toms, and human hunters - with its dominance-inspired strutting while it spits and drums its monarchical superiority in the hopes of wooing a female long enough to procreate. This arrogant springtime display has seduced many a hunter right along with the hens, adding to the mystique and reverence for the wild turkey.
It is the gobble, the call of the tom, however, that gets first-timers addicted to the sport of hunting wild turkeys. When experienced live and up close, whether from high on the roost or mere yards away on the ground, the turkey's gobble infects the listener and sentences him to a lifetime of hopeless yet euphoric pursuit not unlike the crippling effects of heroine on a first-time user. It only takes once and you're hooked. Part-time, semi-professional wildlife biologists - also known as hunters - will swear they know not only exactly why toms gobble but also precisely when they will gobble. Being well-adjusted enough to recognize that I am neither much of a wildlife biologist nor a turkey hunter, I am settled in my own personal certainty that toms will gobble at just about anything. I have heard them gobble at the sunrise, at dogs, at owls, at crows, at slamming car doors, at paper mills, at trains, at slapping camp house screen doors, at cows, at tugboats, at hawks, at other toms, at hens, and sometimes, amazingly, at me. Hearing a throaty gobble at daybreak and tearing off in the direction of the sound is enough to classify a hunt as a success even if eventually the bird is not harvested. There is just something mystical and special about Alabama turkeys in the spring.
Alabama turkey hunters are among the most blessed anywhere. Our state is home to an estimated half million wild turkeys, a number sufficient to sustain the existing number of hunters as well as the growing number of people flocking (sorry, couldn't help myself) to the sport and spontaneously declaring themselves turkey hunters. The habitat in Alabama is excellent for wild turkeys as it offers the four things they need most - trees to roost in, water to drink, food to eat, and grit to help them digest it. The hens, of course, need also good cover in which to nest, and their poults need it to evade predators for their first few weeks until they learn to fly. Turkeys are incredible at adapting to just about any environment in which they find themselves; as such, Alabama's widely diverse natural habitat offers a broad range in which they flourish. Sweet Home Alabama, indeed.
The visual beauty of the Alabama woods in spring is another part of the allure of hunting turkeys in Dixie. By mid-March in most parts of the state the dogwoods have erupted and dusted the countryside with clouds of soft white flowers. For years the conventional wisdom (translate that as folk lore) was that turkeys will not gobble until the dogwoods bloom. Still today you will hear turkey hunters say that, despite an ephemeral date on a calendar somewhere in Montgomery where the Department of Conservation & Natural Resources decrees the opening of turkey season, the season does not truly begin until the dogwoods bloom. Whether there is a real scientific correlation between the flowering of the dogwoods and the increased testosterone in male turkeys that entices them to gobble in a blatant display of male superiority, or whether these two events happen to occur naturally around the same time every year in utter indifference to one another, I cannot say. I suspect the latter. But I can speak with absolute authority of the true native precursor to turkey season, without which, at least for some of us, turkey season cannot be said to have properly begun.
For a very select few of us turkey season cannot begin until one of Alabama's homegrown authorities is consulted on the matter. There is a small but loyal faction that cannot enter into another turkey season until Tom Kelly's Tenth Legion has been pulled from the book shelf, dusted off, and read one more time. In his classic bible on turkey hunting, Colonel Kelly reminds us what is right about hunting the wild turkey and why it is something to be damned proud of not only to sit down with him to play the game in the first place, but to play the game by his rules, on the ground of his choosing, and with an all too sobering understanding that he will win better than nine times out of ten. Modern advancements in turkey hunting weapons and equipment have leveled the playing field somewhat, as has Alabama's recent legalization of the use of turkey decoys. Embracing those advancements is, thankfully, voluntary at least for now. One can still elect to pursue the wild turkey the right way, without the assistance of decoys, ground blinds, electronic calling devices, or dogs. If you are among those who so elect to hunt the wild turkey, knowing full well it means having to hear success stories from those others more often than you have your own to offer, you should sit down with Col. Kelly and read Tenth Legion before the next turkey season. Not only will your perspective feel strengthened, but you will be proud Alabama is home to the poet laureate of modern turkey hunting.
Alabama is home to some of the best turkey hunting and turkey hunting successes as well. This is turkey country. You will know you have entered it when you cross over the Ben Rodgers Lee Memorial Bridge in Washington County. Winner of five World Turkey Calling Championships and the recognized "father of modern day turkey hunting," Ben Lee, Sr. had as much to do with bringing new people to the sport of turkey hunting and encouraging young turkey hunters as anyone before his death in 1991. The Coffeeville native was and is a state treasure and advanced turkey hunting in Alabama and throughout the country in a way few have before or since. You will know you're in the heart of turkey country when on any given day you are likely to hear a judge or an accountant or a welder or a preacher or a lawyer tell tall tales of past turkey hunts, near misses, and that boss gobbler that got away and haunts them still; when every sporting goods store you enter offers a chance to win a brand new 4-wheeler or bass boat just for killing the biggest gobbler; and when both wives and employers are expected to make do with the spotty attendance and vacant attention of their turkey hunting subordinates who at every other time of the year are so loyal and dependable.
Alabama is a turkey hunter's dream. Just one morning spent in a cool, misty fog among towering pines and behemoth oaks listening to the world and the woods come to life will restore your soul. As the sky slowly brightens to the point you can distinguish it from the tree tops, barred owls begin to announce the coming of the sun with their six-note preludes, while lesser birds begin chirping the understory awake from its slumber. The old boss tom is very jealous of his air time and can only stand hearing others fill it for so long before he feels compelled to step in and throttles a reminder of his self-imposed dominance in the form of his long, vexed gobble. Ah, rapture. The sound that stirs every turkey hunter never sounds so good as when first it is made on a still and silent morning. That first gobble that thunders throughout the woods and shatters the early morning hush jump-starts the turkey hunter's heart and reaffirms why he's there, despite all the stomach-turning defeats of the past.
It is spring in Alabama. The dogwoods are blooming, the birds are singing, the hardwoods are budding, the hens are playing hard-to-get, and the longbeards are gobbling, strutting, spitting, and drumming. As the woods and the countryside experience their annual rebirth so, too, does the turkey hunter. This is when he feels most alive; alone on a woods road before dawn, ears perked and neck arched straining to hear that distant gobble. There it is. He sets out quietly down the road, grateful for one more day in the woods that ring true with the sounds of the wild turkey.
(c) Roger Guilian 2007
posted by Days Afield Host | 5:01 PM
<< Home