"Atonement"

I bushwhacked the first turkey I ever killed. I had been “hunting” turkeys (that’s debatable) for five years at the time I did it, and the only thing that outweighed my ignorance was the utter frustration I felt over my seemingly boundless inability to seal the deal. Five years of constant failure had worn me thin.

Not that I deserved to enjoy immediate success. Turkeys are, by design, immensely difficult to hunt; especially if one does it as equitably as is possible considering the fact that the turkeys are not armed with shotguns. To each his own, but from my chair, decoys, chufa patches, ground blinds, electronic callers and the like all tilt the playing field way too much in the hunter’s favor. Early on in my career, I committed to hunting the wild turkey on its terms. The hard way. The old way. And as some posit, the right way.

I don’t know what forces exerted themselves over me such that I made this onerous commitment back before I could even distinguish a cluck from a car horn. Perhaps it was the derisive words of Tom Kelly’s Tenth Legion, which I still set out to read in full every February before turkey season opens. Although I did not know Col. Kelly the first time I read Tenth Legion, I came away from his seminal work with the urgent sense that I would be disappointing him if I hunted turkeys any way other than the “right” way, a sense not unlike the first – and only – time I lost my temper and cussed on the golf course in the presence of my grandfather. I can still see the look of disappointment he had on his face. I have not done it since.

Perhaps it was my cognizance of the greatness of the wild turkey and the reverence it commands the first time I heard one gobble on the roost. Or maybe the explanation is simply my “old school” personality, as friends put it, or my knack for making everything more difficult than it has to be, as my wife does. Either way, I spent five years trying to teach myself and learn from others how to hunt the wild turkey.

So it was, until April 2004 when a friend and I found ourselves occupying the high ground above three loafing toms one hot afternoon beside a lake. I wish I could say we called to them in an attempt to work them honorably, but my mind does not conjure up this exculpatory memory when I think back to the moments leading up to my crime. We reconnoitered the gobblers and the ground, and analyzed the situation in hushed whispers before concurring that we could not get around and in front of them without getting busted. Fervid in my desire to bag a gobbler, I decided to skulk to the crest of the ridge that separated us from them to see what I could do. Ten whirling minutes and two shots later, the deed was done. Finally I walked out of the woods with a gobbler slung over my shoulder. I tried to feel proud as its head bounced off the back of my leg. Shortly after taking dozens of photos showcasing all the traditional poses with the conquered longbeard, however, my reward began to feel somewhat hollow.

I had let myself down. I tried to imagine how Col. Kelly’s words would read on the printed page if he knew what I had done, and chose to write about it. What I imagined was nothing short of an indictment and an excommunication from The League. I promised myself I had bushwhacked my last gobbler, even if I was never to kill another one again.

As the Springs marched on, one after the other like jakes cruising a cutover trying to pick up girls, I slowly began to figure out my proverbial rear from that proverbial hole in the ground. I read about the wild turkey and studied its habits, biology and behavior. When I was around seasoned turkey hunters, I shut my mouth and listened. My calling improved until my repertoire was not only diverse, but actually pretty convincing. My woodsmanship, likewise, improved. I learned from anyone with whom I hunted, and I took something away from every trip to the turkey woods.

A few years ago, the pieces started threatening to fall into place. At first, it was the longbeard that double-gobbled and cut off my calls. Then it was the pack of jakes I called up to within ten steps. Then that damned old Cutover Tom that always got the best of me, but that played the game just enough to convince me I was doing as much right as I was wrong. I was calling them off the roost and getting them to within sight, if not gun range. Still, it seemed like I could always be counted on to commit some bush league error at a critical point in the game to snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

A good friend with whom I’ve hunted turkeys for years is fond of saying, “Rog, you’re this close. Once you turn the corner, you’re going to start killing birds consistently.” Maybe. But I had not yet atoned for my sins.

For years I silently suspected that I had jinxed myself by bushwhacking that turkey. Last season I reached points when I wondered how long I’d be cursed with having to wear that old bird around my neck, the way the Ancient Mariner reaped so much misery from killing his albatross. Turkeys, turkeys everywhere . . .

Somewhere along the line, however, I must have paid my penance. If this season is any indication, my albatross has fallen from my neck, and I have turned that corner. I am calling up turkeys and killing them, just as I’d always imagined a turkey hunter should. While I still make as many mistakes as good decisions (also as it should be), I am blessed this season with exciting hunts. Absolved of the burden of my trespasses, I relish the passion and brilliance and rush and sheer maddening frustration inherent in hunting turkeys, confident I am doing it the right way, and fervent in the knowledge that it’s supposed to be hard.

(c) Roger Guilian 2009

"Scouting"

Turkey season is a couple weeks old now, and although the season is yet young, I have learned one critical lesson: I should have lied to my wife about having to go out of town for work, and instead spent a couple days scouting before the season opened.

This is the first turkey season in my new lease and, despite my good intentions, I allowed life and work and family to get in the way of familiarizing myself with the land the way I meant to do. Seems like deer season closed just last week (without much fanfare I might add); I had a month-and-a-half to prepare for turkey season. Where did it go?

What I wouldn't give to have a dime for every time I vowed to myself and others how serious I was about getting up to the woods and doing some scouting before turkey season. Of all the hopeless but well-intentioned promises I have uttered, this is above all others the most laughable. That's saying something, too, because quite frankly there are quite a few of my utterances that would vie for honorable mention.

I have even caught myself waxing philosophic to others about the value of pre-season scouting. Amazingly, I have had the unmitigated gall to stand there and pontificate about the importance of patterning that wary ol' gobbler and locating its strut zones and dusting areas to determine the most likely routes it'll use to get from one to the other next spring. Who am I kidding? I have not had the time or made the commitment to seriously scout turkeys before the season opened in years. Not unless you count riding through the property during a work weekend and asking a buddy, “Where does that trail go?”

It wouldn’t be so bad if the only repercussion of my recalcitrance was yet another fruitless turkey season. But no, I have to be reminded of my utter lack of commitment every time I go to the grocery store, the gas station, or anywhere else outdoor magazines are sold. You are more likely to trudge through a Deep South pine plantation overrun with thorny vines and gallberries at the height of August and emerge without a single chigger bite than you are to leaf through a handful of outdoor magazines without being completely choked by articles extolling the virtues of pre-season scouting.

Beginning with the end of deer season – which seems to come sooner and sooner every year – the outdoor publications are absolutely saturated with tips and tidbits on how to scout, how to prepare to scout, where to scout, when to scout, what to wear when you scout, what to write down after you scout, and how your scouting is guaranteed to result in increased success; if there is a turkey hunter in this day and age who does not know that pre-season scouting is important, it's not for the believers' failure to get out the gospel.

Around January or February when I unwittingly stumble across the first magazine at the grocery store emblazoned with the words “PATTERN THAT TOM NOW! YOUR COMPLETE GUIDE TO PRE-SEASON SCOUTING,” I become flush with that guilty, panicked feeling like I am the only kid in the class who forgot there was a test today and all the other kids are taunting me about how it's too late and there's no way I can wing it. Enough already! I know I should scout!

Nevertheless, it’s not entirely hopeless. I have acquired an adroit working knowledge of the land and feel relatively confident that I can find my way around all the major roads, so long as the sun is out and I have a map in my truck. The fact that most prudent turkey hunters get in the woods well before sunup poses a challenge, but not an insurmountable one. After all, I can invest in hundreds of bright eyes or leave a mile or two of flagging in the woods.

Should I find myself confronted by an angry landowner after I meander all over his property one morning because I have no clue where the lines are painted, I will point out to him that his turkeys are actually safer with me unlawfully on his property than with me lawfully off of it.

As long as a longbeard pitches off the roost and plops squarely onto the middle of a road, I stand a very good chance of bagging him. Should the turkeys resort to guerilla tactics, my presence and intentions will be nullified immediately. But, like the British during the War of 1812, I’m counting on my adversary to be a gentleman in his contribution to the skirmish.
Should I actually kill a turkey within the next four weeks despite my cutting of all the requisite corners by failing to scout before the first dogwood bloomed, I promise I will not tell a soul – much less a magazine editor, lest I throw off all of next winter’s lineup of pre-season features.



(c) Roger Guilian 2009