"A Case of the Veterans"
The day seemed hell-bent on being a total bust. Despite ideal conditions, the morning was frustratingly slow. By 7:15, my friend Jackson and I had not heard a thing, unless you count the lone gobbler that sounded off from a neighboring property. Yet the weather was absolutely perfect: cool morning; no humidity; high pressure; blue bird skies. We couldn’t understand the turkeys’ lockjaw.
Then around 7:15 or a little after, a gobbler within an approachable distance decided it was time to end the silence. He fired off a nice, long gobble and our hopes were restored.
We trekked up a steep road and listened for another gobble once we reached the top of the ridge. After a few more gobbles, we were able to pinpoint the towering hardwood from which the roosted bird was trumpeting his pronouncements. We snuck down the road about ten yards and then skulked our way across the back side of a ridge that jutted off the road and into the woods.
Steep hardwood ridges rose and fell all around us. I took note of a thin drain or stream that meandered along a bottom where the many ridges ended their sharp descents. The ridge we were dissecting came to an abrupt end and we mused about needing to rappel down to the bottom if the gobbler pitched and began working the drain instead of the ridges. It was a straight drop of at least fifty feet.
We set up within sight of the crest of the ridge and began calling. Each of us had to find oaks with wide bases, as we would have fallen backwards and tumbled down the face of the ridge had we not had trees against which to lean.
We called sparingly at first; mostly clucks and purrs as we raked our hands through the oak leaves to mimic the sound of hen scratching. The tom all but ignored us at the onset. After fifteen minutes or so, however, the gobbler became a little more interested and before too long he was pretty fired up. Soon, we were enjoying the age-old game of getting the gobbler excited and then frustrating him by shutting up for long periods of time. It worked well and for a minute there, I thought we’d drive him crazy enough that he’d pitch down to check us out.
Right about that time, however, we heard a gaggle of hens on an opposing ridge break out in a cacophony of yelps, clucks, cutts and purrs as they made their way toward the gobbler in front of us. It wasn’t long before we heard the gobbler fly down and then lead away his cackling harem several hundred yards away from us.
We thought we were finished. We walked up the ridge – this time along its crest, in full view – and out of the woods to the road. We began walking back toward the golf cart and strategizing our next move when, lo and behold, a turkey gobbled from the very same spot from which the first turkey had gobbled.
At first we thought our ears were playing tricks on us. But sure enough, the second tom fired off again and we were certain he was near the same tree in which the other bird had roosted. We raced back up the road, ducked into the woods and scurried down the back side of the same ridge we’d worked minutes before. This time we descended all the way down to the bottom and set up along the drain.
We captured this gobbler’s attention almost immediately upon calling, and soon discovered that purring and scratching in the leaves was his preferred dirty talk. After a few minutes, he began cutting us off and double-gobbling. When we’d go silent on him, he’d become unglued. It was just a matter of time before he lost his composure and flew down to find us.
Or so we thought. As it turns out, that stubborn ol’ longbeard sat in that tree until 8:25, gobbling at every single call we threw at him. When we finally saw and heard him pitch, we thought we’d sealed the deal. Heaven knows we were patient enough. After he pitched and sailed to the earth on the other side of a ridge about 70 yards in front of us, I raised my gun and settled in for the shot.
Moments later, we heard another bunch of hens start cackling and cutting up precisely where we’d seen the gobbler fly down. That wily rascal wasn’t coming to us at all; he’d stayed in that tree gobbling (at us, mind you) until he finally called up some hens, and only then did he fly down.
Later that afternoon we tangled with a longbeard we heard drumming behind us off-and-on for two solid hours. When he finally gobbled, he was about a hundred yards to our right, around a curve in the road. He’d gobble. We’d call. He’d gobble. I’d cutt. He’d gobble. We’d call some more. Every time, he’d answer us with a little more enthusiasm than the time before. His gobble rattled like a lead weight shaken in a rusty can.
We called up two hens that pecked and fed and meandered in front of us for a while. Once, I saw the gobbler’s big red head at the end of the road, but he soon ducked back around the curve and resumed gobbling. He was either indifferent to the hens or insistent that they come to him.
The longbeard carried on like this until we heard him fly up to roost close by at 6:35. We were pinned down and had to sit there until it was pitch black. Finally, we were able to sneak out of there at ten minutes after eight.
As we approached the golf cart, we noticed strut marks and tracks in the road not far from where we’d parked it. “Son of a gun,” Jackson said. “He did everything to us but steal the golf cart.” I chuckled at his folksy humor as I unloaded my shotgun and set my turkey seat in the basket. As Jackson climbed in behind the wheel he sighed and said, “Well, Rog, it looks like you’ve got a case of the veterans.”
When I killed that gobbler the next morning, I remembered my friend’s observation from the night before. He was right. And that gobbler’s veteran status made the hunt and the harvest all the more meaningful.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
Then around 7:15 or a little after, a gobbler within an approachable distance decided it was time to end the silence. He fired off a nice, long gobble and our hopes were restored.
We trekked up a steep road and listened for another gobble once we reached the top of the ridge. After a few more gobbles, we were able to pinpoint the towering hardwood from which the roosted bird was trumpeting his pronouncements. We snuck down the road about ten yards and then skulked our way across the back side of a ridge that jutted off the road and into the woods.
Steep hardwood ridges rose and fell all around us. I took note of a thin drain or stream that meandered along a bottom where the many ridges ended their sharp descents. The ridge we were dissecting came to an abrupt end and we mused about needing to rappel down to the bottom if the gobbler pitched and began working the drain instead of the ridges. It was a straight drop of at least fifty feet.
We set up within sight of the crest of the ridge and began calling. Each of us had to find oaks with wide bases, as we would have fallen backwards and tumbled down the face of the ridge had we not had trees against which to lean.
We called sparingly at first; mostly clucks and purrs as we raked our hands through the oak leaves to mimic the sound of hen scratching. The tom all but ignored us at the onset. After fifteen minutes or so, however, the gobbler became a little more interested and before too long he was pretty fired up. Soon, we were enjoying the age-old game of getting the gobbler excited and then frustrating him by shutting up for long periods of time. It worked well and for a minute there, I thought we’d drive him crazy enough that he’d pitch down to check us out.
Right about that time, however, we heard a gaggle of hens on an opposing ridge break out in a cacophony of yelps, clucks, cutts and purrs as they made their way toward the gobbler in front of us. It wasn’t long before we heard the gobbler fly down and then lead away his cackling harem several hundred yards away from us.
We thought we were finished. We walked up the ridge – this time along its crest, in full view – and out of the woods to the road. We began walking back toward the golf cart and strategizing our next move when, lo and behold, a turkey gobbled from the very same spot from which the first turkey had gobbled.
At first we thought our ears were playing tricks on us. But sure enough, the second tom fired off again and we were certain he was near the same tree in which the other bird had roosted. We raced back up the road, ducked into the woods and scurried down the back side of the same ridge we’d worked minutes before. This time we descended all the way down to the bottom and set up along the drain.
We captured this gobbler’s attention almost immediately upon calling, and soon discovered that purring and scratching in the leaves was his preferred dirty talk. After a few minutes, he began cutting us off and double-gobbling. When we’d go silent on him, he’d become unglued. It was just a matter of time before he lost his composure and flew down to find us.
Or so we thought. As it turns out, that stubborn ol’ longbeard sat in that tree until 8:25, gobbling at every single call we threw at him. When we finally saw and heard him pitch, we thought we’d sealed the deal. Heaven knows we were patient enough. After he pitched and sailed to the earth on the other side of a ridge about 70 yards in front of us, I raised my gun and settled in for the shot.
Moments later, we heard another bunch of hens start cackling and cutting up precisely where we’d seen the gobbler fly down. That wily rascal wasn’t coming to us at all; he’d stayed in that tree gobbling (at us, mind you) until he finally called up some hens, and only then did he fly down.
Later that afternoon we tangled with a longbeard we heard drumming behind us off-and-on for two solid hours. When he finally gobbled, he was about a hundred yards to our right, around a curve in the road. He’d gobble. We’d call. He’d gobble. I’d cutt. He’d gobble. We’d call some more. Every time, he’d answer us with a little more enthusiasm than the time before. His gobble rattled like a lead weight shaken in a rusty can.
We called up two hens that pecked and fed and meandered in front of us for a while. Once, I saw the gobbler’s big red head at the end of the road, but he soon ducked back around the curve and resumed gobbling. He was either indifferent to the hens or insistent that they come to him.
The longbeard carried on like this until we heard him fly up to roost close by at 6:35. We were pinned down and had to sit there until it was pitch black. Finally, we were able to sneak out of there at ten minutes after eight.
As we approached the golf cart, we noticed strut marks and tracks in the road not far from where we’d parked it. “Son of a gun,” Jackson said. “He did everything to us but steal the golf cart.” I chuckled at his folksy humor as I unloaded my shotgun and set my turkey seat in the basket. As Jackson climbed in behind the wheel he sighed and said, “Well, Rog, it looks like you’ve got a case of the veterans.”
When I killed that gobbler the next morning, I remembered my friend’s observation from the night before. He was right. And that gobbler’s veteran status made the hunt and the harvest all the more meaningful.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 8:58 AM
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