"The Other Fifty"
My phone rang on the second or third evening of turkey season. My friend Jamie was calling to invite me to meet him the next morning to hunt on a small local tract to which his family has had the turkey hunting rights for longer than 20 years. I believe he said it totaled 160 acres. He laid out the basics for me and made it pretty clear how the hunt could go, depending on the circumstances.
“If we have a hunt, it’ll be a short one,” he said. “Assuming there’s a gobbler in there, we’ll get him. There’s usually birds roosting in there, all along that basin. We need to get in there real early so we can be sitting down while it’s still dark. We could end up sitting under a roost tree if they’re in there. Or, there might not be a turkey in there at all. This place is hit or miss, and we’ll know pretty quick. Let’s meet at the catfish house at 5:15.”
Never one to turn down the opportunity to see a new piece of property or learn from another turkey hunter or make new memories with a friend, I eagerly accepted and told myself that the bird I’d heard gobble on my own lease that morning would have to wait.
The next morning, Jamie and I met up and I followed him the short drive to the property. I never would have thought that decent turkey hunting was to be had where he took me; it was a small tract of timber nestled between a basin and some residential subdivisions. I’d driven past it hundreds of times but never knew it was there.
Jamie led the way in his truck and I followed closely behind with my headlights off. We stopped a few hundred yards past the gate and donned our gear. As we set out into the darkness, I fretted over every dark shape on the ground; it has been unseasonably warm this spring and the snakes have been out in force for weeks now. I distrusted any object that looked coiled or curved.
We covered a lot of ground quickly until Jamie stopped a few feet ahead of me and pulled down his face mask.
“There’s a food plot right down this road where they like to go in the mornings,” he explained. “They might be roosted on the back side of it in some hardwoods. We’re going to ease through these pines and sit down on a ridge on the edge of that bottom.” With that, he turned and pried himself into a young pine thicket overgrown with choking underbrush.
It’s a good thing Jamie’d been hunting this parcel for the better part of the past 20 years because I never would have found the narrow trail down which he led us. I trudged along with one hand out in front of my face to keep from walking eyeball-first into thorns, vines and pine boughs. We often had to duck under low-hanging limbs and climb over downed pine trees.
Finally we reached an opening and Jamie stopped. It was still quite dark and I could just barely make out the tops of the trees against the indigo sky.
Jamie stood silent for a minute or so before turning to me and whispering our next move.
“We need to sit down and set up on this ridge. The backwaters are only a-hundred-fifty yards out that way. They roost all in these tall pines. If they’re in here, it’ll be a short hunt. You remember that bird Seth killed last year? He and I set up right here. I clucked one time and that bird flew down seven steps from him and it was over.”
He qualified his puffery but remained optimistic. “This place is fifty-fifty, man. If they’re in here, we’re in good shape. My dad saw a nice gobbler in here the week before the season opened. This could be good.”
With that, we found a couple of good trees that overlooked the bottom and set up. Sunrise seemed to take forever as we sat there in silence. It was one of the prettier mornings I can remember in the turkey woods, and I tried to savor every moment of that sunrise.
As night surrendered to day’s unrelenting advance and the sky got lighter, the typical array of songbirds began to fill the morning air. We agreed that on such a clear, beautiful morning as this, we ought to hear plenty of gobbling.
Instead, we heard nothing. Not a gobble. Not a crow. Not a hawk. Not an owl. Around 7:30, we struck up a conversation with some hens, but they didn’t come to us. If they refused to come to us because they were anchored by a longbeard, he didn’t announce his presence in the form of a gobble.
Finally, when our time had run out and we had to retreat in order to make it to work, Jamie tried to offer some salve to soothe our having been shut out that morning.
“Well, man, I’m sorry. This place is fifty-fifty, like I said. I hoped there’d be one in here. There might be, which could be why those hens wouldn’t come in. Fifty percent of the time, we have good hunts in here. They either fly down right to us or there’s nothing.”
And I, in turn, offered him the only salve that I had. “Jamie, things don’t work that easily for me in the turkey woods,” I lamented. “They did for Seth, but I need better odds than fifty-fifty. I’m always the other fifty.” We laughed and turned back up the ridge.
Two-and-a-half weeks later, Jamie emailed me to tell me that our friend Seth had killed a gobbler under whose roost they’d inadvertently set up that morning. Their hunt didn’t last ten minutes.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
“If we have a hunt, it’ll be a short one,” he said. “Assuming there’s a gobbler in there, we’ll get him. There’s usually birds roosting in there, all along that basin. We need to get in there real early so we can be sitting down while it’s still dark. We could end up sitting under a roost tree if they’re in there. Or, there might not be a turkey in there at all. This place is hit or miss, and we’ll know pretty quick. Let’s meet at the catfish house at 5:15.”
Never one to turn down the opportunity to see a new piece of property or learn from another turkey hunter or make new memories with a friend, I eagerly accepted and told myself that the bird I’d heard gobble on my own lease that morning would have to wait.
The next morning, Jamie and I met up and I followed him the short drive to the property. I never would have thought that decent turkey hunting was to be had where he took me; it was a small tract of timber nestled between a basin and some residential subdivisions. I’d driven past it hundreds of times but never knew it was there.
Jamie led the way in his truck and I followed closely behind with my headlights off. We stopped a few hundred yards past the gate and donned our gear. As we set out into the darkness, I fretted over every dark shape on the ground; it has been unseasonably warm this spring and the snakes have been out in force for weeks now. I distrusted any object that looked coiled or curved.
We covered a lot of ground quickly until Jamie stopped a few feet ahead of me and pulled down his face mask.
“There’s a food plot right down this road where they like to go in the mornings,” he explained. “They might be roosted on the back side of it in some hardwoods. We’re going to ease through these pines and sit down on a ridge on the edge of that bottom.” With that, he turned and pried himself into a young pine thicket overgrown with choking underbrush.
It’s a good thing Jamie’d been hunting this parcel for the better part of the past 20 years because I never would have found the narrow trail down which he led us. I trudged along with one hand out in front of my face to keep from walking eyeball-first into thorns, vines and pine boughs. We often had to duck under low-hanging limbs and climb over downed pine trees.
Finally we reached an opening and Jamie stopped. It was still quite dark and I could just barely make out the tops of the trees against the indigo sky.
Jamie stood silent for a minute or so before turning to me and whispering our next move.
“We need to sit down and set up on this ridge. The backwaters are only a-hundred-fifty yards out that way. They roost all in these tall pines. If they’re in here, it’ll be a short hunt. You remember that bird Seth killed last year? He and I set up right here. I clucked one time and that bird flew down seven steps from him and it was over.”
He qualified his puffery but remained optimistic. “This place is fifty-fifty, man. If they’re in here, we’re in good shape. My dad saw a nice gobbler in here the week before the season opened. This could be good.”
With that, we found a couple of good trees that overlooked the bottom and set up. Sunrise seemed to take forever as we sat there in silence. It was one of the prettier mornings I can remember in the turkey woods, and I tried to savor every moment of that sunrise.
As night surrendered to day’s unrelenting advance and the sky got lighter, the typical array of songbirds began to fill the morning air. We agreed that on such a clear, beautiful morning as this, we ought to hear plenty of gobbling.
Instead, we heard nothing. Not a gobble. Not a crow. Not a hawk. Not an owl. Around 7:30, we struck up a conversation with some hens, but they didn’t come to us. If they refused to come to us because they were anchored by a longbeard, he didn’t announce his presence in the form of a gobble.
Finally, when our time had run out and we had to retreat in order to make it to work, Jamie tried to offer some salve to soothe our having been shut out that morning.
“Well, man, I’m sorry. This place is fifty-fifty, like I said. I hoped there’d be one in here. There might be, which could be why those hens wouldn’t come in. Fifty percent of the time, we have good hunts in here. They either fly down right to us or there’s nothing.”
And I, in turn, offered him the only salve that I had. “Jamie, things don’t work that easily for me in the turkey woods,” I lamented. “They did for Seth, but I need better odds than fifty-fifty. I’m always the other fifty.” We laughed and turned back up the ridge.
Two-and-a-half weeks later, Jamie emailed me to tell me that our friend Seth had killed a gobbler under whose roost they’d inadvertently set up that morning. Their hunt didn’t last ten minutes.
(c) Roger Guilian 2011
posted by Days Afield Host | 4:54 PM
<< Home