It was also an ideal morning to be a turkey hunter. It was a good temperature, overcast and most importantly; no wind. I was accompanied by my father, my hunting mentor and role model. He is a proven turkey hunter who spent most of my childhood killing a bird or two each spring. He set the standard for what a hunter is in my eyes and to this day proves my beliefs of him to be true. He has taught me everything I know and has been my hunting partner for as long as I could remember. I cherish every moment with him.
The day prior, the weather was poor. Strong north winds and cooler temperatures made for a rather unpleasant time in the woods. Because of the wind, the calling was non-existent which when pursuing a vocal animal, can make things even more difficult than it already is. In addition to my old man, my father-in-law was with us. We had all three hunted this piece of public ground the year before. My father-in-law and I had success last year and my dad had an opportunity that was blown by spring time allergies.
Even with the non-ideal conditions, the persistence paid off as my dad and I heard a shot ring out in the distance followed by a text from my father-in-law that read “Well that was fun.”
He was able to bag a jake, a young male turkey, just before five o’clock. It was a dandy shot at just over sixty yards. The bird fell hard and died quickly. My father-in-law smiled as he headed back for the house to butcher his kill and fill the freezer. I could already taste Thanksgiving lunch as he disappeared over the hill, bird slung over his shoulder.
My dad and I hunted the rest of the evening eventually calling it quits and headed back to the house empty handed. Our luck would have to wait until the next day.
“Happy Easter”, we told each other as we geared up the following morning. While hiking in, I caught a flash of white up ahead. It was a cottontail rabbit hopping up the trail, the white of its tail exposed its existence against the pre-dawn darkness. With it being Easter Sunday, I thought of the coincidental phenomenon occurring before me. Maybe this rabbit was the Easter Bunny giving me a sign. I stood still and watched the rabbit continue on up the ridge and out of sight. As it disappeared, I turned and walked deeper into the timber, took a seat and begin to listen in to my surroundings.
I was listening for turkey gobbles. Like a rooster crowing early in the morning, male turkeys do something similar. They gobble and allow everything to know of their presence. It’s a unique sound that will get any turkey hunter's blood pumping, including mine. This morning however was oddly quiet. With absolutely no wind, I expected the woods to be filled with a plethora of gobbles. Unfortunately, all I could hear were the notes of various songbirds as they started their day with the sun starting to rise in the east. I scratched the surface of my pot and peg call, mimicking the sounds of a hen turkey hoping to get a response. Nothing. I called a little more to no avail.
I put the call up and focused on listening once more. I faced the north at the bottom of a ridge watching a cut through where we’ve seen turkeys cross regularly. In fact, the tree I sat against was the same tree in which I killed a jake the previous spring.
The silence of the morning was finally broken at 7:13. A faint gobble could be heard to the southwest of my position. I figured it came from the top of the ridge a few hundred yards away. I sat tight, thinking the gobbler would eventually travel down and follow the usual path. Turkeys are creatures of habit, often keeping the same daily routine. Let the waiting game begin.
Time passed and the only gobble to be heard was the single one from earlier. I text my dad, who was positioned further to the east from me, if he had heard or seen anything. He had not. We met up halfway between our locations and formed a plan. I thought about the rabbit from earlier and decided to hike up to the top of the ridge and head south, moving slowly and calling along the way. My dad would sit tight at the bottom and wait to see if anything would pass through.
On top of the ridge now, I slowly made my way into a good calling position. A spot where my call would echo throughout the woods and in return, get the response I was hoping for. My first calls were met with silence. Discouraged I walked deeper into the timber, so slowly that ants could have passed me. I reached an area that allowed me to see down the ridge in three directions. I slid the peg on the surface of my glass call. My calling was met with the roaring gobble of a Tom. I froze, afraid to move. Peering through the timber to the south, I saw a white and blue head bob about, just over one hundred yards away. I sat down where I stood and positioned myself against a tree.
The spot wasn’t ideal but it was my only choice. Tall prairie grass, four to six feet in height, blocked my view ahead of me. My only shots would be to my left or a small funnel slightly to my right. Moving would run the risk of spooking the bird. I put my diaphragm call in my mouth to avoid unnecessary movements and got my shotgun at the ready. I gave a few yelps and got the response of a hen turkey. Not what I wanted but it confirmed there were multiple birds.
When a male turkey is “henned up” it can be difficult to get them to leave that particular hen. Why leave when he already has a suitable partner?
With that in mind, I called out aggressively, acting as though I were a boss hen. I hoped to rile up the gobbler and potentially make him become more intrigued in me than in his current lady. My calling worked; the tom gobbled again only he was closer. I gave a few more yelps and clucks, this time cut off by another gobble. It was time to give the silent treatment. No man likes the silent treatment.
My view was lost at about fifteen or twenty yards as the ridge carried downward to where the turkeys were. The tall grass did not help either. Multiple gobbles rang out again. I was right in their kitchen. I estimated three gobblers, maybe more in the bunch. They closed the distance with each gobble.
They were right on top of me now. I could hear leaves crunch beneath their feet but still had not laid eyes on a bird since sitting down. At last, I saw the tops of fanned out feathers from a tom through the grass. He continued moving to my leftward position. I followed him with my eyes. He moved ever so slowly. My heart raced as I fought to control excitement. He barely cleared the grass and then up popped his red head. I rested the bead of my shotgun where his head meets the top portion of his neck.
BOOM!
I stood up. Fourteen yards from me lay a dead bird. I couldn’t have been happier. Immediately, as if God demanded it, the sun emerged from the sky and the clouds disappeared. I looked to the sky, squinted and smiled. “Thank you, Lord”, I said.
We hiked back to the truck and shared a handshake and a hug. My dad told me that he was proud and to hear those words from him meant the world. If it weren't for him, I may not have had this success.
Being outdoors is my church. It is where I feel closest to our Creator. Most won’t understand that statement and I don’t expect anyone too. The ones that do though, know what I’m talking about. There’s no place that compares to the exposure of the outside world. You’ll begin to realize the artist that God is. From the tiny drops of dew hanging on a blade of newly emerged spring grass to the array of color of the feathers on a wild turkey, God’s greatest presence is through His creations.
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