Number Two
I arrived at the farm a quarter past five, confidence & hope soaring, with the horizon already glowing faintly on my one-day pass to hunt this property. I hurriedly gathered my gear, passed through the gate and turned to the south-east beginning my long walk to the spot where the clock forced us to leave two gobbling turkeys the previous morning. As I approached my planned setup location, I stopped to owl. The silent woods did little to dampen my hopes of success, knowing at least two gobblers must be near. I crossed the fence and passed from field edge to beautiful open hardwoods without a sound, the leaf litter still damp from the overnight rain. Another owl produced the same empty result. By this point, the sky was graying and I felt the need to avoid any more walking. I decided to forego the hen decoy in my vest and simply plant myself at the wide base of an oak with some saplings nearby to provide a bit more cover.
After waiting several minutes for things to settle a bit, I let out a few tiny tree calls before I withdrew my dried hen wing and did my best imitation of a turkey flying down—sans the loud cackling. Five minutes later, a few yelps from the glass and some leaf-scratching let any birds within hearing range know there was a hen on the ground.
I wish I could say that my excellent turkey-speak drew a gobbler straight from his tree to the gun. But apparently my calling was less than that, and two hours later, the turkeys that had yesterday gobbled like opening day two-year-olds had this day, despite the clearing sky, taken a vow of silence.
A faint gobble from the neighboring property caught my ear. Twenty minutes later, he gobbled another time. Not exactly a heart-pounding, adrenaline-soaked opportunity, but it was the only thing remotely turkey I had heard thus far, so I tucked the calls into the vest and got tight to the edge of the property I COULD hunt hoping to lure the not-so-gabby bird onto my side.
I wish I could say that after a short setup and some hot calling, the tom boldly strode across the property line and into a swarm of #6’s. But by 9:00am, I had heard only a few answering yelps from a distant hen. Then, I heard footsteps in the leaves behind me—CLOSE. I could hear twigs snap and branches rubbing against a body—possibly against feathers? Was that a soft cluck I heard? Crunch. Snap. Crunch. It was so close, I’m sure I could have turned around and touched it—whatever it was. I expected to see a turkey step past me at petting distance. I was absolutely pinned, unable to even entertain the possibility of the slowest movement to turn my head. Calling would have been equally foolish. The footsteps turned to my left and continued away. I began slowly turning my head to catch a glimpse of . . .
It was at this time that a tractor drove up to the opposite side of the field from me setting off a flurry of putts 150 yards away. That was certainly a bright spot in my morning. My taking the day off from work had no bearing on the farm-hands’ work day.
Any hope of success at this location took flight with the putting turkeys, so I pulled up from this second setup and began to make my way around the perimeter of this 300 acre section to the other side, away from the workers. After a long, cautious walk with a few unanswered calls here and there, I had made my way to the other side of the property. I yelped three or four times on the wing bone.
“Here turkey! Goboboboble!!â€
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But, I love writing for my own hunting journal and hope you can find some enjoyment in the story that you helped create.
