May 5, 2017
When I went to bed it was raining. When I woke up it was raining. It was one of those mornings when you slowly get up with a groan rather than popping out of bed. Between the long work week out of town and setting the alarm four hours before it went off and knowing the rain would dampen the gobbling as well as my clothes, my body felt heavier than usual.
And yet I got up and got ready and got in the car and began the drive in the rain. I was on auto-pilot. I didn't feel the excitement any more than I felt the dreaded possibility of spending a day without hearing a gobble. But it was turkey season. I had to go out there. That was never a question.
As the road took me over the mountain the rain stopped. The forecast said it would and that the sun would come out later in the morning. The leaf packs running across the roads where the ditches had been overwhelmed showed that this had been no ordinary rain. But the place I wanted to hunt is one of the few I have that don't require fording a creek to reach, so I wasn't all that worried.
That was until the Forest Service road illuminated by my headlights turned into a river. The culvert through which the creek normally flowed under the road was blocked by debris. The road ahead was now rapids instead of gravel.
I was still a half mile from the trail head from which I wanted to start. This would turn my half mile hike up a logging road into a mile hike across several ridges and two, now roaring, creeks. So I turned around to try a new area, instead.
Had I not filled my first tag the Saturday prior I may not have been so complacent. But now I was just as interested in exploring new ground. When I reached my new destination thirty minutes later daylight was beginning to filter through the misty leftovers of the storm. Water was everywhere. The ford I came across to access my new adventure turned me back around once again.
My instincts tugged me back to where I began. That spot has an open area that is the only clearing around for a mile or more in any direction. When the sun peeped out after a full night's deluge the turkeys would be looking for those rays to dry off, and there wasn't a better place than The Cut to do it. Plus, I had struck up a bird after 11:00 on two different occasions up there in the two weeks prior. The turkeys would there today, of this I was sure.
The creek was still coming across the road so I backed up to the next camping pull off and parked. It was already 0830. The first ridge top took me around the flooded main creek. Heading north along the spine I eventually dropped off into the next valley. At the head of it I dropped down into the perpendicular hollow to attempt a crossing of a smaller creek. With the hillside plunging almost vertically into the roaring creek on either side of me, I had to back track and go over a big knob to gain access to this hollow upstream. The jump was a long one where I finally found a spot narrow enough to cross but I made it and then did the same again when I realized I was above a confluence. But I was now only a climb away from the logging road I would have walked up had my passage not been blocked this morning.
During the hike I had been rained on twice and dripped on constantly. My pant legs were the final resting place for the rain caught by the thick low bush blueberry. I may as well have waded the creek.
Just below the logging road I paused to pant and wheeze, wipe the sweat from my face and pull the peg across my slate call a couple times. No answer. I pulled my face mask up and crept the last ten yards to the logging road with gun at the ready.
Nobody was home. I put the gun sling back on my shoulder. The Cut began another thirty yards uphill. Just before it I put my small binoculars up to see through the last little bit of brush hiding me from the clearing. After fumbling with the focus, I finally dialed in to reveal a red and white head not thirty yards away. I caught a glimpse of a thick beard before he left, stage right, two alarm putts as his parting words.
I entered The Cut a bit dejected but less discouraged than I thought I would be. It wasn't out of the question for him to come back in time and, with Virginia's full day season in effect, I had time, aplenty. My hen decoy looked pretty twenty five yards away from the tree I sat against in the open hardwoods alongside the clearing. I was comfortable and threw out a series of calls with a gradual crescendo every time I woke up from a cat nap. At 1100 I stood up to pee and break a branch off that was blocking my view up the clearing. A hen turned tail and ran into the woods.
I cursed but I wasn't ready to call it quits on this spot. Obviously the birds wanted to be here and I would do nothing more than spook turkeys if I tried to run and gun. Twenty minutes later a pair of jakes fed by and checked out my decoy. I tussled with the thought of killing one but couldn't quite bring myself to do it. They'd be much more fun to hunt next year if they made it and I had a gobbler in the freezer, already. The pair headed off toward the spooked hen.
I relayed this encounter to the Turkey Camp group via text. When I pocketed my phone I caught movement and a gobbler stepped out into The Cut seventy yards to my left and went the other way. A couple pleading yelps seemed to hurry his departure. Pulling out the slate call I spent thirty seconds or so softly purring with clucks and yelps mixed in. Five minutes later I caught his all red head poking back up The Cut in my direction.
He was following the same trajectory as the jakes. The narrow clearing would funnel him by me at fifteen yards if he continued. Tempted to call, I spit my diaphragm call into my face mask. He went behind a big tree and I hunkered down on my gun.
I tried to see him as he made his final approach but my peripheral vision blurred. With heart pounding I lost the ability to see anything outside of straight ahead. I forced my eyes left and watched the red head go behind another tree. When he came out the other side he had seen the hen decoy. The Tom immediately donned his white cap and went blue in the face. If I let him get close to my faux hen he might even puffed into strut. A week ago I told Chad that I would, one day, kill a gobbler strutting in The Cut, and the opportunity was here.
But I didn't let him get there. His head crossed my gun barrel at fifteen yards and the load of seven shot dropped him in his tracks still twenty yards from the decoy. When I popped up and looked he wasn't even flopping. I let out a loud whoop. The clock read 1202.
It was quite an adventure I had just been on. I knew I'd worked hard for this bird and my instincts had paid off. Its hard to tell whether or not it was the same gobbler I had spooked upon reaching The Cut or if it was one of the two birds I had worked with my father and Chad in my prior outings to this spot. Its tough to identify a bird by voice when he never says a word. But I came away victorious over the silent longbeard, and the long hike back almost felt easier with an extra eighteen pounds on my back.
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Walking out through "The Cut"
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Silent Tom
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Thanks for listening!
Best,
Royce
