At best we covered half a mile in 30 minutes. Stopping to call every five laps of the second hand of my digital watch gave us the opportunity to play with a variety of calls. Nate ran the box while I ran a multitude of scratch boxes on multiple strikers. I'd also take an occasional pass of a poplar striker on a maple topped tongue call. We just kept calling and moving, calling and moving. Eventually we left the swamp to take a peek into a stand of hadrwood; mostly maple and a few oaks. The sun had come out and the rocky knoll on the north side of the trees was warm. The early morning wake up had caught us low on energy so we sat down to take in some rays and drink a bit of water.
The woods were quiet except for the sound of the wind moving almost unobstructed through the bud tipped branches of the trees. Nate tipped the water bottle moving the water towards his mouth and was interrupted by an extremely loud and unexpected "gobble gobble gobble" from behind the knoll. The peace shattering call of the love struck tom sent water all down his front. Surprised, I jumped clear out of my camo leaf suit too startled to laugh at Nate's unexpected shower. The gobbler could not have been further out then twenty yards and was separated from us by a mound of earth. We ducked in behind a small outcropping of rock. I handed Nate a shell to load into the single shot Winchester and reminded him to verify the target had a beard and not to become target fixated and before pulling the trigger to check the back ground to be sure the entire shooting area was safe.
 |
| Nate taking a few pulls on the JL boxcall before getting an impromptu shower when a close gobble startled him. |
Thirty seconds into the "just heard a close gobble" eternity had passed and not a sign of a bird. After a perceived minute (which might have been ten seconds or ten minutes) a few clucks were sent out with the tongue. The initial gobble startled me and the tongue call was the only thing I had hung on to; the rest of them were scattered around beneath the maple being pressed into service as a backrest. No response. Both Nate and I sat pie-eyed scanning the woods for the beast which had scattered my calls and sent water all down Nate's belly.
Our scrambling must have spooked the bird and when the adrenaline hit wore off we realized our mistakes, collected our things and began the walk up the hill to the old logging job hoping the more open terrain might yeild a result.
The first set of rootstocks was the next place we sent out a random call and immediately had a far off hit on a gobble. This time we gently positioned ourselves putting the upturned roots between us and the direction we expected the birds to travel from. A few more exchanges between the scratchbox and multiple toms gave us confidence we had a good bit of cover. Soon, six birds were seen skulking through the slash and leafless puckerbrush. I had a bead on them and Nate had the shotgun but no sighting. Two males were spotted in the group and hung up at 80 yards. After 30 minutes (by the actual watch and not my adrenalin addled brain) the birds gave us the middle feather and moved up the hill away from our setup. I'm confident we didn't get busted and the birds just grew bored of us playing hard to get.
Re-energized by these two encounters we began moving uphill. There was only an hour left to pull the trigger so the run and gun tactic had an element of scouting the terrain for the Sunday outing. After gaining 500 feet of elevation Nate hammered on the boxcall and immediately had a gobbler answering back. Nate took cover behind a moss covered and rotting stump while my spot was leaning up against a convenient log. The spot was pretty ideal. Bright sun all around with us stashed under the shade of the small patch of hemlock. The gobbling grew louder and a bit more frantic. Nate saw the tom strutting in a small clearing of matted ferns. My view obstructed by low hanging branches and sticks.
 |
| Not a bad spot to hide |
Each time I ran one of the calls the bird would take a step closer only to be pulled back when it reached the edge of the fern mat. The white headed tom was either wise to the hunters calls or chained to his place by a few unseen hens lurking off the other side of a stand of honeysuckle. for pride's sake lets just believe the guarantee of close hens trumped the potential for new hens to breed with over in the hemlocks. Soon the tom strutted off waving the middle feather in our direction. My watch toned noontime and opening day of Vermont youth season came to a close.
No comments:
Post a Comment