Still no pictures. This bog is starting to feel like a grown up book when we began reading things without illustrations.
Monday, May 9
My mother was up visiting over the past weekend and was going home today. Remaining in bed to sleep a bit more and hanging around in the morning to visit felt like the right thing to do. Having gotten up sometime around 4:00 during the previous week, my internal clock was a bit reset so sleeping in amounted to getting up at 5:00. It was refreshing being able to see the stairs without artificial light and it was really great hanging out with mom. Monday was a beautiful day with high temps near 70 and morning temps in the 40s.
Tuesday, May 10
The overnight temps were predicted to be in the high 20s and the weather guessers were right on. In general, the turkey activity on a cold morning is almost non-existent when the previous day was warm.It is a bit anthropomorphic but my desires to get out of bed on a cold morning, assuming I had no work or family responsibilities, are driven by the need to relieve myself or to eat. Finding turkey droppings on the ground beneath roosting trees has me believe the birds don't need to move to relieve themselves. Eventually hunger draws me out of bed. When I am warm this can mean spending a few hours wrapped in a down comforter. This morning the down comforter and a beautiful wife kept me in bed until 6:00. Being warm and rested trumps sitting in the woods being cold.
Wednesday, May 11
According to local history, the hillside behind the house was a huge orchard sometime around WW II. There are remnants of apple trees dotted throughout the landscape. Most of the forest is made up of pioneer trees (tall pasture pines and poplar) which are beginning to topple over. One stand of old apple trees is relatively open and it might be time for morel mushrooms to begin popping up. Finding morels would be a nice treat and take some of the stinging disappointment out of the spring season.
The morning was warm and overcast. Ascending the hillside, the temp dropped just enough to turn the air from clear and moist to a hanging fog drastically limiting visibility.
The fog made the woods eerily quiet. After 30 minutes of feeling like the last living animal on earth the decoys were stowed and the search for mushrooms commenced. On this foggy morning, morels were as scarce as sound and turkeys.
Thursday, May 12
For a change of pace, the morning setup was a first for this season. A small patch of woods separates a horse pasture and a swamp. The horse apples are grain filled and the turkeys bust them up looking for something to eat. Very often there are birds in the lower corner of the field and my hope was they'd stick around after dinner and roost in the tall pines bordering the field. The morning was a bit surreal and awfully familiar. Foggy with almost no sound. The new spot was as quiet as the rest of the local woods.
Friday, May 13
Why is this day considered a day of bad luck? The joys of the internet pulled up this Wikipedia page, https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Friday_the_13th making for an interesting read. Would the morning turkey hunt be plagued by bad luck? So far the season has had moments of brilliance and not much luck falling my way.
Almost all of my turkey hunting knowledge has been gained by trial and a mostly error. Talking with experience turkey hunters has helped bring me closer to success. When Steve contacted a friend he refers to as the "Turkey Whisperer" to head out on a hunt with us and having the chance to advance the learning was very exciting.
Over the past few seasons my skill (luck?) at finding gobbler has grown immensely. My calling has improved to the point where the toms respond and come close. What needs improving is the last 80 yards and bringing the birds into shooting range.
The Turkey Whisperer must be good at closing the deal. Steve forwarded an email setting up our hunt and TW mentioned tagging out in three states 10 days into the season.
In anticipation of heading out with a master my on-bow camo was updated. The fake leaves were moved, burlap strips cut and threads pulled to leave a hula skirt which was zip-tied to the riser. My new bow ghille ready for deployment.
The alarm went off at 4:10 and by 4:11 the tea kettle was on and computer fired up to check the weather. An email from Steve informed my the Turkey Whisperer would not be joining us in the morning. F13 strikes the first blow. We keep the plan and meet anyway.
Hunting near my house requires meeting someplace besides my driveway. Our yellow lab is losing his eyesight and will bark incesantly at noises heard in and around the dooryard. To keep things quiet and let the family sleep. I'll walk 10 minutes down the road to begin the hunt.
"Dude, you're not going to believe this but I left my gun at the house. I discovered this when I pulled off the road to park and get ready."
F13 strikes again.
"You want to go get it or see what happens here?"
"No, let's go and check it out. The field of broken dreams seems like the place to go."
Ten minutes later Steve is set behind the oak and birch at the top of the FOBD and my sett-up has me a few paces into the woods looking right down the length of the stone wall.
Steve calls and gets a response. So far, so good. A few minutes later another gobble only much closer. The woods creatures are beginning to stir and there is enough light to see the one pin on my sight. I move the slider anticipating a 20 yard shot.
Another closer gobble. Then two at the same time. The bow is raised to the vertical with the lower cam resting on my knee. The release hook goes into the D-loop. All we need now are birds at twenty yards.
Another gobble elicits two more so there is a gang of three. A bit of movement in the ferns along the wall and two toms step into the field 60 yards out. They periscope their necks and have a look around the field and begin moving towards my spot. I need them to cross from right to left putting another big oak tree between us giving the opportunity to draw. at 50 yards they casually move back into the woods only to stop in the ferns. The next gobble is from deeper in the woods. A few light yelps and clucks yields no response and soon the trio of gobbling from the shelf part way up the ridge is the sign we've been given the middle feather and they have gone off searching for greater fortunes.
Saturday, May 14
My youngest brother, thirteen years in arrears is having a bachelor party this afternoon and into tomorrow. Being unable to change my soccer coaching responsibilities will make attending the bash a day trip. The plan is to meet for lunch, head to a professional soccer game and then scoot back to Vermont. The lunch and game are in Montreal, Canada an easy three hour drive each way.
Getting out of bed at 4 AM for the past two weeks is making each day more surreal. I crawl into bed or fall asleep on the couch by 9:00 each night. The game ends at 7:00 meaning my drive home won't begin until 8:00. Assuming no border crossing hassles I should be home a bit after 11:15. Highway driving in Vermont at night is dark and lonely even without the otherworldly fatigue of turkey season. This day I'll skip my early morning wake up to sleep in to bolster the odds of returning home safely.
My plan was to sleep as long as possible which turns out to be 4:25AM when an abundance of gobbling from the back woods came drifting through the window. RATS, hearing gobbling gives me a shot of adrenaline which cannot be ignored. Rolling over trying to ignore the gobbling becomes futile when the next chorus pokes at my ears. Double rats! There is no way I'll fall back to sleep so after a quick cup of tea I'm dressed and out the door at 4:45.
Fortunately, the birds keep gobbling keeping my absolute ire in check. Now I'm mildly annoyed.
Moving towards the gobblers is made easier by the overnight rains. The leaves are soft with no crunch and small sticks break without the harsh cracking of dry twigs. My setup is at the base of the hill in a stand of oak trees. The birds are higher up in the hemlocks. getting them or even one to move downhill might be tough.
The scratchbox lets out a series of lucks mixed with soft yelps and is immediately cut off by the nearby toms. They move in closer until the sound is just beyond a thicket of honeysuckle. This is as close as they will come. a few clucks keep them beyond the honeysuckle but they soon lose interest and head uphill. The morning hunt is over. Since I'm awake and in the vicinity of the birds, I head uphill looking for a spot above the honeysuckle to make my next setup. There is a downed hemlock adjacent to an old logging road lined by large diameter maples giving me both cover and something to blind the draw.
Montreal was really fun with great seats at the game. The downpouring rain chased us out iof the stadium a tick before 7:00 and after crossing back into the US by 9:00 I grabbed a caffeinated energy drink with enough boost to have me home uneventfully by 11:00. The chemically induced attention wears quickly and falling asleep is no problem.
Sunday, May 15
Not as much of the sugary caffeinated energy bomb had worn off as I had first thought. Sleep was fitful at best. When I heard gobbling at 4:10 my desire to get up was fueled by a bit of rage. I was super tired and felt hungover and really just anted to sleep. The gobbling was loud and frantic so after a cup of tea and breakfast consisting of Ibuprofen it was time to head to the hemlocks.
The walk in cleared my head but the weight of fatigue hung on my shoulders. The decoys were set in the logging road and I settled back into the branches of the fallen tree. A few light yelps and clucks were cut off by gobbling just above my position With great patients I resisted the temptation to keep calling. The birds came closer but not close enough to see. The lack of calling didn't spark any curiosoty driven looks by the toms so the silence was broken by purrs and scratching in the now dry and crunchy leaves. All of this to no avail, the birds moved further up the hill.
After 30 minutes of fading gobbling my next move was finding a spot even further uphill. These toms seem to fly down, gobble, and go up. If I can get above them just maybe they will come by with no calling. I can sit and wait for an opportunistic strike. Hunting like a python who doesn't move until prey wanders by when they strike out and wrap their coils crushing the unsuspecting animal.
After crossing a stonewall into an open stand of hemlock I spot a bird sitting at the base of a tree. Its a hen whose neck is bent sideways and not moving. I almost stepped on it. I winder if its alive when it dawns on me she is on a nest brooding some eggs. Sure enough, when I move past she flushed and flies off. I counted a dozen eggs in a single layer in a shallow leaf lined depression. This is the first turkey nest I've ever come across and decide to find a spot further up the hill to stay clear of the nest.
The nest is an awesome part of the day but not enough to erase my feelings of frustration at these toms. The hunt is becoming personal.
El diablito es el pavito!
Sunday, May 22, 2016
Tuesday, May 10, 2016
A Few Days of the 2016 Spring Season
First off, please accept my apologies for the lack of photos in this post. It is my view that having good, or at least decent photos enhance the reader experience. There are a few photographs from the beginning of the season but they amount to little more then blurry images and if you are like me, usually reading first thing in the morning, the omission of these pictures will decrease the stress on your eyes. With some luck and good fortune there will be photos from the remainder of the season.
Youth Weekend
The Spring 2016 season kicked off with Vermont's youth hunting weekend. My still 12 year old son was very excited to be heading out. During the week leading up to youth weekend, Nate and I spent a few hours patterning his Mossberg 500. What we found was the full choke had the best pattern density and uniformity with the greatest variety of shells.
Opening day of youth weekend was warm; 49F with a light breeze. After rousting Nate out of bed at 4:30 we grabbed a cup of tea and began the walk through the dark woods to our spot. Fifteen minutes later the decoys were set. We setup beneath a large hemlock slightly uphill from the plastic jake and hen. The night creatures became quiet as the sun began shedding light into the woods. The daytime critters had yet to stir and the anticipation of chasing turkeys was upon us.
In short, the morning was a complete bust. No gobbles, no yelping hens and hardly any signs of life in the woods other then us. We packed up and spoke of pancakes with bacon for breakfast.
After eating, we went back out to continue the search. with such a dismal morning hunt, hearing a turkey would be considered a huge success. The plan was to run and gun and see what happens. After an hour and still no signs turkeys even exist any more we made our way up to the Field of Broken Dreams (FOBD); a field which has yielded many encounters with birds but no kills.
Our approach moves uphill through a small meadow separated from the FOBD by a broken stone wall. Four hens are moving up the field pecking at the new growth in the field. Where the hens go the toms will follow so we retreat through the meadow and up into the woods hoping to end run the hens and set up near the top of the FOBD.
Fifteen minutes of scrambling through the woods brings us to the top of the FOBD and the hens are nowhere to be seen. Crunching dry leaves and breaking the many sticks along our route must have spooked them off. Just for grins I lay down a series of clucks, purrs and yelps from the applewood scratchbox. Nothin'; nada, silence. We sit on a decaying stump, pleased we had at least seen a few turkeys. The sunshine on the far hills brings up the moisture from the ground and low clouds hang in the leafless tress of the ridges.
GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE. The lower end of the FOBD just erupts with several birds looking for the attention of the lone hen 200 yards away and sitting on a decaying stump. Nate heads to the field side of the stone wall while I set the two dekes 20 yards into the field. In my haste to make the set, the hen slowly falls over. After one step back to reset the hen, another louder and I assume closer gobble fills the morning air. Back to the cover before I get busted, the hen will have to be resting.
Last season I finally learned the importance of putting the calls down when a gobble cuts me off or the response is almost instant. Tossing it away helps reduce the temptation to call if only to elicit a a gobble to assure the bird is still in play. After setting the decoys and returning to the stone wall, the scratch box was drawn across the peg. After two clucks and a yelp, three distinct gobblers were sounding off.
" Dad, put the call down.:" Nate whisper yelled. He didn't ask, he insisted.
Excellent choice. After a few minutes the first red head rises from behind the terrain of the rolling field. Soon, three jakes with beards just long enough to droop move tangentially from the decoys and stop about 50 yards away. Nate has the 20 gauge tracking the gang. The remain about 50 yards away.
"Dad, can I take a shot?" Nate whispers. His voice a bit shaky from excitement.
"No. They are too far out. You might hit them but I'm not sure you'll kill anything. Hold tight until they come in past the patch of rock in the grass."
I can't say I agree with those who think turkeys are smart and wile birds. I believe the are dumber then a bag of rocks and super paranoid. Survival depends upon running if something appears even remotely out of place. A hen laying on her side is remotely out of place and the birds jump the wall and head off into the woods. They gobble, flip us the middle feather and we watch them scratch and peck thier way up the woded hillside and disappear.
"Dude, that was cool. I was all geeked up. How far to the woods did they leave?"
"I don't know. I'll collect the dekes and pace it off."
"I hope it was more then thirty-five cause I had the biggest one in the sights."
Fifty-one paces so the decision to pass on the shot was a good one.
"Awesome hunt."
"Yeah it was, in a half hour we saw one, heard one and were fifteen yards from tagging one. Thanks dad."
The second day of youth season was a complete bust but the sunrise was worth getting up for.
May 1, Opening day
After a track meet the previous day, Nate wanted to sleep in so after grabbing a cup of tea, I shouldered the gear and headed out into the woods.I set up, made a few calls and after an hour the woods were still quiet so I pulled stakes and decided to take the circuitous route home to listen and scout the woods.
The way home goes downhill until the swamp, hang a left and walk until reaching the dirt road. The area was logged within the past decade and filled with densely spaced regrowth and areas still recovering from the cuts. Halfway through an opening 30 yards across the woods light up with gobbling. There are gobbles to the left of me, the right, and directly downhill. I head for the closest grove of trees and take a seat. The round robin gobbling continues as I grab the scratch box.
A few clucks and yelps receive a stereophonic gobble response. The scratchbox is again pulled across the peg and in my best broken turkey I send out the message: "Come on boys. Come and find the lonely hen."
Whatever message I sent had more of an effect on the hens then the toms. The forest erupted with hen calls. The cacophony of clucks morphing into yelps was amazing, Each time the toms were pulled in my direction the opposing hes would call them back. After thirty minutes the hens were able to draw the toms away.
The encounter was not disappointing at all. Hearing hens work hard at keeping their man was educational and filled the morning with beautiful song.
Monday, May 2
Another early rise and walk in the dark. The morning is cold, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and most of the forest creatures, including the turkeys, have stayed in bed. The morning is beautiful and eerily quiet. One far off gobble is the only sign of turkeys.
Tuesday, May 3
I meet my buddy Steve at 4:45 at the end of the road. We head up to the FOBD to see what we find. We set up pretty much the same as Nate and I had a week earlier ecept I sit another 30 yards back in the woods to float call.
As soon as my butt hit the seat a gobble sneaks out of the woods. The bird is slightly downhill and in the woods across from the small wet area beyond the stone wall along the edge of the field. Best guess on distance is 100 yards.
My go to call is the applewood scratcher and the reply to the gobble is a few soft clucks and three short yelps. The net few seconds feel eternal before the gobbling of two birds comes back. My heart beats faster and suddenly the cool morning doesn't feel cold any more.
Legal trigger pull time and there is enough light to see colors in the woods and the deficiencies of my new location. The stump shoots from the previous summer logging are thicker then remembered so my day as a bowhunter are over. No shooting lanes so now my morning is a caller and spectator.
More gobbles a bit closer.This season my goal is to not call after getting a response from a tom. If it sounds close, just sit still and avoid the temptation to call. Another gobble louder then before. Now there are three toms seeking the hen with the applewood accent.
Still no visual confirmation but the boys are on the way just over the wall. In the next breath and s if on a conductor's cue, the surrounding woods become a chorus of hens clucking. The variety of pitch is amazing. There are baritone clucks, putts and cuts in the alto range and a few soprano tones to fill out the register. The volume of sound was a bit overwhelming with enough density to hold a physical presence. The sound cloud moved down the shallow creek bed. The next gobble was weak and warbly. The toms were love-struck and couldn't speak with any precision.
The Sirens captured the toms and took them away on weak legs while cartoon hearts streamed from their eyes.To date this is the most interesting and wonderful losing out to a hen either of us has experienced.
Great morning in the woods.
Wednesday, May 4
After four days in a row of getting up early it was becomming routine and didn't hurt so much. Today the set-up revisited the spot where I took a bird last spring. Same set-up, differant result.
Gobbling heard at 5:12 up the hill a bit maybe 150 yards out. Instant reply to the scratch box so sit tight and hang on. three more gobbles in the next ten minutes then silence. A few more calls from the scratch box, tongue call, and a slate brought no response, At 6:00 I pulled stakes and went for a walk about. No dice and planned on setting up in the area where the tom had been.
Thursday, May 5
Cinco de Mayo so being in the woods and set-up by 5:00 seemed fitting. The location is on the cross country ski trails winding through the neighboring properties. This particular spot puts the decoys at the apex of a descending turn with me fifteen yards into the woods with good views up the trails. Waiting for the first gobble and I recall reading Tom Kelly's, A Fork in the Road, where he reminds the reader how to gain the best advantage set-ups in woods roads. Mr. Kelly would be proud of this one.
The sky is heavy with solid overcast and by 5:10 there still is a lack of light. A few clucks of the scratchbox opens the hunt. No response. A few moments later, a rapid series of cuts moves through the woods. Hens or humans?
Sitting still in the woods has blessed me with some very close encounters with hens. Several times my position has been in the middle of a flock transitioning the woods. These birds were close enough to touch if I was brave enough. Fear of getting an opened wound pecked into my flesh has tempered any impulsiveness. During these encounters the hens just clucked and clucked and clucked with a few soft yelps. Even when getting busted and spooking the flock there was very little commotion.
Another run of sharp cuts and just for grins I step on it with a hard run of yelps. My version of "Go away." With all of the "hen" activity there are still no gobble responses.
The ski trail run parallel to the dirt road thirty yards into the woods. A truck stops, lights go out and a door opens. There is enough light to see a person dressed in camo move to the road shoulder. The same series of sharps cuts and clucks. Not wanting to risk getting shot I remain more still then if a band of longbeards was coming into my setup. The woods are silent and the driver gets back into the truck and drives off. I have seen and heard many humans in the woods and this time, I called in my first redneck.
Friday, May 6
Steve and I met at the end of the road at 4:40. The day was the first in almost a week where the cloud cover was gone so the sky was much brighter then expected. We chose to drive to a parking area and enter the property on a trail to save a few minutes over walking through the woods. We were twenty feet into the woods and the gobbling was constant. I had never used the tril before and had a vague idea of where it went so we hustled in and set up. I stepped back to float call and cover a bit more shootable area. The toms responded to my calls so the scratcher was put back into my pocket. The gobbles were moving left to right and getting louder. The sun had come up enough to see through the woods and to my horror and surprise, I had set Steve under a posted sign. Nuts!*. I scuttled to Steve keeping low and told him about the screw up. We grabbed the dekes and moved away from the toms and reset on the un-posted land. The gobbles moved towards us before being intercepted by a band of vocal hens. The day was over.
* Family friendly language, the actual verbiage would make the dialog from a Samuel L. Jackson film seem like Sesame Street.
Saturday, May 7
At 4:20 AM my attempt at rousting Nate was a dismal failure. The plan was for Steve and I to bring the boys out hunting. Nate had run a track meet on Friday (setting a new PR in the mile) and returned home a bit late. Letting him sleep would have a better chance of him remaining pleaant and docile for the rest of the day. Steve, his 11 year old son Jack and I headed back to the FOBD for another crack at the mystical birds who reside there. This time, Steve and Jack went to the usual spot at the top of the field and I took a position on a shelf 150 yards away and forty feet higher then where they made camp. The hope was to see where the birds went if they were captivated by the Sirons of singing hens.
My position was at a right angle to where Steve and Jack were set so we agreed on a shooting line.Steve wouldn't send any lead to the right of the large birch. Even with blind trust in Steve's judgment, plenty of dense woods between us, lots of distance and elevation difference I still set up behind a large oak tree. My shooting lane was fantastic with two large poplars framing the dekes giving me a wonderful drawing blind should any toms appear interested in the plastic hens. We agreed to call things off at 6:30 if there was no action.
The woods were quiet and at 5:20 the scratchbox broke the silence. The gobble response was faint so I ignored it. Soon there were gobble from several locations and they grew louder. Steve made a few yelp calls while my scratchbox and tongue calls played harmony. The woods fell silent at 5:40.A few more calls and still nothing. 6:00 and the only sounds from the natural world were crows and woodpeckers drilling trees for bugs. Soon a gobble, a loud gobble. Using the cherry soundboard of the tongue call to purr and finish with a soft yelp brought an immediate response. Steve gave a few yelps and we both stopped calling.
The gobbling sounded like it was near the far edge of the field. My position put me in the top of the tree canopy for the woods surrounding the FOBD. Using the binos to peer through the occasional blank spot kept me from calling. GOBBLE, GOBBLE. GOBBLE! The bird sounded angry and went quiet.
It might have been a minute bit no more then three when the silence of the morning was broken by the report of a shotgun down by Steve and Jack. A partial second later there was the sound of sand being tossed onto leaves. Oh Rats*, the shot is whistling through the woods maybe thirty yards away. BANG, BANG. Two more reports and two more renditions of sand on leaves. RATS* They must have missed.
The net sound was the flapping of wings. The shot at tom landed just below my decoys and hit the ground running. I watched it speed off through the woods, its beard tickling its toes as the bird ran off.
"Are we done?" My voice filled with excitement.
"Yup. Swing and a miss."
I took the long and circuitous route to Steve and Jack.
"Man that was exciting. When the bird let out those three gobbles I told Jack he's coming. The red head broke over the rise and it just made a beeline running to the decoys. Jack pulled the trigger and missed so I took to shots at it before it flew off and landed over there." Steve points to the spot in the woods where I saw the tom land and run off. "Then it was gone. You see it?'"
"Yeah. I saw it land but the most exciting part was hearing the shot rip through the trees to my left. It wasn't close but I was really surprised it went as far as it did. I was always under the impression shot only travels about 100 yards so I figured my spot was really safe. Not sure if the stuff would have broken skin but the idea of getting tagged kinda sucks."
After everyone's adrenaline wore off we headed back to the road and took a walk through the woods to do a bit of scouting. Not a sign of a turkey to be had anywhere. All-in-all a great hunt.
While nobody was hurt the setup was filled with flaws and gave each of us a solid learning experience.
Sunday, May 8
Nate and I made our way into the woods where Steve and I had or encounter with vocal toms on the posted land. This time we walked in and had no problems with the setup. We also had no signs of turkeys. Sometime near 6:00 a hen sounded off with a series of yelps. Soon the bird yelped again.
"Nate, is that a person or a hen?"
"I think its a person. Too even tone and it didn't move."
"Okay. Let's be alert and pay attention."
After fifteen minutes hearing the same pattern and tome of call we decided to head home by going away from the sounds feeling confident we were hearing a human trying to summons a bird.
Moving uphill we heard another few yelps which I was convinced was a person. We made too much noise for a wanting hen to bear. We didn't dare make another call and kept moving away from the calling. Two pick-up trucks were parked along the road giving us high confidence the hens we heard were hunters.
Youth Weekend
The Spring 2016 season kicked off with Vermont's youth hunting weekend. My still 12 year old son was very excited to be heading out. During the week leading up to youth weekend, Nate and I spent a few hours patterning his Mossberg 500. What we found was the full choke had the best pattern density and uniformity with the greatest variety of shells.
Opening day of youth weekend was warm; 49F with a light breeze. After rousting Nate out of bed at 4:30 we grabbed a cup of tea and began the walk through the dark woods to our spot. Fifteen minutes later the decoys were set. We setup beneath a large hemlock slightly uphill from the plastic jake and hen. The night creatures became quiet as the sun began shedding light into the woods. The daytime critters had yet to stir and the anticipation of chasing turkeys was upon us.
In short, the morning was a complete bust. No gobbles, no yelping hens and hardly any signs of life in the woods other then us. We packed up and spoke of pancakes with bacon for breakfast.
After eating, we went back out to continue the search. with such a dismal morning hunt, hearing a turkey would be considered a huge success. The plan was to run and gun and see what happens. After an hour and still no signs turkeys even exist any more we made our way up to the Field of Broken Dreams (FOBD); a field which has yielded many encounters with birds but no kills.
Our approach moves uphill through a small meadow separated from the FOBD by a broken stone wall. Four hens are moving up the field pecking at the new growth in the field. Where the hens go the toms will follow so we retreat through the meadow and up into the woods hoping to end run the hens and set up near the top of the FOBD.
Fifteen minutes of scrambling through the woods brings us to the top of the FOBD and the hens are nowhere to be seen. Crunching dry leaves and breaking the many sticks along our route must have spooked them off. Just for grins I lay down a series of clucks, purrs and yelps from the applewood scratchbox. Nothin'; nada, silence. We sit on a decaying stump, pleased we had at least seen a few turkeys. The sunshine on the far hills brings up the moisture from the ground and low clouds hang in the leafless tress of the ridges.
GOBBLE, GOBBLE, GOBBLE. The lower end of the FOBD just erupts with several birds looking for the attention of the lone hen 200 yards away and sitting on a decaying stump. Nate heads to the field side of the stone wall while I set the two dekes 20 yards into the field. In my haste to make the set, the hen slowly falls over. After one step back to reset the hen, another louder and I assume closer gobble fills the morning air. Back to the cover before I get busted, the hen will have to be resting.
Last season I finally learned the importance of putting the calls down when a gobble cuts me off or the response is almost instant. Tossing it away helps reduce the temptation to call if only to elicit a a gobble to assure the bird is still in play. After setting the decoys and returning to the stone wall, the scratch box was drawn across the peg. After two clucks and a yelp, three distinct gobblers were sounding off.
" Dad, put the call down.:" Nate whisper yelled. He didn't ask, he insisted.
Excellent choice. After a few minutes the first red head rises from behind the terrain of the rolling field. Soon, three jakes with beards just long enough to droop move tangentially from the decoys and stop about 50 yards away. Nate has the 20 gauge tracking the gang. The remain about 50 yards away.
"Dad, can I take a shot?" Nate whispers. His voice a bit shaky from excitement.
"No. They are too far out. You might hit them but I'm not sure you'll kill anything. Hold tight until they come in past the patch of rock in the grass."
I can't say I agree with those who think turkeys are smart and wile birds. I believe the are dumber then a bag of rocks and super paranoid. Survival depends upon running if something appears even remotely out of place. A hen laying on her side is remotely out of place and the birds jump the wall and head off into the woods. They gobble, flip us the middle feather and we watch them scratch and peck thier way up the woded hillside and disappear.
"Dude, that was cool. I was all geeked up. How far to the woods did they leave?"
"I don't know. I'll collect the dekes and pace it off."
"I hope it was more then thirty-five cause I had the biggest one in the sights."
Fifty-one paces so the decision to pass on the shot was a good one.
"Awesome hunt."
"Yeah it was, in a half hour we saw one, heard one and were fifteen yards from tagging one. Thanks dad."
The second day of youth season was a complete bust but the sunrise was worth getting up for.
May 1, Opening day
After a track meet the previous day, Nate wanted to sleep in so after grabbing a cup of tea, I shouldered the gear and headed out into the woods.I set up, made a few calls and after an hour the woods were still quiet so I pulled stakes and decided to take the circuitous route home to listen and scout the woods.
The way home goes downhill until the swamp, hang a left and walk until reaching the dirt road. The area was logged within the past decade and filled with densely spaced regrowth and areas still recovering from the cuts. Halfway through an opening 30 yards across the woods light up with gobbling. There are gobbles to the left of me, the right, and directly downhill. I head for the closest grove of trees and take a seat. The round robin gobbling continues as I grab the scratch box.
A few clucks and yelps receive a stereophonic gobble response. The scratchbox is again pulled across the peg and in my best broken turkey I send out the message: "Come on boys. Come and find the lonely hen."
Whatever message I sent had more of an effect on the hens then the toms. The forest erupted with hen calls. The cacophony of clucks morphing into yelps was amazing, Each time the toms were pulled in my direction the opposing hes would call them back. After thirty minutes the hens were able to draw the toms away.
The encounter was not disappointing at all. Hearing hens work hard at keeping their man was educational and filled the morning with beautiful song.
Monday, May 2
Another early rise and walk in the dark. The morning is cold, twenty-eight degrees Fahrenheit and most of the forest creatures, including the turkeys, have stayed in bed. The morning is beautiful and eerily quiet. One far off gobble is the only sign of turkeys.
Tuesday, May 3
I meet my buddy Steve at 4:45 at the end of the road. We head up to the FOBD to see what we find. We set up pretty much the same as Nate and I had a week earlier ecept I sit another 30 yards back in the woods to float call.
As soon as my butt hit the seat a gobble sneaks out of the woods. The bird is slightly downhill and in the woods across from the small wet area beyond the stone wall along the edge of the field. Best guess on distance is 100 yards.
My go to call is the applewood scratcher and the reply to the gobble is a few soft clucks and three short yelps. The net few seconds feel eternal before the gobbling of two birds comes back. My heart beats faster and suddenly the cool morning doesn't feel cold any more.
Legal trigger pull time and there is enough light to see colors in the woods and the deficiencies of my new location. The stump shoots from the previous summer logging are thicker then remembered so my day as a bowhunter are over. No shooting lanes so now my morning is a caller and spectator.
More gobbles a bit closer.This season my goal is to not call after getting a response from a tom. If it sounds close, just sit still and avoid the temptation to call. Another gobble louder then before. Now there are three toms seeking the hen with the applewood accent.
Still no visual confirmation but the boys are on the way just over the wall. In the next breath and s if on a conductor's cue, the surrounding woods become a chorus of hens clucking. The variety of pitch is amazing. There are baritone clucks, putts and cuts in the alto range and a few soprano tones to fill out the register. The volume of sound was a bit overwhelming with enough density to hold a physical presence. The sound cloud moved down the shallow creek bed. The next gobble was weak and warbly. The toms were love-struck and couldn't speak with any precision.
The Sirens captured the toms and took them away on weak legs while cartoon hearts streamed from their eyes.To date this is the most interesting and wonderful losing out to a hen either of us has experienced.
Great morning in the woods.
Wednesday, May 4
After four days in a row of getting up early it was becomming routine and didn't hurt so much. Today the set-up revisited the spot where I took a bird last spring. Same set-up, differant result.
Gobbling heard at 5:12 up the hill a bit maybe 150 yards out. Instant reply to the scratch box so sit tight and hang on. three more gobbles in the next ten minutes then silence. A few more calls from the scratch box, tongue call, and a slate brought no response, At 6:00 I pulled stakes and went for a walk about. No dice and planned on setting up in the area where the tom had been.
Thursday, May 5
Cinco de Mayo so being in the woods and set-up by 5:00 seemed fitting. The location is on the cross country ski trails winding through the neighboring properties. This particular spot puts the decoys at the apex of a descending turn with me fifteen yards into the woods with good views up the trails. Waiting for the first gobble and I recall reading Tom Kelly's, A Fork in the Road, where he reminds the reader how to gain the best advantage set-ups in woods roads. Mr. Kelly would be proud of this one.
The sky is heavy with solid overcast and by 5:10 there still is a lack of light. A few clucks of the scratchbox opens the hunt. No response. A few moments later, a rapid series of cuts moves through the woods. Hens or humans?
Sitting still in the woods has blessed me with some very close encounters with hens. Several times my position has been in the middle of a flock transitioning the woods. These birds were close enough to touch if I was brave enough. Fear of getting an opened wound pecked into my flesh has tempered any impulsiveness. During these encounters the hens just clucked and clucked and clucked with a few soft yelps. Even when getting busted and spooking the flock there was very little commotion.
Another run of sharp cuts and just for grins I step on it with a hard run of yelps. My version of "Go away." With all of the "hen" activity there are still no gobble responses.
The ski trail run parallel to the dirt road thirty yards into the woods. A truck stops, lights go out and a door opens. There is enough light to see a person dressed in camo move to the road shoulder. The same series of sharps cuts and clucks. Not wanting to risk getting shot I remain more still then if a band of longbeards was coming into my setup. The woods are silent and the driver gets back into the truck and drives off. I have seen and heard many humans in the woods and this time, I called in my first redneck.
Friday, May 6
Steve and I met at the end of the road at 4:40. The day was the first in almost a week where the cloud cover was gone so the sky was much brighter then expected. We chose to drive to a parking area and enter the property on a trail to save a few minutes over walking through the woods. We were twenty feet into the woods and the gobbling was constant. I had never used the tril before and had a vague idea of where it went so we hustled in and set up. I stepped back to float call and cover a bit more shootable area. The toms responded to my calls so the scratcher was put back into my pocket. The gobbles were moving left to right and getting louder. The sun had come up enough to see through the woods and to my horror and surprise, I had set Steve under a posted sign. Nuts!*. I scuttled to Steve keeping low and told him about the screw up. We grabbed the dekes and moved away from the toms and reset on the un-posted land. The gobbles moved towards us before being intercepted by a band of vocal hens. The day was over.
* Family friendly language, the actual verbiage would make the dialog from a Samuel L. Jackson film seem like Sesame Street.
Saturday, May 7
At 4:20 AM my attempt at rousting Nate was a dismal failure. The plan was for Steve and I to bring the boys out hunting. Nate had run a track meet on Friday (setting a new PR in the mile) and returned home a bit late. Letting him sleep would have a better chance of him remaining pleaant and docile for the rest of the day. Steve, his 11 year old son Jack and I headed back to the FOBD for another crack at the mystical birds who reside there. This time, Steve and Jack went to the usual spot at the top of the field and I took a position on a shelf 150 yards away and forty feet higher then where they made camp. The hope was to see where the birds went if they were captivated by the Sirons of singing hens.
My position was at a right angle to where Steve and Jack were set so we agreed on a shooting line.Steve wouldn't send any lead to the right of the large birch. Even with blind trust in Steve's judgment, plenty of dense woods between us, lots of distance and elevation difference I still set up behind a large oak tree. My shooting lane was fantastic with two large poplars framing the dekes giving me a wonderful drawing blind should any toms appear interested in the plastic hens. We agreed to call things off at 6:30 if there was no action.
The woods were quiet and at 5:20 the scratchbox broke the silence. The gobble response was faint so I ignored it. Soon there were gobble from several locations and they grew louder. Steve made a few yelp calls while my scratchbox and tongue calls played harmony. The woods fell silent at 5:40.A few more calls and still nothing. 6:00 and the only sounds from the natural world were crows and woodpeckers drilling trees for bugs. Soon a gobble, a loud gobble. Using the cherry soundboard of the tongue call to purr and finish with a soft yelp brought an immediate response. Steve gave a few yelps and we both stopped calling.
The gobbling sounded like it was near the far edge of the field. My position put me in the top of the tree canopy for the woods surrounding the FOBD. Using the binos to peer through the occasional blank spot kept me from calling. GOBBLE, GOBBLE. GOBBLE! The bird sounded angry and went quiet.
It might have been a minute bit no more then three when the silence of the morning was broken by the report of a shotgun down by Steve and Jack. A partial second later there was the sound of sand being tossed onto leaves. Oh Rats*, the shot is whistling through the woods maybe thirty yards away. BANG, BANG. Two more reports and two more renditions of sand on leaves. RATS* They must have missed.
The net sound was the flapping of wings. The shot at tom landed just below my decoys and hit the ground running. I watched it speed off through the woods, its beard tickling its toes as the bird ran off.
"Are we done?" My voice filled with excitement.
"Yup. Swing and a miss."
I took the long and circuitous route to Steve and Jack.
"Man that was exciting. When the bird let out those three gobbles I told Jack he's coming. The red head broke over the rise and it just made a beeline running to the decoys. Jack pulled the trigger and missed so I took to shots at it before it flew off and landed over there." Steve points to the spot in the woods where I saw the tom land and run off. "Then it was gone. You see it?'"
"Yeah. I saw it land but the most exciting part was hearing the shot rip through the trees to my left. It wasn't close but I was really surprised it went as far as it did. I was always under the impression shot only travels about 100 yards so I figured my spot was really safe. Not sure if the stuff would have broken skin but the idea of getting tagged kinda sucks."
After everyone's adrenaline wore off we headed back to the road and took a walk through the woods to do a bit of scouting. Not a sign of a turkey to be had anywhere. All-in-all a great hunt.
While nobody was hurt the setup was filled with flaws and gave each of us a solid learning experience.
Sunday, May 8
Nate and I made our way into the woods where Steve and I had or encounter with vocal toms on the posted land. This time we walked in and had no problems with the setup. We also had no signs of turkeys. Sometime near 6:00 a hen sounded off with a series of yelps. Soon the bird yelped again.
"Nate, is that a person or a hen?"
"I think its a person. Too even tone and it didn't move."
"Okay. Let's be alert and pay attention."
After fifteen minutes hearing the same pattern and tome of call we decided to head home by going away from the sounds feeling confident we were hearing a human trying to summons a bird.
Moving uphill we heard another few yelps which I was convinced was a person. We made too much noise for a wanting hen to bear. We didn't dare make another call and kept moving away from the calling. Two pick-up trucks were parked along the road giving us high confidence the hens we heard were hunters.
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