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!
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