Weeks 3 and 4 of the 2016 Spring Season

Monday, May 16

After yesterday's hunt and almost stepping on a nested hen, today's setup was another 250 yards closer to the ridge top. My spot,  beneath a large hemlock and the open woods provided fantastic draw cover trees. The dekes were set out, arrow nocked, with calls set onto my leg for easy access it was time to start chalking the striking surfaces waiting for the sun to come up.

My go to chalk is plain old white, pencil diameter, blackboard sticks. It is inexpensive, easy to find, and stays together when tossed into my pocket. To my ear, the sound is just as good as railroad chalk and other call specific mixtures. With the chalk applied and put back into my pocket, there is nothing to do but enjoy the sounds of the forest transitioning from night to day. This is the most peaceful  time of the day and one aspect of hat draws me to hunt turkeys.

GOBBLE, GOBBLE. The silence is broken before there is enough light to see the pins of my bowsight. Best guess, the bird is under 100 yards away. More gobbling and it sounds like three birds; even further up the ridge. RATS. Stuck in turkey hunting groundhog day. Different location, same scene. The birds keep gobbling while moving uphill. The calls are stowed in pockets while the decoys are pulled off the stakes and left in the bag under the hemlock which had been my hiding spot. Time to run and gun and with any luck get ahead of thee birds.

Following the slight draw in the terrain looking for a path even higher up the ridge the gobbling toms seem unaware of my presence. The draw pinches down and crosses a stone wall with a gate-sized opening.. Just beyond the wall is a clear stand of large (24"-36" diameter at breast height) oak trees filling a shelf twenty yards wide and fifty yards long with ample rock outcrops and a few hemlocks along the edge. Perfect set up if my luck runs out today.

A group of car sized honeysuckle bushes delineates the end of the shelf. No gobbling for a few minutes so I must have been busted so time to go explore where I am and scout the best way back for tomorrow morning's hunt.  The honeysuckle explodes with gobbling. Rats, I'm stuck in no-man's land but manage to sneak in behind a rootstock surrounded by continuous gobbling. The hunt is on to tag on of the birds now called, The Gang of Three

A few clucks and a soft yelp on the scratchbox have all three birds gobbling over each other. I put the call down and wait. The gobbling is frantic and soon on of these birds has to come around the honeysuckle and take a look. I peer through a quarter sized hole in the root mess and see nothing. The gobbling is still frantic but growing softer.RATS! DOUBLE RATS! They are moving off.

Chasing them would be fun but having no specific idea where I am the decision is made to head home (have to get the kids off to school) and find a way back in for tomorrow's hunt. The stonewall at the top of the draw is a good handrail and is followed downhill. I should come across familiar terrain and the wall leads me to the northern end of the Field of Broken Dreams. Eureka! I know the path of the birds I keep encountering when set up in the FoBD. With this new discovery it is game on.

My deke set-up complete with draw tres.

Tuesday, May 17

Walking into the bench setup is easy to navigate but physically demanding. The stonewall leaving FoBD runs straight up the fall line of the ridge. This time of May the morning temps are in the high 40s. A jacket keeps the cool air at bay but becomes too much when heading uphill. Cresting the last bit of hill before the bench has sweat running down my neck and forehead. Even though turkeys have no sense of smell, deer and other prey do. Too often I've been busted by these critters and they signal a warning and dash off through the woods.

The set up is ideal with great cover for me and the abundance of draw cover trees raises my hopes for a good day.

The transition from night to day goes by; enough light shows to see the pins of the sight; the red crest of the woodpecker is easy to see. The morning is here but where are the gobbles which have been so abundant for the past few days?

A few clucks on the scratch box followed by a soft yelp has lit these toms up but now; silence. Thirty minutes go by; silence. Calling produces no response and at 6:15 it is time to return home to bring the kids to school.

Following the stone wall back to the FoBD is awesome. I don't have to think allowing my brain to work overtime wondering what happened to the birds? I hang a right at the FoBD traversing the small patch of woods separating me from the ski trails and path home.

Years, maybe decades ago a large birch tree fell over coming to rest across a stone wall. This has become a marker for easy access to the trails. Just as I step onto the tree, a chorus of gobbling erupts from just over the rise twenty yards away. I'm downwind and the new leaves on the trees have been creating noise. Couple this with the leaves on the ground still wet from last evening's rain and I shouldn't have been busted. One large maple gives me draw cover as my butt settles into the rotted trunk of the birch.

An instant response to the tongue call so I put it down and raise my bow to lessen any movement when these eager birds jump the ridge to find the hen. The gobbling is intense and raspy. The Gang of Three getting all riled up vying for her attention. With no free hand to call with and the mouth calls still in my pocket there is only the wait and see game to play. My only other option is some form of bayonet charge hoping to surprise them. This desperate option is  shelved. I sit on the log and wait.

The gobbles continue but grow quiet as they fade into the woods.

The woods are filled with my angst filled profanity and great restraint is required to put the bow down and not smash it on a tree before stoning the weapon with rocks from the wall.

My anger is not directed at the bow itself. The rig has performed flawlessly and is a joy to shoot. Me desire to kill the bow stems from removing any way to continue hunting. If the bow and other implements to kill turkeys is gone I cannot go anymore sparing me the agony of chasing birds.

Why, for the past five days have these birds been so close but have never been observed? My conclusion is they are not real but hallucinations fabricated by the end of season sleep deprivation. Maybe they are specters parading about as turkeys sent to the terrestrial plane by an evil demon whose mission is to impart insanity. I really want to curl into the fetal position, suck my thumb, and cry but the kids need to be at school in twenty minutes. My walk home will take twelve; changing clothes another five; the drive to school is another twelve.  Guess they'll be late.

Delivering them to school late is fine; I just with it was for a good reason along the lines of limb hanging by spurs or from butchering one of these birds.

The Shelf

Wednesday, May 18

Awakening at 4:05 gives respite after dreaming about the Gang of Three  for most of the night. Not only do these birds haunt me in the woods, they have infested my subconscious eroding what little sleep I can muter at night. Exorcism will take place when an arrow finds its mark to kill one of the gobbling demons.

Not crushing the bow took great restraint and not being sure of my resolve to resist the urge my setup is long away from the Gang of Three territory. Even knowing the birds are there, a day of respite is in order.

The walk into the mess of blowdown where the first sit will take place is quiet. Ski trails deliver me 95% of the way which is relaxing without fear of getting poked in he face by a stick. The blowdowns provide cover and fantastic seating and not carrying a small folding chair is an additional relief to avoiding the Gang of Three.

When the pin of the sight is easily useful it is time to start calling. The first soft yelp on the tongue call garners a responsive gobble. Jut one gobble which is a relief. Had I heard three I'd have gone running back to the house with great fear of the woods possessed by the Gang of Three poltergeists. The gobble comes closer so the call is placed down on the poplar tree truck where I sit. Time to raise the bow and hook the release to the D-loop. My heart beat thumps in my neck.

PWOOF. A deer blows and runs away between me and the approaching tom. he woods are silent.

Figuring this tom encounter is done,  I decide to leave the nest of blowdowns and head up the hill in an attempt to circle around the tom and call him in the opposite direction. The woods are drying but the leaves are not crisp and are rather quiet. TWenty minutes later places me 200 yards away from the blowdowns on the same contour. The scratchbox sends a few clucks and hard yelps into the woods. The response gobble sounds like it is 200 yards away on the same contour. RATS. The bird kept coming after the deer ran by.

Sitting in the young pines and calling has no effect on the tom as the gobbles just get quieter and quieter. 6:37 AM, time to head home and bring the kids to school.

Thursday, May 19

The nest of blowdowns is again the chosen spot. The woods are quiet. The only response is another hen yelping but it sounds like another human. I stop calling hoping to coattail  and intercept and toms headed to my human counterpart. Nothin' doin'. The woods remain quiet. Soon I hear voices and two hunters appear thirty yards away. "Hello" I call.

"Hey, how's it going? Any luck?"

We exchange a few stories and I walk out to the fellow hunter's truck parked at the end of the road.

Friday, May 20

A 4:26 start back to the shelf and another shot at the Gang of Three begins the hunting day. By 4:48 my dekes are set and the single pin is bright enough to be useful. A few light clucks and yelps garners no response. At 5:50 the only noise in the woods are the calls of piliated woodpeckers and red squirrels so I head home with a plan to return with Nate and take another shot at tagging one of these birds.

Saturday, May 21

Nate and I are on the shelf by 5. We sit about thirty yards apart to cover the entire stand of oak trees. By 6, Nate has had enough sitting so we abandon the quiet and head home.

Nate is a good cook and puts together a feast of bacon, pancakes topped with pure Vermont maple syrup washed down by strong tea with milk and honey.

By 8 we're done cleaning up and preparing for a walk around the woods looking for birds. Sitting on the couch letting the food settle in Nate hears a faint gobble. We head to the porch and listen. Gobble, gobble. Sure enough there is a bird up behind the house  looking for love. We get dressed and head back out.

Most of our road is an almost impassable jeep trail which goes straight up the hill through an old abandon orchard. We cut through the back of the property to the creek and almost step on another nesting hen 150 yards from the back door."Pretty cool, huh dad?"

"That is awesome. Let's stay away from here and let her alone to raise the poults."

Intercepting the road we gain a bit of elevation and jump onto an old logging road. The gobbling is louder so we set up in front of a large pine tree. Nate has his 20 ga. and I leave the bow on the leaf litter. This hunt is about him getting a bird. The tom responds to the clucks emanating from the scratch box. Each gobble louder then the one previous.

PWOOF. A deer blows from below us on the hill and runs past the approaching tom. We see the tom's red head tuck down and run away from our position.

"Awe man, that deer messed us up. We might have had that bird. What was it, 50 yards?"

"Something like that. Looks like it's not our year but seeing the nesting hens was pretty cool."

Nate hiding in the woods, the shelf is off to the right

My spot about 50 yards south of Nate.

Sunday, May 22

Rain at 4:10. I remained in bed.

Monday, May 23

With a delay in my workday start, my hunting day started after dropping the kids of at school. There are several great pieces of farmland which have birds and the daily requirement of being a chauffeur to the school has precluded my abilities to hunt them.

One of these fields is close to a mile in length, an anomaly here in Vermont. Several black dots populate the far end of the field and a quick scan with the binos reveals these dots are in fact, turkeys. A swamp borders the west edge of the field and is the best way to quickly cover the distance without getting busted. The birds are out of sight  from the swamp and the chances of them moving on is pretty good but I take the risk and head off into the muck.

A swamp in Vermont is very different from a swamp in most areas south of here. There are no gators, water moccasins, rattlesnakes, or copperheads  to contend with. No feral hogs or anything to watch out for so the movement is fast and carefree. Temps in the low 50s keep the bugs from becoming too bothersome.  The most dangerous beast in the swamp is me.

The swamp is bordered by tall grasses and clumps of brush. Before entering the relatively open area abeam the flock I spend a few moments finding out if my run through the wet has been for naught. Jackpot! Three hens and two toms are 100 yards away. I belly crawl another twenty-five yards to a large swamp maple surrounded by what looks like pagoda dogwoods. Good cover for me and the bow.

200 yards set of me and 150 west of the birds there is movement in the calf length grasses. Two foxes are skulking towards the flock and with luck will spook them in my direction. From a kneeling position I arrange the calls and set the bow against the dogwood branches. Cluck, cluck, cluck, yelp-yelp-cluck, radiates from the scratchbox. The tom responds and turns his fan in my direction but does not gobble.

I send another call. The tom puffs up a little bigger. I change calls hoping to sounds like a mother-lode of hens. Both toms display and one gobbles. I hit the slate and the smaller tom starts coming my way. The chorus of yelping from the three hens stops him dead in his tracks. RATS. Henpecked so my job becomes tougher. Holding the scratchbox and a striker in my right hand with the tongue call in my left sets up the one-mand-band of hens. My mouth call putts and clucks, the scratchbox is played off the tongue, side and back of the tongue call and the handle of the striker making a wide range of hen voices while occupying just my hands. The movement from one surface to the other is almost seamless and has both toms attention. They move in my direction and are called back.

This rap-battle rages on for thirty minutes and the human ultimately loses. The hens walk away and the toms dutifully comply and fall into line. The foxes are nowhere to be seen.

Tossing in the white flag of surrender I head back to the car in the field and avoid the swamp. Temps have come up and the bugs just might be swarming.

75 yards and no luck even as a one-man-band of hens

Tuesday, May 24 through Tuesday, May 31

During the final week of the season I managed to get out four days. Memorial Day weekend was taken up  by a soccer tournament (team did really well, competitive games and a must win to make the playdowns. We played to a draw but it didn't help). The other day the hunting was more or less sitting in the woods listening or taking a quick drive looking for birds in fields and trying to sneak up on them. No turkey sounds or field birds. Turning this nothing into a decent tale is well beyond my abilities to create an entertaining story about silence. Sure, I can become philosophical but that is not me.

The woods went quiet very early and I can only surmise it was the mild and almost snow-less winter. The snow and ice was melted away almost three weeks early and the grasses began to grow when the sun warmed the ground. The turkeys don't use a calendar and if conditions feel right to begin breeding they must get started. 

This is the first season in a while without a bird inside shooting range. My ability to find turkeys is pretty good but my skills to bring them into bow range still needs work.

Overall the season was great. I spent a lot of days in the woods with friends and also my 12 year old son. I'd liked to have filled a tag but it didn't happen. 128 days until the fall season opens so I'll keep shooting the bow and count down the days.

Second Full Week of Spring 2016

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!

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.

Winter? in Vermont, 2016.

The title is correct and there is no misplaced punctuation. The winter of 2016 has been quite confusing.

My son received a dozen new hunting arrows for Christmas and we tested them on the outdoor range wearing T-shirts. We are fortunate to have 10 km. of cross country ski trails close by and we never had enough snow to cover the rocks, roots, and mud and did not ski them once. The fuel tank of the snowblower was refilled for the first use in January and there is still 3/4 of a the gasoline still left un-used. At the beginning of March the apple trees were pruned while we wore  sunscreen on our bare arms. The lack of cold weather kept the frost from going too deep in the roads and consecutive70 degree days during the first week of March melted them off and mud season lasted 36 hours. Turkeys were gobbling at daybreak.

The warm temps and lack of snow were a bit disconcerting. What threw me and has me a bit nervous is seeing Toms in full strut and them calling in  the hens looking to mate and opening day is still seven weeks off.

The warm temperatures and lack of snow has a huge impact on the economy of Vermont. The ski areas usually blow snow to augment natural snowfall which was well below normal and warm temps kept many areas from making much snow at all. The people who rely on snowfall to generate work; snow plowing, roof shoveling, repair of vehicles and roofs; took it even worse. The only water falling from the sky fell as rain and just ran off into the rivers and had minimal effect on recharging the aquifers.

Hearing the first gobbles of a new season is always exciting. Hearing the first gobbles of the new and early warm weather was a bit disconcerting. My hope is the birds are photo period sensitive and not just warm weather activated. It would suck if the hens were all bred out causing the Toms to become less excited by a good yelp on a call.

My hope is the lack of snow allowed the birds to eat and grow all winter and the  Toms will be huge and filled with energy. With no snow and mild temps, beards ill not have become broken and the Toms will be tripping over them when they strut. Easily found food should go to building long spurs and not spent as calories to keep warm.

Soon it will be time to re-tune my bow for the Bullheads, cover the bow with  fake leaves, and get ready to get up well before dawn, walk to my spot and listen to the world come alive.

Those gobbling Toms were excited and so am I. Opening day is just around the corner.

Mud season was short but intense. The end of the driveway was an absolute mess. The rest of the road was pretty aweful too

Turkey Hunting, in the Rain, with a Twelve Year Old. Part 3

“Still having fun even with the missed opportunities?”

“Yup. Dad, I can’t wait to actually take a good shot at a turkey. Think we’ll get one here?”

Nathan still had enthusiasm in his voice. My overriding fear has been projecting my desires upon his hunts.  Without the ability to echo locate birds by calling and getting a gobbling response, chasing turkeys in the fall requires so much more effort then in spring. Bumping the flock more then once has typically changed their habits; habits I’ve spent the past few months figuring out. The operative word is “I,” and admittedly, there is a conflict between wanting to keep the birds for myself and sharing them with Nathan knowing he might not be patient enough to put himself close enough for a shot. Fortunately, my selfish thoughts only pass through and don’t stick around..

Expecting an enthusiastic 12 year old boys to be able to sit still for an hour, not drag his feet through the dry leaves, or truly understand how difficult it is to put the birds in front of him, is unrealistic. So what if he gets busted. If he learns how to move with stealth and good woodsmanship while enjoying the outdoors does scaring off a flock of turkeys really matter in the grand scheme of things? Not at all. He is out in the woods and not sitting around at home.

The farm road skirts the edge of the pasture and is defined by an electric fence and the woodsline. Sometimes there are cattle in the fields making the stalking a bit of a challenge. Seems turkeys don’t really like the company of cows.

“Hard to say unless we go take a look. If they are here we can sneak around and get a shot. We just need to be careful popping up over the lip of the field.”

This plot of land borders the Connecticut River and is supposedly the bottom of ancient Lake Hitchcock, an Ice Age lake which abruptly drained 10,000-12,000 years ago. This rapid draining left the steep ravines and convoluted topography we hope to exploit when sneaking up on a flock. Many of these ravines are covered by open hardwoods and capped by extremely flat terraces which have been cleared for farming and grazing. A fortunate byproduct of this terrain is fantastic turkey habitat.

The cow pasture and terraces are separated by a creek just large enough to keep the cattle from wandering randomly between the high ground and the lower pastures. With the cows down low the turkeys should have no fear and inhabit the fields above.

Climbing the dirt ramp in the rain is quiet except for the increasing sound of our breathing. Approaching the lip we drop to hands and knees finishing the ascent by crawling towards the base of the honey suckle. Looking through the brush we don’t need the binos to pick out three flocks of birds. One about 200 yards directly in front of us; another sunning themselves under an apple tree 300 yards to the west; the last bunch is spread out among the old stone walls and scrub brush dotting the hills to the north and too far away to consider chasing.

The birds straight away begin disappearing over the far bank. My watch says 1:20 PM. In the event we are busted by the apple tree gang, there is a good chance this group will be available in the coming days.

            Nathan grabs the binos and slides beneath the brush propping himself up on his elbows laying prone to keep out of sight.

            “There’s a bunch of hens and a few toothbrush toms. They’re just hanging out pecking at stuff. There are a few of them wandering off to the right.”

            “What do you ant to do? Watch a bit more or try to get set up on them?”

            “Let’s move and try to get to the pine trees.”

            Nathan slides back through the brush and hands me the binos. We drop back to the creek and move along the floodplain towards the head of this small valley. Nathan scrambles up the bank to see if the flock has moved.

            Approaching the crest of the slope, Nathan crouches behind the ragweed lining the border between the trees and the field. He stands peering over the vegetation and suddenly drops to his knees. He look down at me and rapidly points up the hill.

            Without making a sound my mouth moves, ”What?”

            Nathan mouths back and points up the hill, “They’re right there.”

            Now in full pantomime we communicate for him to keep moving to the right and try to get around the pine trees at the bend in the field, set up and wait. The wet ground helps him move with a bit of stealth but his need to keep an eye on the birds increases the chance of him getting busted. If he does, he does and with a bit of self-convincing I’m okay with whatever happens.

            I reach the trees before Nathan and we set-up on the back side of an overgrown pasture pine. The flock should be on our left, walk past the trees and away from our position while providing a chance to draw the bows and get a shot.

            The clucking and yelping to our left grows louder as the birds close the distance. To the right, we begin to hear the moooo of cows. The clucks grow louder as does the mooing. The cows down in the  creek bottoms become visible though the trees; the turkeys are abeam of our tree and 40 yards out. They stop, perriscoping their necks to scan the area. Nathan and I don’t breathe to keep any motion to a minimum. When the large black cow steps into the field the turkeys turn and move across the field and are no longer a valid target.

            Nathan lowers his bow and whispers,” Dad, we were busted by cows! That’s so un-cool. Coyotes or bobcats or something considered a predator is one thing but cows? “

            “A first for me too. Let’s sit here for a few moments and let the birds run from the big scary cows before we scoot back down the hill. We should head home. I’m pretty tired.”

            “Sounds good.”

            Watching the turkeys hustle away from the approaching herd of cows really is amusing. The flock stops at the treeline before melting into the weeds and disappearing. Nathan and I get up and begin the 10 minute walk back to the car. We decide to head across the creek bottom and take a direct route to the road to avoid mixing with the herd of cows, and a few bulls, still on the other side of the creek. 

            The slope is open pines with a carpet of fallen needles to absorb each footfall so we move with almost no sound. YELP, YELP, YELP; a hen begins to call together the flock which must have scattered when the cows moved through to head up the hill and subsequently scare off the birds we were on. Tilting my head and pointing my thumb to the right indicating a move to the large bull pine where the slope meets the flat puts us near the closest cover.

            The kee-kee-kee and sharp clucks allow echolocation of the flock’s assembly point. “You see ‘em?” I whisper pointing towards the slope across the flats.

            “No. They sound like they might be on the other side of the creek.” Nathan replies.

            Our current position is pretty good and a successful kill will require the birds to move across the flats and up the hill towards the fields behind us. There is a small clump of brush in the flats but the risk of getting busted is too great so we sit still and listen to the calls which come for out in front of us. The sounds are becoming less frantic and beginning to coalesce within a small oak grove 150 yards away. The flock is back together but appears very paranoid. There is no pecking at the ground or wing flapping. The birds are very still and their head movements are small as they scan the surroundings for predators and latecomers to the assembly.

            When the flock starts purring and the clucking loses a bit of the sharp edge we count eleven hens and one soul patch jake in the mix. Soon the turkeys seem much more relaxed as they begin pecking at the ground, scratching, with much less examining of the surroundings. The creek flat by the oaks is devoid of understory and the birds begin moving towards the fields up high which unfortunately, is away from us. We’ve been sitting for almost forty-five minutes so the knobby forest floor has created a few numb and sore spots on both mine and Nathan’s butts.

            “You want to try and end run those birds and get up the hill ahead of ‘em?” My tone of voice is apathetic.

            “Nah. We’ve been going pretty hard all day and I’m kinda cold and hungry. It was pretty fun hearing those birds calling and we didn’t get busted. There’s always tomorrow and we know where they are and there’s a ton of turkeys in here.”

            When the flock moves out of sight we stand up and brush the pine needles off our pants. Good boots have us walking right through the creek and across the swampy areas which drain into the floodplain. Cows stop eating and turn to watch us stroll across the pasture, jump the barbed wire fence and move along the road to the car.

            Nathan and I encountered a lot of turkeys, heard some awesome calling; and learned a huge amount about the habits of flocks in the rain. No we didn’t get off a shot but watching my son made this one of the best hunting days I’ve ever had.

           

Turkey Hunting, in the Rain, with a Twelve Year Old. Part 2

Nathan grabbed a hot shower while the old man, me, dug through the refrigerator for lunch. When the tea kettle came to a full boil the hot water filled mugs to bring the black tea steeping to full flavor.  As Nathan found dry clothes, I finished cutting the quesadillas.

The food didn’t last too long or even grace our tongues; we ate fast, dressed warm and headed back out looking for birds. The precip. was more of a drizzle then steady rain. The wind picked up enough to push the small car from side-to-side. The narrow river valley opened up into freshly harvested cornfields bringing new hope to the dreary afternoon.

At this point in the season it is always tempting to fill a tag using the front bumper.

Heading south on route 5, Nathan examined the treeline along the far side of the fields. “No turkeys in there. We should head left and take a look in the Steve’s Rock Field.”

The name of the fields tend to be some reminder of some turkey hunting episode from prior seasons. This past spring, Nathan, Steve, and I slithered along a stonewall adjacent to a large hay field. The flock of hens was leading a few toms quartering away from the wall; the closest bird was maybe 35 yards away. A large boulder marks the end of the stonewall and Steve managed to ooze up and lay the 12 gauge Mossberg across the top without getting busted. BOOM! The sound of the first shot rolled across the valley as the knee high grasses absorbed the shot leaving a disturbance in the otherwise uniform fescue. Steve shucked the first shell and fired again at the running flock. Another miss and the only casualties being some vegitation.

Pulling into the farm road leading into Steve’s Rock the slight hollow near the corn held a flock of about twenty birds. After watching for a few minutes Nathan spoke up.“Let’s head to the rich guy’s place and cut across meadow into the trees. That looks the way they’re going.”

Three minutes later we pulled off the road, jumped into our rain suits, and grabbed our bows. The trees Nathan was referring to sat between the car and the birds. The edge of the field  is dense with honeysuckle and ragweed enabling us to move quite freely closing to within 100 yards of the turkeys. The wind and rain made enough noise to cover the sound of two humans walking in wet grass.

The crux move to getting up close is finding a way through the strip of trees and into the next field. The trees are filled with vines and dense underbrush making any progress difficult. Fortunately, the birds were still in the hollow so we had terrain working to shelter us as we fought between the saplings, and thorny brush. Nathan insisted on trying to sneak through the grass and get close; I made my way to the edge of the tree hoping he might spook them towards me.

A tom just cannot resist showing of for the ladies. caption

My position allowed a good view of both the flock and the boy. Nathan stopped to nock an arrow before crouching and moving on his knees. Fall birds are much more docile and orders of magnitude less paranoid compared to spring. I have no idea how he managed to do it. Ten minutes after beginning his frontal attack on the turkeys he was twenty yards away and still sheltered by the topography. He checked his release and squirmed around getting his feet beneath his legs. In one motion he stood and drew the bow bringing his release hand to anchor. I held my breath not wanting to spook the birds. Nate moved the bow from side to side. “Come on boy, shoot something.” Is all I could think.

HONK, HONK, HONK, mixed in with the yelping and clucking of turkeys. The sounds scattered and six Canada Geese flew away followed by the twenty turkeys. Nathan let down, turned and came towards me.

“What happened?”

“Dad, it was pretty cool. I was pretty nervous sneaking up there. I could hear them clucking, and yelping a bit. When I stood up I had no idea the geese were there too and I kinda freaked out not wanting to shoot a goose which were in front of the turkeys. I jumped when the geese began honking. It was loud. I didn’t want to, well I did but decided not to, take a shot as they flew away. Kinda sucks they got away.”

“Welcome to turkey hunting with a bow. At least you learned something about sneaking up on birds. I’d of thought for sure you’d get busted long before you did. You’re doing great. Hunting them with a bow is hard. Even if you don’t get one your getting well within shotgun range, right?”

 I carried Nathan’s bow while he folded the blades of his Muzzy broadhead on the walk back to the car.

The next set of fields was blank so we kept driving south. A small gang of toms with paintbrush beards sat out in the middle of a posted field. Another flock of hens occupied the space beneath a crab apple tree in someone’s front yard. It was good to see all the birds even if they were not accessible.

The destination fields are bordered by steep ravines, lively creeks with open woods and is one of my all time favorite places to spot and stalk turkeys. The rain stopped falling as we pulled off the road and a few bit of blue sky were visible through the clouds.  So far the day had been fantastic hunting and little did we know the best part of the day stood fifteen minutes in out future.

Good cover but too long a distance for a decent shot.

Stay tuned for part 3

Turkey Hunting, in the Rain, with a Twelve Year Old. Part 1

The Friday before Columbus Day weekend was an in-service day for the teachers and staff of Thetford Academy giving the students the day off. Rain pelted the tin roof while the heavy cloud cover kept the morning in perpetual dawn. Only large patches of any color could be distinguished in the paltry light. With a lack of a brightening day, my internal clock just stopped and only an overpowering need to relieve myself had the ability to force me out of bed. Rain shuts down the outdoor work of landscaping so my day was free to spend at home with the kids and maybe get in a bit of turkey hunting.

Nathan at full draw

Nathan, my twelve-year-old son, can finally pull enough draw weight on his compound bow to generate enough kinetic energy with an arrow to make turkey hunting an ethical pursuit. Shotgun season is still three weeks in the future and in defiance of the rain we suit up and head out the door.

A decade ago my 1985 Yamaha FJ 600 was sold off but I kept the rain suits since they kept me dry traveling through the wet at highway speeds. They should be just fine for stalking turkeys and two suits are stashed in the trunk of the car; one for me, the other for Nathan. If we’re dry we should be warm or at least not too cold.

Rain suits keep water at bay with a trade-off; the suits make similar sounds I recall from my days attending elementary school in the 70’s when corduroy was all the rage. With each step the wale of the material rode past each other producing a staccato, brrrrrip, brrrrip, brrrrrrip. Between classes at the height of corduroy mania the cacophony of walking students was pretty overwhelming. Now, wearing the rain suits, each step had the flared legs rubbing past each other making a whoosh, whoosh, whoosh just loud enough my hope is the rain in the trees will the sound of our movements.

The plan is to spot and stalk the local corn field which have just been cut.  Getting into a car to hunt turkeys is a bit of a bummer when the house is surrounded by fantastic terrain for hunting. Fantastic terrain for hunting vocal gobblers but not so great for locating the more silent birds of autumn.

Five minutes down the road we come to a lake. Not great hunting for turkeys but the valleys with streams and small rivers which drain into the lake provide farmers with rich soils for growing corn. Fresh cut corn usually means feeding turkeys and this morning is no different. Three toms, one toothbrush jake following two legitimate longbeards through the corn stubble. The undulations of the field provide topographic cover. Skulking through the rolling field we take a guess which way the gang will turn when it reaches the treeline. A small creek runs along the field twenty yards inside the trees with the only walkable crossing being a small culvert bridge to the south. Another cornfield covers the valley to the ridgeline once across the creek. We skulk along the creekbank sometimes crawling, other times slithering beneath the brush and reeds of the riparian corridor.

Reaching the bridge Nathan glasses the field to locate the gang which he spots 150 yards up creek of our set-up. All three birds scratch at the bare ground stopping occasionally to look around before continuing the search for kernels having escaped the combine. Soon the gang is 160 yards away. More scratching and moving to 170 yards. We’ve guessed wrong and sit patiently but frustrated at our bad choice of location. We let them move out of sight hoping not to spook them and head up the fields back to the car. Nathan removes his rain suit allowing the car’s heater to better reach his chilled skin.

The turkey drive, as we’ve come to call it, passes two adjacent farms with large paddocks containing the dairy herds. The land is not posted but hunting in a farmyard has the potential to frighten the livestock so we keep moving past a flock of an estimated 50 hens and yearlings picking through cow dung and yard muck.

At the head of the valley the road takes a hard, uphill turn to the right and through the conifers before crossing the ridge. The next valley is a bit tighter with less open cornfields. The terrain more suited to grazing then growing. Coming over a rise the field on the right side of the road contains a small flock of hens. We drive past scouting the fence-line seeking a concealed route into the field. We park 200 yards from the birds. Nathan impatiently exits the car leaving his rain-suit wadded up on the backseat floor. The rain pounds at the windshield turning the outside world into a wavy mirage of trees bisected by the dirt road. Pulling on my vinyl suit before grabbing my bow will keep me dry. By now, having entered the woods, Nathan must be soaked through to his skin. From the roadside I can see the flock and catch occasional glimpses of my son  doing his best to sneak up on the feeding birds.

Nathan has been wanting to go turkey hunting for a few years. He’s been out during the spring with a 20 gauge, single shot, break barreled Winchester  Sitting and waiting for turkeys wasn’t really hto his liking. He really enjoyed the run and gun style of pursuit. Being 12, his need to always see the quarry is understandable even if it’s not the best way to move into bow range of the more docile autumn birds. Today, with wind moving branches and shaking the brush along with heavy rain to soften leaves and alter the wood of dry branches so they yield rather then “crack” under his feet, the odds of his straight forward approach just might work. Successful or not, there is great joy at watching the boy on the hunt.

By some stroke of beginner’s luck or divine intervention, Nathan manages to move past the flock and find a hiding spot behind a small group of honeysuckle still holding its leaves. The flock moves past within twenty yards of the boy. Nathan draws the bow only to let down a moment later. The birds walk off and into the next field, the property line adorned with bright yellow Posted signs. Diplomatic immunity and sanctuary are bestowed upon the birds. Nathan cuts straight across the field to the car.

“No shot?” I call across the field.

“No. I had a shot but wasn’t sure of the distance. It looked about thirty and my pins only go to twenty and it just didn’t look good so I let down. It was pretty fun getting up on them.” He opens the car door setting the bow into the back seat. “I’m kinda cold and wet. I forgot to put on my rain gear.”

A still warm engine brings up the heat pretty fast. Wet bodies, cool outside temps and a small car bring have the windows fogging up in short order. We head home for a hot cup of tea and change of clothes. There is a lot of daylight left in the day along with plenty of rain to keep on hunting.