Being a Turkey Hunter

After eight days, the 2015 Spring turkey season can be summed up as interesting but not spectacular. During each day of hunting there has been some form of encounter with a turkey. The interaction might have been a simple gobble or sighting to an all out yelping match with a flock of hens. There has been a few disappointments balanced by heart pounding elations Not a shot has bee fired or even contemplated.

About a third of the way through each season there is always a moment when I wonder why there is a need to keep getting up from a sound sleep at 3:30 AM in order to sit in the woods with great expectations of shooting a bird. Hearing gunshots on opening day makes me smile; the turkey hunting brethren is having enough success to break a shot. By Day 8 the sound of distant gunshots serves to selfishly make me mad.  Someone besides me has one less tag. When I finally do connect, nobody is going to actually hear the twang of my bowstring.  Metaphysically, the disruption of the turkey hunting force will be detected by everyone sitting in wait for a turkey to present itself.

This season has been exclusively marked encounters with hung up birds my frustration is being projected upon the once highly coveted and revered turkey. As the season goes forth without any shooting opportunities the language becomes modified with some expletive preceding some euphemistic phrase for describing turkeys. If the shotless trend continues, the epitaphs will revert to a simple profane modifier.  Any shooting opportunity clears the slate and the beloved turkey is once again held in high regard.

My circadian rhythms have begun to adjust to the early start to the day. My sleep patterns have not so much adjusted as shifted closer to the dawn. The alarm clock has not disturbed my slumber for a few days. My wife appreciates the ability to wake up on time without the use of the alarm. When I leave the bed she shifts towards the middle obviously enjoying the extra space to spread out.

Entering the middle third of the season my self-image as a “hunter” is well established. As a matter of fact I am an excellent hunter, a successful hunter, and experienced hunter by strict definition. Various dictionaries define hunting as follows: 

1. to chase or search for (game or other wild animals) for the purpose of catching or killing.

2. to pursue aggressively in order to capture.

3. to search thoroughly; scour.

Please notice how nowhere in the definition of hunt is there any mention of actually capturing, taking or harvesting game animals.

Hunting in and of itself is a very enjoyable experience. Locating turkeys is a small victory, calling them closer is another victory. A successful harvest is tangible proof of finding and luring skill. Each season I start out as a turkey hunter and evolve into a turkey harvester. Every season there is a seat on the emotional rollercoaster of chasing the #&%*^#$% turkey. 

Day 2 and Getting a Guillotine Style Broadhead to Fly.

Shooting during spring season end at noon here in Vermont. Opening Day was eventful but not yet finished. For the past two weeks, a lot of time has been spent trying to get the Magnus Bullheads to hit where they have been aimed. Mechanical broadheads and fieldpoints hit the target together. The bareshaft tune is also very good so the errant flyers must be some issue with the arrow spine or fletching.  It is possible to tune the bow to the Bullhead but shooting field points becomes not possible without a retune. During the season I try to shoot to keep in good form and retuning beyond a few clicks of the windage knob is too much. More time will be spent setting the bow for a specific point then actually shooting.

In an effort to get the Bullheads to fly correctly a variety of arrow spines and fletching combinations were tried. Nothing really worked well. Every arrow impacted to the left of the point of aim (POA). I shoot left-handed and the thought is the spine is too stiff.

The head bent just above the threads and one of the blades is broken. I think the off center contact didn't dissipate the impact force along the shaft so it also bent and failed under the applied load. The broken shaft pieces are in the back ground of the photo.

In addition to the Bullheads, I had the local bowshop (Kevin’s Custom Arrows in Vershire, VT) order a package of Muzzy M.O.R.E. heads. The Muzzy heads have the advantage of folding the blades in for storage and then folding out for shooting. Maybe the Muzzys will shoot? The first Muzzy was loaded onto a 400 spine GoldTip arrow. A fiberfill pillow is an awesome broadhead target. The arrows have all become entangled into the fibers and don’t pass through the pillow. The pillow is hung from an A-frame allowing it to swing helping to dissipate the energy of the impact. The arrow flew about 18” left and one blade impacted the post of the A-frame bending the broadhead and shattering the shaft. The pictures tell the story better then the words. Not sure if the Muzzy is any better then the Bullhead. I only took one shot and destroyed the arrow.

The idea with the guillotine style heads was upping the odds of a kill when I just barely miss the birds neck. My intention had been to use technology to buy performance. Turns out I should just practice more and improve the archer.

On Day 2 of the 2015 season my son Nate came along. We met my hunting buddy Steve at 4:30 and drove to a spot which had proven worthwhile in the fall. We setup and sat hearing only a few far off gobbles. Temps were in the very low 40F range and by 6:30 we were all cold and changed to a more active run and gun tactic. An hour’s walkabout only produced nothing. The only calls we heard were generated by other hunters so we altered our track back to the car to give them a wide berth.

Nate and I headed home to eat and warm up. Hunting does not give us a free pass on weekend chores and before heading out for a more local walk we cleaned the bathroom, vacuumed the rugs, and began putting away the skis stored on the porch for easy winter use.

The local run and gun produced a few gobbles but nothing worth filling space with.   We had a response from calling but each response was quieter and quieter. The church bells rang out noon so we unloaded Nate’s shotgun and headed towards home.

Nate asked about setting up and finding a good spot to hide. We experimented a bit with a camera in order to examine how each of us look with the idea of learning to "see" from a turkey's point of view. 

So far this season we have had encounters but nothing within shooting range. There are still 28 days of the season.

Where's Kevin?

The red circle.

Closer up and the eyes are visible.

Opening Day Spring 2015

Opening day, 3:30 AM and I’m tired, unable to sleep since getting up to pee at 1:30. Excited isn’t the half of it. Being nervous about taking the one-mile walk through the woods, alone and at night seems juvenile. Hard to admit it, but at 49 years old there is still a bit of childhood leftover tension about the dark. Not scared, just a bit apprehensive.

There is also the endless thought loop of opening day jitters. Did I choose the rights calls; the best arrow and broadhead combination; did I practice enough and with enough variety to cover the sit-down kneel-down and other oddball shots which might present themselves. My evening has been filled with doubt and trying to convince myself to be confident in the prep work. No amount of self-hypnosis will flush these thoughts from my head and allow sleep to replace the cerebral inertia from the week leading up to opening day.

Before going to bed an effort was made to collect everything needed to start the spring season.  This pile of stuff on the kitchen table flows onto the floor and contains the cornerstone items. Bow and arrow; leafy camo suit; calls; folding chair; dekes; and warm underclothes. The mortar bits allowing the cornerstones to function sit on the kitchen stool: release, chalk, binos, bug dope (ticks are bad this season), license and tags, water, and a snack complete the pile; or so I hope.

There is the intent of leaving the house at 4:00 to be in the setup by 4:30 expecting the gobble show to begin just about 5:15. Stepping out the door at 4:30 makes the walk to the fields more of a slow jog. A light panic sets in as trees in the fields become more defined. Maybe the sun is coming up or maybe my eyes have finally adjusted to the darkness.  Maybe I shouldn’t have had the second cup of tea, Maybe I should have…… the list is long and reciting it helps pass the time.

Last evening while trying, unsuccessfully, to roost a few toms, a small pile of evergreen branches was left to mark 15 yards from the spot to sit in front of the dead hemlock. Set the dekes, open the chair and sit still for a few moments listening to the woods. If the planning is good, my arrival at the setup will coincide with the nighttime creatures going to sleep and the few moments of quiet before the daytime critters awaken for the day.

Time to nock an arrow and set the calls on my leg in preparation for the hunt. The dekes are dark silhouettes against the lighter color of the dead grass laid flat by the winter’s snow. Gobble, gobble, gobble. The silence of the pre dawn is shattered by the tom’s call. The watch requires the backlight to read the time. 4:47, the show has begun a bit early. My heart pounds in my chest as visions of filling my tags before the sun can cast a shadow  race through my head. Reality sets in. There is no way I can shoot at anything for at least thirty minutes. Legal shooting time isn’t the issue. The problem is seeing my target should the eager sounding tom arrive to court the plastic hen.

This is a first for me. Hoping and wishing the gobbling bird to hang out and not come closer. My fingers are itching to run the cedar scratchbox. It’s been eleven months since I last ran a call with intent to entice in a gobbler and it’s a great effort to keep the striker peg and soundboard apart. Some old timer once told me to start calling when I was able to read the time on my watch without using a light. The tom keeps bellowing out one gobble after another and the watch face remains dark. At 5:08 I convince myself the numbers are visible and the first cluck opens the season. Three clucks later the tom gobbles cutting me off. The bird knows where I am and the correct thing to do is stop calling and allow the tom to find me. Not a chance. Calling and interacting with the prey is a big part of the fun and it’d be disappointing for my season to end ten minutes and three clucks after it began. A quiet purr, a few cuts break into a building yelp. My call is again cut off by the tom imagined to be an old bluehead with a ragged beard and spurs almost two inches long. My scratchbox keeps moving filling the morning with enthusiastic yelps.  The return gobble is...a hen yelp? No, lots of hen yelps.

My exuberant calling alerted the local harem to my overtures. They respond en mass trying to keep their sultan from expanding his breeding stock. Now my ire has been raised and there is no way I’ll be outcalled. The scratchbox is exchanged for the shortbox and the race to see who can get the volume to 11 is on. The tom must be excited because the gobbles keep coming and while enthusiastic, the volume can’t drown out the hen yelping match.  To keep pace with the hens and with great hope to exaggerate the size of the invading flock, three different species of wood striker pegs are staked into my left hand. The double sided cedar scratchbox in my right and the scratcher begins dancing from peg to peg to peg. Each species of wood creates a different sound and the chorus of seamless transition from call to call quiets the actual hens. Unfortunately, it also chases off the gobbler or he was carted away all love struck and pie eyed. My version is the bird was hustled away so while I was unable to sink an arrow into its neck, the previous twenty minutes were a lot of fun and I sent those hens packing.

The next move was unintentional but worked very well. There had been one tom responding to my calls so where were the rest of them and the jakes which always seem to lurk along the perimeter of the flock? These lurking k]jakes watching the hens like a teenaged boy gawks at his pretty neighbor. The awkward teen too afraid to say hello when the old man is around, but when he leaves there is an opportunity to woo her.

After my heart rate returned to the pre-yelp contest level I took the applewood scratchbox and let out a few clucks and a purr.  Instant response from at least three gobblers. Ah yes, the lurking teens were making their way towards my setup. My setup which was all wrong for the direction of the approaching birds.

For the life of me, why any effort is spent on the “right” setup is flummoxing. Whatever setup is scouted and determined to be the best is never correct. The lurkers have circled around behind be putting a large and thick stand of hemlock between us. My hope is they spot the dekes and charge past me on the way to the alluring plastic hen 15 yards from my ideal setup.

We call back and forth for the next twenty five minutes the lurkers circumnavigating my spot but never closing the radius. In order for my day to work a bird needs to be dead or chased off by 6:30 in order to make it to work on time. It is now 6:25 and time for the big move. The boxcall paddle is held in place by a rubber band to loosely apply pressure to the box and return it to center on its own. The box is shaken side-to-side causing it to “gobble.” The hope is to pick a fight and draw them in all randy and jacked up looking to steal the new flock of hens. The first gobble sounds a bit quieter. My response is a few yelps on the scratchbox. The response is quieter still. My desperate move produces nothing but a gobble and yelp free wooded area. Two hours ago the fear was tagging out after a few clucks and a purr. Now my dekes are being stuffed into the bag, the chair folded up, the arrows placed back into the quiver and my tail tucked between my legs for the walk of shame back to the house.

There really is no shame; quite the contrary. The morning was a smashing success. The first walk in the dark went well so my confidence is better. The homegrown calls did arouse a few gobblers, and I had the discipline to get to work on time.  There are twenty-nine days left of the spring season to fill my tags. The calling and chasing the birds is really the fun part of spring season and had I tagged out as easily as my imagination had made it my fun would have been cut short. Being an average hunter does have its benefits.

Final Touches for Opening Day

In his book titled, Bowhunting Turkeys A to Z, Tim Knight recommends adding plastic garland and fake leave to the bow riser as camo. During the 2014 fall season I came across a strand of autumn colored grape leaf vines. After stripping the fabric leaves from the plastic vine, I added them to the bow.  In addition to hiding the bow, the leafy texture made the bow wider giving me something to hide behind too.The 3D leaf treatment made some of my hunting buddies laugh but it didn''t matter because it worked so well.  Several times I was able to draw on birds looking my way. Even after a miss there was always an opportunity to nock another arrow and try again.

 Makes sense. Some of the best camo is the Ghillie suit  and my leaf suit works well to help me blend into the surroundings. Some fear the bow will be loud or the garland will make the bow shoot just a tad different. No worries with either. The only caveat is being sure the leafy plastic doesn't contact the arrow or block the sights.

The naked Elite Energy E 35 ready to begin the makeover

A variety of artificial leaf and plant garland

All dolled up.

Youth Weekend Saterday Wrap-up

After warming up with breakfast we decided to just relax before heading back out sometime after 9. We have heard gobbling from down near the swamp between 9:45 and 10:00 each day during spring vacation. For this part of the day, Nate wanted to run and gun skipping and premeditated setups preferring to traverse the swamp calling and listening for a gobble response.

At best we covered half a mile in 30 minutes. Stopping to call every five laps of the second hand of my digital watch gave us the opportunity to play with a variety of calls. Nate ran the box while I ran a multitude of scratch boxes on multiple strikers.  I'd also take an occasional pass of a poplar striker on a maple topped tongue call. We just kept calling and moving, calling and moving. Eventually we left the swamp to take a peek into a stand of hadrwood; mostly maple and a few oaks. The sun had come out and the rocky knoll on the north side of the trees was warm. The early morning wake up had caught us low on energy so we sat down to take in some rays and drink a bit of water.

The woods were quiet except for the sound of the wind moving almost unobstructed through the bud tipped branches of the trees. Nate tipped the water bottle moving the water towards his mouth and was interrupted by an extremely loud and unexpected "gobble gobble gobble" from behind the knoll.  The peace shattering call of the love struck tom sent water all down his front. Surprised, I jumped clear out of my camo leaf suit too startled to laugh at Nate's unexpected shower. The gobbler could not have been further out then twenty yards and was separated from us by a mound of earth. We ducked in behind a small outcropping of rock.  I handed Nate a shell to load into the single shot Winchester and reminded him to verify the target had a beard and not to become target fixated and before pulling the trigger to check the back ground to be sure the entire shooting area was safe.

Nate taking a few pulls on the JL boxcall before getting an impromptu shower when a close gobble startled him.

Thirty seconds into the "just heard a close gobble" eternity had passed and not a sign of a bird. After a perceived minute (which might have been ten seconds or ten minutes) a few clucks were sent out with the tongue. The initial gobble startled me and the tongue call was the only thing I had hung on to; the rest of them were scattered around beneath the maple being pressed into service as a backrest. No response. Both Nate and I sat pie-eyed scanning the woods for the beast which had scattered my calls and sent water all down Nate's belly.

Our scrambling must have spooked the bird and when the adrenaline hit wore off we realized our mistakes, collected our things and began the walk up the hill to the old logging job hoping the more open terrain might yeild a result.

The first set of rootstocks was the next place we sent out a random call and immediately had a far off hit on a gobble. This time we gently positioned ourselves putting the upturned roots between us and the direction we expected the birds to travel from. A few more exchanges between the scratchbox and multiple toms gave us confidence we had a good bit of cover. Soon, six birds were seen skulking through the slash and leafless puckerbrush. I had a bead on them and Nate had the shotgun but no sighting. Two males were spotted in the group and hung up at 80 yards. After 30 minutes (by the actual watch and not my adrenalin addled brain) the birds gave us the middle feather and moved up the hill away from our setup. I'm confident we didn't get busted and the birds just grew bored of us playing hard to get.

Re-energized by these two encounters we began moving uphill. There was only an hour left to pull the trigger so the run and gun tactic had an element of scouting the terrain for the Sunday outing. After gaining 500 feet of elevation Nate hammered on the boxcall and immediately had a gobbler answering back. Nate took cover behind a moss covered and rotting stump while my spot was leaning up against a convenient log.  The spot was pretty ideal. Bright sun all around with us stashed under the shade of the small patch of hemlock. The gobbling grew louder and a bit more frantic. Nate saw the tom strutting in a small clearing of matted ferns. My view obstructed by low hanging branches and sticks.

Not a bad spot to hide

Each time I ran one of the calls the bird would take a step closer only to be pulled back when it reached the edge of the fern mat. The white headed tom was either wise to the hunters calls or chained to his place by a few unseen hens lurking off the other side of a stand of honeysuckle. for pride's sake lets just believe the guarantee of close hens trumped the potential for new hens to breed with over in the hemlocks. Soon the tom strutted off waving the middle feather in our direction. My watch toned noontime and opening day of Vermont youth season came to a close.

Getting Closer

With youth weekend only a few days away it was time to get in some site specific scouting.  While my preferred method of turkey hunting a a bow, at 11 years old,  my son Nate uses a 20 ga. shotgun. Eventually he'd like to hunt turkeys with a bow so until he can draw enough weight to make an arrow lethal, a good pattern of shot is the ethical way for him to hunt.

We spent the better part of an hour setting posts to support the patterning paper and revisiting basic firearm safety before breaking a single shot. Lecture over and Nate slid  round into the breech of his single shot 20 ga. Winchester. He took aim at the spray painted facsimile of a turkey head and neck , cocked the hammer and began squeezing the trigger. Boom, the report momentarily broke the silence of the late afternoon. Breaking the barrel kicked the spent shell in a tumbling arc terminating in my outstretched hand. The bras was warm and felt good on my cold hands.

The pattern was really nice at 20 yards and serviceable at 30. His aim was spot on so the remainder of the box was sent downrange from a variety of shooting positions. Nate has been shooting almost his entire life and must send a tin of pellets through his Beeman every week so he is a very good marksman. With shotgun testing finished, the time to head to the woods and locate some birds was next.

We are fortunate to have several neighbors who own large tracts of land and allow us free reign to hunt the parcels. Most of the land is a mixture of hardwoods (mostly maple, oak, ash, and beech) and softwoods (pine, hemlock, larch) set along hillsides with a few benches and wet areas. There are hayfields but nothing plowed. All together there are a few hundred acres. The cold temperatures and lack of sun have kept the snow until just recently. Most of the scouting has been going for early morning walks and listening for gobbles.

The local woods

When scouting I am very hesitant to use any call but a crow or owl as locators. Calling as a turkey might find birds but the paranoia of educating the toms or having them believe the "hens" they seek are just playing hard to get has me leave my calls at home. Several walks revealed three good locations for gobbling and evening roost walk have verified the locations.

This is one big oak tree. The 11 year old is for scale.

Never sounding a turkey call during the preseason isn't perfectly true. Part of the enjoyment of hunting turkeys is building my own calls My favorites are scratch boxes and the unusual vibrating tongue. I've never made a boxcall but did receive one as a gift. This call, padauk and cherry, was made by JL Custom Turkey Calls (http://www.jlcustomturkeycalls.com/index.html) and is kept in my car to be available for practicing while waiting to pick up my children from afterschool activities.

JL Custom Turkey Call box

Mud season has been so terrible this year.  To avoid driving on dirt roads, my car was left at a friend's house with close proximity to asphalt roadways. Commuting to the car has necessitated transferring my belongings from one vehicle to another. The mud has become firm enough to warrant bringing the car back to the house. While transferring my belongings from the truck to the car, the JL boxcall slipped out of my hands and onto the driveway. Just for fun I ran a few clucks, purrs and yelps before placing the call into the car.

Thirty minutes later while sitting at my computer the faint sound of gobbling comes through the walls. "No way." must be the perceveration on the upcoming season making me hear things. The sound is heard again but louder. My daughter is on the couch and mentions the gobbling. Sure enough, gobbles from three birds emanate from the woods. My best guess is they were less then 150 yards from the house doing their best to locate the "hen" yelping from the driveway. In all the years making calls and practicing, tuning, and experimenting outside there has never been such vocalization from the birds in the woods living near the house. The call is most definately heading into the woods with me this season.

Just some random scratchings in the woods

Youth weekend starts in seven hours so it's off to bed for the 4:00AM start to the day.

They will disappear once the season opens but it is so nice to dream

Youth Weekend Saturday Update

Nate and I were out the door at 4:15 to begin the 15 minute walk to the setup we scouted yesterday. The walk helped us warm up and store some heat to combat the 28degree pre-dawn. At 5:20 we heard the far off gobble of a bird we know is roosted on the edge of a horse pasture  not available for hunting.

There were other gobbles emanating from posted land and our hope was to call something to the gun. By 5:45 all gobbling had stopped. At 6:30 we were cold and broke the set up to begin the walk back to the house for a hot breakfast. The plan is to head out at 9:30 to a spot we've heard mid morning gobbles.