RE: whats your memorible hunt
Pat, that is a very touching story...I too have lost a child at birth that had gone full term. Thanks for sharing.
Here is one of my many turkey memories....
I stumble through the darkness stopping periodically to sound off the locator calls in my pouch with the hopes of getting some idea of where my prized targets might be. The first few attempts proved futile. As I made my way around a huge wash out next to a creek, finally a crow call gave away the general location of the roosted toms. They were perched among some timber in a deep ravine that acted as a border for a bean field on one side and a cornfield on the other.
There was no way to traverse the bean field without bumping the birds so my plan was to sneak up the backside of a grassy hill opposite the deep ravine. From there I hoped to make my way down the slope to a wild plum thicket that offered valuable cover in my effort to pull off this deadly ruse. I was worried about spooking the birds when I set up my decoys in the bean field because by the time I made the half-mile hike to my chosen spot Mother Nature was beginning to shed her cloak of darkness in favor of brighter attire. From the babble coming from the trees several hundred yards across the open expanse it became evident I didn’t drive the birds off the roost so I began calling to let them know there was some action taking place in the bean field. Apparently I do not speak the Tom Turkey dialect very well because to my dismay at least three gobblers elected to fly down to the cornfield on the far side of the ravine. I kept calling to them and eventually I could see them strutting on the far hillside. It became painfully obvious they were already in the company of the feathered female kind.
To my left and rear I hear something in the grass. At the first glimpse of movement I thought it was a couple of pheasants that had been crowing behind me but to my surprise the pheasants turned into turkey hens (personal reminder: get eyes checked!). Perhaps they had a silent suitor with them. I lay flat and rolled over on my belly and tried to position myself for a shot in case a tom was with them. They saw the decoys and got nervous but seemed to get calmer when I responded to their chatter. They milled around for about 10 minutes, at times only about 12 feet from me and then silently vanished over the hill.
I sat back up and called some more to the gobblers across the valley. I could see one harassing some hens but figured there was no way for me to get a gobbler to my setup because I had already been calling from this location for more than an hour. As I contemplated packing things up, I see a blob of black and red step out of the weedy ravine about 200 yards away…I fumble for my striker…
Driven by an urge greater than he can control the unsuspecting tom sprints in my direction! About half way to the decoys he stops to strut and profile…I call softly to him again… He can only fight the compelling force burning inside him momentarily as he terminates his strut and breaks into a sprint one more time. As he rushes to claim his prize the light reflects the iridescence on his breast in a dazzling display of color. His baldhead and neck, a beautiful combination of patriotic red, white, and blue, is arched forward in saber like fashion as he makes his charge up the hill. His 11 inch beard sloshes from side to side further accenting the magnificent creation that he is. Again he stops to display his splendid profile, snood, dewlap, and carnucles, ripping with crimson, in a royal strut.
He is within range now but I don’t even have my gun up, the show is too good. I am held captive by what I see. Once again nature has lured me into her magic circle with shock and awe of the most spectacular kind. She has intoxicated me with the moving picture I am beholding in front of me and my judgment has been impaired. I almost feel sorry for this guy…almost. I know unless something goes exceptionally wrong this majestic tom is about to kick his oxygen habit.
Suddenly he identifies the jake decoy as an intruder, a trespasser with no rights in his domain and begins to spit and hiss. As if I have lost control of all my faculties I hear my gaping mouth whisper the words, “totally awesome!” But alas if I am to complete this deceptive ploy it is time to act for he is dreadfully close.
As he is about to render malice to my decoy I carefully raise my gun and take aim. A cluck from my diaphragm call causes the duped bird to make a momentary pause and raise his head. The Benelli “barks” with a thunderous clap. Amplified by the valley walls the shot rudely ends the morning calm and the antics of my feathered star. The tom is pushed one direction, and I another as final judgment is anticlimactically meted out in the form of 1¾ ounces of number five shot at very close range. It occurs to me that I felt more than he did.
As the last echo of the blast ripples across the valley, and the final feather falls softly back to earth, I drink in the experience of the morning and feel both exhilarated and humbled. Yes, it’s going to be another great day.
Vital Statistics:
Weight:……25 lbs. 4 ozs.
Beard………11 inches
Left Spur…..1 1/8 inches
Right Spur…1 5/16 inches