“Turner, will you let your father and me go with you this year?” I asked glancing at the upcoming week’s weather report. It was Spring Break for him and 2012 youth turkey season…the week prior to Mississippi’s regular season when only kids under 16 could carry a weapon in pursuit of wild turkey gobblers.
“Mom.”
Standard reply from a teenager. Even a not-so-surly one. In it was I to interpret, “Of course, we always go together to turkey hunt” or “I can out walk both of you now and can handle this on my own blindfolded…why would I need you any more?”
Fortunately, he meant the former. With status clarified, the three of us set off to be whipped soundly the first morning by silence, the second morning by raging weather, and the third…well, this one’s for the books…
“You better put this on,” Jim said as he tossed me a down jacket. I had already donned full natural gear camouflage and was ready to take on the morning. Noticing that he’d pulled out the red long underwear for himself, I rethought the morning’s clothing and stretched on underarmour beneath my uniform.
Twenty minutes into a turkey nearly making our hearts stop three times, I was glad I had put on everything in the camp. But…I’m getting ahead of myself.
Turner sleeps in his gear, so he was ready faster than Jim’s coffee. I take a little longer knowing we always drag full media equipment for recording the day and not daring to be caught on or in camera without lipstick and a cute hat to hide my pile of pale hair. Turkey feather earrings would be my talisman this year…ready… and we were off.
The sun was beginning to glow the horizon, so the three of us opted to stand in the open rather than bash through the woods to a listening spot. We were a little behind schedule, so we remained in the open to listen for the first gobble and then strategize.
I stopped then Jim walked past me. I followed and he whispered, “just spreading out to listen” and signaled me to remain in place. Turner and his gun stopped as well.
Gadwalls and widgeons burbled and whistled above us, and I relished their chatter. Cardinals had long since heralded the morning and Canada geese stirred over the water. I focused on picking out all the sounds of what felt like late spring when they exploded no more than 200 yards to our right.
“GOBBLLEEEE, GOBBLLEEEE!!!!”
Two!
Close.
Yikes.
We ducked as if the gobbles were helicopter blades and crept into the tree line careful to avoid crispy sticks.
Thirty yards within its embrace, we set up and sat down – decoy down, cameras up, blind positioned…heralded by double gobbles on the minutes.
As Jim wrapped Turner and me in the blind, the huge moon gleamed behind him. I grinned unable to hide the pure joy of listening to these turkeys tell us “all is well in the world” in spite of the hard year we’d had due to the historic Mississippi River flood that destroyed our new cabin and left behind a sludge of muck and despair that only at this moment, had been truly lifted.
Another gobble north of us – far away.
More gobbles – about twenty.
Another pair of gobbles in the east. I smiled to myself and rested my head against the huge sycamore. Pale blue violets surrounded me and a cardinal nearly landed on Turner. Blind working well so far…
Two minutes passed – no gobbles. Hens cackled and yelped from all directions and we joined them hoping to encourage Mr. Double Gobble to come to our party rather than theirs.
“He’s down,” Jim whispered when our boy finally gobbled again. He’s gone to the other party…we were sunk.
“Let’s move!” I said. “Maybe we can get around him.”
Well, it was a plan. And there was no way he’d come to us within the next few hours. Knowing these turkeys like we do, Jim and I were sure this was folly and the only chance we had was to get in front of the gathering early season mob and hope to enjoy the show. Fat chance of calling a gobbler away from fifty hens, but we could certainly get some great bird watching in before they left the area.
We backed out of our spot, tipped through the woods, and edged along another field just in time to witness about fifty turkeys moving north. There was no getting past them to get to the others we’d heard earlier…but boy, was it a sight to behold…through binoculars. My heart pounded – and the gobbler we left behind continued to mock us.
“Let’s press on!” I said. “It won’t matter if we spook that bunch…those others won’t care. They’ll just think we’re coyotes or something. And we need to move!”
“That’s not a good idea,” Jim’s ever so patient and reasonable voice whispered behind me.
“GOBBLLEEEE, GOBBLLEEEE!!!!” Taunted our hunted gobbler.
“But! We need to move while he’s still gobbling and we know where he is!” I pleaded.
Turner sat behind us, a bemused expression on his face.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing.” He said.
“Well, it’s your hunt. What do you want to do?” I asked.
“I’m not saying a word,” he smiled.
“We need to do something!” I urged.
Jim just shook his head.
“Your father and I just have different ways of approaching things,” I snapped. “But you’ve got to decide.”
“Whatever I do, it’ll be my fault when things go wrong,” he said. “You two have to work this out.”
I wanted to scream, jump up and down, pull my hair…but I smiled and reminded myself this was a family event and that we were supposed to be having fun.
“GOBBLLEEEE, GOBBLLEEEE!!!!”
MUCH much closer – heading our way. No choice now. SET UP.
Jim pointed to an enormous cypress large enough to disguise our outlines, I stabbed Sally (our decoy) into the ground, Jim wrapped the blind around us, and we settled in for the wait.
“GOBBLLEEEE, GOBBLLEEEE!!!!”
Definitely closer – but was he going to the group? Hard to know.
I yelped.
“GOBBLLEEEE, GOBBLLEEEE!!!!”
Good sign – he cut me off. Moments later, he’d covered enough ground for us to hear him drum, “K….THWOOOOOOMMMMMMRRRRRMMMMMP.”
He’s seen Sally. Come on, boy, come one….
I pushed my hand holding the video camera against the tree to steady it and did my best to conceal the tiny but shiny black device. Ages passed, and I knew our boy expected Sally to come to him and her motionless stance was not helping.
I yelped, purred, yelped behind me, scratched the ground and did everything I could think to do to sound more interested in bugs than him. I made promises to him that would make a sailor blush…and he continued to drum…gobble…drum…then…ever so gradually, he began moving off.
“Turner!” I hissed. “Get your father to call!”
He was too close for me to leave him in hopes of pulling him closer. Maybe a second hen would liven things up.
Jim’s raspy cackle with Mr. Humber’s Delta Queen call produced a pair of double gobbles…
Yes! Oh maybe…I had to stretch far behind me now to move more leaves…
Another little bug purr-putt from me – then Jim.
He appeared just over Turner’s head and strutted in the viewfinder. Moving to the right…thank GOODNESS Turner’s left-handed…and the show was on. Sunlight hit his lovely feathers as he drummed his way into range. Slowly, ever so slowly, he stepped forward, drummed, relaxed, head up – arranged his wings right over left…oh, no…he’s leaving…settled down and drummed some more whew, he’s staying!
My left leg had long gone numb and now my right buttock. Nothing but a little pain…you’re doing this for your boy…for the turkey…this won’t kill you…don’t think about it…concentrate on the sight…
All pain left, and I marveled at the time we spend to witness this very moment…bodies tense and quivering…heart pounding as if we’d just run a mile…mouth dry…camera rolling…son ready and primed to shoot.
This time…everything came together. One shot from Turner’s pretty .20 gauge over and under dispatched the statuesque gobbler to Turkey heaven along with his sweet dreams.
Turner and Jim bolted to their prize – I brought up the rear camera rolling.
“Wow! Perfect shot, Turner! What do you think?! Look at that beard!” I rejoiced.
“Dad’s lump and you’re crazy,” he smiled.
“Crazy?”
“You wanted to play coyote on fifty turkeys… now that was a plan.”
Sarcasm…oh how I’m sure I’ll miss that when he’s gone. And if you don’t know what “lump” means, well, join the club. It’s my boys’ term for their coolheaded, confident father.
At least Turner still wants to hunt with us today…but time’s running short. As I write this, he just flew by with his older brother in hot pursuit of friends and females celebrating Spring Break. I’ll get the call later tonight on whether he’s staying out with the gang or coming home to roost early to prepare for tomorrow’s hunt. With a turkey already under his belt for 2012, my bet’s on the gang!
© 2012 by Allison Crews
If you liked this story, try my new ebook – Wild Turkey Tales.
You've met my imaginary friends in my novels, now you’ll now get to meet some of my real friends and my family. We’re not right…we’re turkey hunters.
Also by Allison Crews
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