Yesterday, I had the pleasure of escorting a very sweet and gutsy young lady into the turkey woods with the hope of harvesting her first Nutmeg State gobbler. The weather was idyllic, bright, clear and calm with few if any bugs. (A welcome relief from last weekend’s summer preview!)
In our pre-game huddle I briefed her on the game plan. We’d locate birds with my Barred Owl opus, then set-up accordingly, with her stationed roughly 15-20 yards in front. If the bird/s hung-up at 50 yards out, chances were she’d still have a clean-killing shot. I handed her two shells and told her it was her choice whether or not to shoot a Jake or wait for the opportunity on an adult bird.
At our second stop, a pair of gobblers cut my compelling “who cooks for you” lyrics to shreds. She shrieked, pumped her fist skyward and whispered “Let’s go!” Wow, no lack of enthusiasm here!
We set-up as planned and for once, the drama unfolded nary a wrinkle. She was treated to a classic, 15 minute calling duel with the birds gobbling and double- gobbling right on script. When they (now a quartet) appeared over a knoll at @80 yards out, I saw her bear down on the stock and knew she’d reached a decision.
One more 5/8 cadence of “ugly” raspy yelps followed by a few, soft seductive clucks and purrs was all that it took. The birds closed into a single file and headed straight in. I had a front row seat, watching the puffs from her face mask quicken and the muzzle of her gun begin to twitch ever so slightly. I chuckled, remembering the day I killed my first bird, a morning eerily similar to this one. At 28-30 yards out, the lead bird drifted a bit left, clearing his buddies and she pulled the trigger making a perfect head/neck shot. Textbook!
On the walk back to the truck we were treated to a sight I never grow tired of. She recoiled suddenly, shouting “There’s a turkey…” and I caught the head of a hen skulking through the heavy brush not 10 yards away. I had a hunch and told her to circle around and watch her every step. A minute later, she yells “OMG, here it is!” and there atop a mound of mossy grass it lay. Check it out boys, an even dozen! How cool is that?
Late, last evening had me again thinking of that seminal, May morning when I bagged my first gobbler on a ridgetop in the picturesque little town of Lockwood, NY. I remember miles and miles of pasture land and verdant, rolling hills. A turkey hunter’s dreamscape! I pulled out a yellowed envelope buried in the back corner of one of my bookshelves and found what I was after. The 1987 NY State harvest tag had curled a bit but was still legible. Above my signature was penned “Tioga” in the county box and “Lockwood” under the town of kill. Then I noticed the date.
May 4th, thirty years ago to the very day! A nice, plump Jake that I nearly whiffed, distracted by all that damn puffing from my face mask and the twitching of my muzzle! I guess it all comes full circle after all.
On the whole....I'd rather be in Philadelphia....
