All the guys I hunt with say that I am a curse. Well, the cursed, I reckon, are afflicted in many different ways. My latest infirmity is, I have forgotten how to shoot. Until opening day back on March 27, it had been nearly 10 years since I had missed a shot at a turkey. In fact, I could easily count the number of times I had missed a big game animal with a firearm over the past 10 years — once at a deer with a muzzleloader, once at a turkey with a shotgun. But this year? A totally different story.
It’s been a very unusual season. I’ve heard less gobbling this year than I have in all my 15 years of hunting turkeys. I believe that’s simply due to the population of birds being way down in the areas I hunt. But I have managed to put myself in a number of positive situations. Part of that is by playing it smart (no wisecrack comments, please) and getting into areas where turkeys are most likely to be at whichever time of day it is that I happen to be hunting. A larger part is listening for the tell-tale phhhht-vrrooooooom sound of a tom turkey spitting and drumming. When it comes to turkey vocalizations, the gobble is a glory-hog. The spit-and-drum is equally, if not more, important. Because on a morning when a turkey isn’t gobbling, he’ll still be spitting and drumming if he’s strutting. The tone and pitch of this sound are such that a good many hunters cannot heari t. Others can only hear it at very close distances. While my directional hearing is bad, I’m blessed to be able to hear the spit-and-drum at distances of a little more than 100 yards before the woods have greened out, and a little less than that after. I may not be able to tell exactly where it’s coming from, but I can hear it. Anyway, I’m digressing. The point is that I should have filled all four of my Tennessee tags a long time ago. But stupidity and my gun (and, on at least one occasion, both) have prevented that from happening.
Take this morning, for example. Often times I don’t decide where I’m going until I pull out of the driveway. This morning, I decided to head to a little ridge on the edge of the Big South Fork NRRA to give one more chase to what has become a season-wrecker (those wily old birds that entrance a hunter and cause him to waste an entire season chasing them). I’ve taken to calling him The Early Bird because he flies off the roost so early — well before the other birds — each morning. And he usually roosts alone, even if there are hens nearby. Three times he has been chased across the ridge, and three times he’s lived to go back and laugh about it to his harem of hens. This morning was the same, unfortunately (for me, at least; I’m sure he feels differently).
I was easing along the ridge as the day broke, not hearing anything but songbirds. Any turkey hunter knows exactly the kind of morning I’m talking about. You’re wishing you had stayed in bed, or gone on into work, etc. Then, finally: Gaaaaarrrble. A gobble from way down the ridge. I’m sure he’d been gobbling since the first crack of light, but I wasn’t close enough to hear it. I started pulling my face net and gloves out of my vest pocket and set off in the direction of the gobbles, not thinking it was the same bird I had hunted before. He wasn’t roosted in his usual area, for one thing. For another, this gobble sounded somewhat different.
As I crested the hill near where I thought he would be, he gobbled for the sixth time. &$(#!, I was right on top of him (yes, I cursed under my breath; yes, it’s little wonder I missed after that). I glanced at the terrain and decided right quick that when he came out of the tree, he was going to come out in a different direction. So I needed to get back out of sight and circle around him. As I was doing that, he never gobbled again. I figured he had saw me when I got too close. Then, as I was easing into position, I looked down and there, 50 yards away, was a tom turkey in full strut. No wonder he had stopped gobbling; he had flown down off the roost already, even though it was way early. Early Bird! At 50 yards and in full strut, spitting and drumming.
All those thoughts went through the right lobe of my brain at the speed of lightning. The left lobe of my brain was uttering another four-letter word and screaming “sit!”, which I did. But I was leaning awkwardly against the side of the tree. I needed to be flat against the tree. I managed to scoot around while he was behind a tree that was between us, took out my Primos cutter box and yelped twice. The game was on. There was another hen, as it turned out, out of sight on down the ridge and calling to him. It became a battle between her and I, but I was closer, and I won. Thank goodness for small victories, anyway.
Early Bird continued to strut and spit and drum 40 yards from me, and I was torn up. I had the springtime version of “buck fever” in a bad way. A turkey inside 50 paces putting on a show is a sight to behold, and what makes turkey hunting fun. It’ll also make you a nervous wreck if you don’t have nerves of steel. And I don’t. That old bird came to within 25 yards of me before he cleared the brush and gave me a shot. A turkey’s head is smaller than a baseball, but we have the advantage because we’re toting a gun loaded with scatter shot. All it takes is one well-placed pellet in that walnut-sized brain to have fresh turkey breast strips for supper. But, as I’ve found out more than once this year, easier said than done. I missed. Again. The sad part of it was that he didn’t spook. But I did. I had already jumped up and jacked another shell in my gun, hoping to get another shot at him before he flew. If I had stayed on my seat, I could’ve probably worked him for another try after he had run across the ridge and then stopped. But because I was already standing, I had no choice but to go ahead and pull the trigger again. It was still an easy shot. But nothing happened when I pulled the trigger. As I jumped up, I had subconsciously put the safety back on (at least I did something right, even if I didn’t realize it). And ol’ Early Bird took off over the side of the hill as fast as his two legs would carry him.
The good news is that I’m down to two shells. Turkey loads are expensive and I have no intention of buying any more this spring, so maybe I can hang up my gun and put an end to this wretched season. Or maybe I need to go to the range and learn how to shoot all over again. Or maybe I’ll sell my beautifully camouflaged Remington 870. I’ve had nothing but trouble since I got it. I had much more luck with a scratched up old Winchester 1100 with a barrel that was about 75 inches long.