Turkey Season 2022: A Duel At Dawn
By: Dave Zeug
Some traits are crucial for hunters when we chase the variety of renewable natural resources available to us. An awareness of our surroundings, patience, and the determination to succeed are some of those traits. Another might be a sense of humor, because sometimes the best-laid plans turn into comedy of errors. Turkey hunting this spring, at least for me, was a prime example.
Hens on the prowl.
After an unsuccessful early morning hunt, I saw a black blob along a field edge during a scouting drive. I knew it was a popular strut zone for mid-morning toms. I had shot more than one bird there over the years, so minutes later I began a stalk on that lonesome tom. Since it was familiar ground, I was able to close the distance quickly. I could make out the tom through the foliage just 80 yards away, but my seductive calls weren’t working. I decided, as my turkey hunting mentor once suggested, “if you can’t call them, crawl them.” Wind and tall grass worked in my favor, as I crept within shooting distance. I carefully got up on my knees and raised my gun. I quickly realized that what I thought was the south end of a displaying gobbler turned out to be a small bear. I don’t know which one of us was more surprised. After he ambled off, I shook my head and had to smile. I owned that misstep.
Two competing toms.
Decisions make or break any hunting experience but particularly turkey hunting. Call or keep quiet. Set up on that point or the one around the corner. Move or stay put. One night, I watched two gobblers go to roost on opposite sides of a field. The next morning, I decided on one of the gobblers, only to have him fly off in a different direction. The other pitched out and landed only feet from where I would have set up, if I’d decided to hunt him instead. Three hours later, both birds were forty yards out and were moving closer to my tantalizing slate call. Five more yards and I’d light the fire. Then a shotgun length away from me, a hen broke from the woods and intercepted the boys, leading them away from the sweet-talking bird in the brush behind her, meaning me. Again, what can you do but smile?
A tom in full display.
Then there was the tom displaying to three hens in a field. I was nestled along a trail leading into the field, but couldn’t get the toms interested in my calls. And then I cracked the code. I wish I knew what sweet spot I hit, because all three hens looked up and broke into a fast walk across the field and up the trail I sat along. Better yet, the gobbler brought up the rear. Maybe the hens were looking to dump the tom that had been harassing them all week on the new girl in town, I don’t know. Anyway, soon the hens were twenty feet away and the gobbler perhaps sixty, but they were perfectly screened by a tree a gun length away from me. The hens were getting nervous. So was I. I had to do something, so I slowly leaned left and rotated the gun 180-degrees instead of the traditional 90-degrees to get a shot around the tree. With the shotgun’s scope resting on the base of my neck, I pulled the trigger. Then chaos erupted. All four birds broke in different directions while a mist of pulverized wood drifted down around me. It took a few seconds to realize what happened, and then I saw the deep gouge taken out of the tree I thought I’d cleared. While my scope rotated past the screening tree, the barrel hadn’t. Got to have that sense of humor, right?
By the last day of the season, I was worn out. It was tempting to turn off the alarm, roll over and go back to sleep. If it wasn’t for yet another close encounter the day before, that might have happened. I’d had a displaying gobbler 45 yards out and wanted him to close another five yards before touching the trigger. That was when another hen wandered by, apparently looking really good, because off he went after her still in full strut. Knowing where he was and, better yet, knowing I could sleep in tomorrow, I climbed out of bed, grabbed a cup of coffee, and headed out the door hoping to close in another 100-yards to where I thought he’d be roosted.
I heard his first gobbles at 5:15, and I was able to move in 75 of the necessary 100 yards. I didn’t dare go any further. When I saw a big downed oak, I huddled up against the stump and broke out my slate. My soft tree call was answered with a bellowing gobble. I followed it with a soft purr from my mouth call and got another ringing response. I also didn’t hear any hens that could disrupt the hunt. The tom knew where I was, and in his world the hen should be coming to him for an early morning rendezvous, not the other way around. It’s taken a lot of years, but I finally learned that was the moment to put the slate down and park the mouth call against my cheek. I knew the more I called, the more convinced he’d be she was smitten with his lusty gobbles and on was on her way to him. Now it was time for the silent treatment.
I could tell the tom was on the ground by his gobbles. He moved away to my right, then slowly worked back to my left, still out of sight. He was doing all he could to lure the hen to him. It was time for a strategy that’s led to more than a few successful hunts. I picked up a branch. And imitating a turkey looking for last year’s acorns, I began scrapping the leaves next to me. The rustling of those leaves was enough to induce another gobble. I dragged the stick over the leaves again, but this time there was no response. From past morning hunts, I knew one of two things was happening. Either he figured he’d given the hen enough time to accept his offer and went off looking for a more receptive hen, or he was on his way in. I shouldered my gun, hoping it was the later. I was rewarded when I saw him come over a small rise 25 yards away, stretching his neck out looking for the hen. That was his mistake. I made the most of it, and I had another memorable hunt, on the last day of the season no less.
Spring is the time for turkeys and trout.
Being able to hunt this incredible bird and the memories I gleaned over the course of the season was its own reward. I credit my success to perseverance, knowing when to park my calls, and, most of all, to picking up a stick and scraping through the leaves during another classic duel at dawn.
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