Just a few weeks shy of 20 years ago I began a journey of obsession. The Wild Turkey, known around my house as "the dirty bird", is an affliction of mine this time of the year. In January I start having the "turkey dreams" and sleepless nights. The sickness started ironically the day I called in my first tom the first year I hunted- and missed.
In the early years I poured over how-to books, vhs tapes and magazine articles to learn what I could. It was then that I learned of the Grand slam of turkey hunting. Though I had not actually harvested my first bird, I was determined to complete my slam some day. From Giant Eastern's in Ohio, Kentucky and WV to the grand flocks of Rio's in SW Texas and then the buff-tipped Merriam's in the high sandhills of Western Nebraska I stayed the course for years.
Children came, and time and budgets were shortened. I studied and schemed for the Oceola turkey. I have a shadowbox with four holes in the bottom for single tailfeathers. The forth hole stood vacant for several years. Fate shone upon me and I was promoted and my service territory now encompassed Florida. A manager that I work with recognized my need and set me up with an opportunity. On March 23rd I found myself along side him in Bushnell County Florida. Home to a small pocket of what locals call "True Oceola" turkeys.
I slept poorly for several nights prior, as was to be expected. I awoke before the alarm and went through the motions of the hunt preparations, anxiety and excitement high while trying to keep my expectations low. I met my "guide" Jess over some bad hotel coffee and hard-boiled eggs. His anticipation was high, the eternal optimist that he is. Some quick looks at the aerial and some strategy formed we took the quick ten minute ride to the spot. I pulled out the borrowed shotgun, an ancient browning with a polychoke and lots of character.
It was cold, clear, calm with a full moon. The barometer was high and my anticipation rose higher. Conditions were ideal. We were on the other side of a slough from the small woodlot that we could hunt. The property owner had routinely seen a flock of a dozen longbeards pitch down in the morning to the dike at the edge. The birds were likely 50 yards away in ancient giant live oaks. We staked out Loretta the Slut, my faithful decoy, and sat in the Palmettos and waited. Any time the world would erupt with laughter from the toms. (Turkeys don't gobble, the laugh at me).
Seconds ticked by, then minutes. The silence was deafening. As full light came we packed up and moved in to the swamps. We crossed the slough in a small pram that had enough holes to make the 10 yard crossing questionable. Just five yards in a hen erupted from the palmettos from her nest, making a racket of epic proportions with her wings beating the fronds. After checking my shorts I smiled, knowing that at least there were birds around.
We set up near the neighboring pasture and called with moderate gusto trying to strike up a conversation. Sweet nothings from my newly acquired North Bay Toxin slate brought in a large coyote, which learned a hard lesson about stalking turkey compliments of the A5 and an ounce and a half of 5's. Surprisingly, not a single shock gobble was heard.
Jess was starting to become concerned, as he thought this to be a sure thing. He is not a turkey hunter per se, so it was good for him to see what a sure thing hunt looks like. I know how it changes fast and did not let my own concern show. A new plan was formed and we headed for an opening a few hundred yards through the marsh. An hour of negotiating the marsh, palms and fronds and we find out that our "meadow" in the aerial image was actual a "swamp". While it began to appear futile I smiled and suggested we head back to a little hump near the neighboring property.
It was getting warm, and on a well deserved rest I pulled out my long range talker, an old HS strut box call that I bought in my early years. I talked loud and hard, if for anything, my own amusement. We moved a little bit and I heard a distant sound. Was it? Could it have been? It was. A distant, high, short gobble. Jess asked "how far is it"? over open ground on the neighboring property, it was an easy quarter mile. Jess asked "Can you call it that far?" I replied "Not likely, but we are going to try". We spent several minutes trying to find a spot to set up. The portion of ground we were on was thick and had few suitable trees to rest against.
We eventually found a spot where the fence was down between properties and a game trail came in. In the neighboring pasture a small clump of trees were between us and the bird. I demonstrated calm on the outside as adrenaline pumped through my body. The new slate came out and on the second yelp of a walking cut sequence the small patch of trees on the next property erupted. The bird was less than 100 yards. I heard Jess whisper behind me "Its On".
I slowly set down the call and reached for a diaphragm, but stopped my hand halfway to my pocket. The blue head was bobbing around behind the brush and coming around. It closed fast and stopped conveniently, but it was off the property. After more moments than I wish had passed, It crossed onto the property and stopped again. The tell tail raising of the head, the turn of one eye towards me and the flip-flip-flip of the wing tips told me that the gig was up. Clearly it had heard my heart beating. As it turned its left leg and dropped its head to run, I snapped the ancient gun into place and let fly.
In the early years I poured over how-to books, vhs tapes and magazine articles to learn what I could. It was then that I learned of the Grand slam of turkey hunting. Though I had not actually harvested my first bird, I was determined to complete my slam some day. From Giant Eastern's in Ohio, Kentucky and WV to the grand flocks of Rio's in SW Texas and then the buff-tipped Merriam's in the high sandhills of Western Nebraska I stayed the course for years.
Children came, and time and budgets were shortened. I studied and schemed for the Oceola turkey. I have a shadowbox with four holes in the bottom for single tailfeathers. The forth hole stood vacant for several years. Fate shone upon me and I was promoted and my service territory now encompassed Florida. A manager that I work with recognized my need and set me up with an opportunity. On March 23rd I found myself along side him in Bushnell County Florida. Home to a small pocket of what locals call "True Oceola" turkeys.
I slept poorly for several nights prior, as was to be expected. I awoke before the alarm and went through the motions of the hunt preparations, anxiety and excitement high while trying to keep my expectations low. I met my "guide" Jess over some bad hotel coffee and hard-boiled eggs. His anticipation was high, the eternal optimist that he is. Some quick looks at the aerial and some strategy formed we took the quick ten minute ride to the spot. I pulled out the borrowed shotgun, an ancient browning with a polychoke and lots of character.
It was cold, clear, calm with a full moon. The barometer was high and my anticipation rose higher. Conditions were ideal. We were on the other side of a slough from the small woodlot that we could hunt. The property owner had routinely seen a flock of a dozen longbeards pitch down in the morning to the dike at the edge. The birds were likely 50 yards away in ancient giant live oaks. We staked out Loretta the Slut, my faithful decoy, and sat in the Palmettos and waited. Any time the world would erupt with laughter from the toms. (Turkeys don't gobble, the laugh at me).
Seconds ticked by, then minutes. The silence was deafening. As full light came we packed up and moved in to the swamps. We crossed the slough in a small pram that had enough holes to make the 10 yard crossing questionable. Just five yards in a hen erupted from the palmettos from her nest, making a racket of epic proportions with her wings beating the fronds. After checking my shorts I smiled, knowing that at least there were birds around.
We set up near the neighboring pasture and called with moderate gusto trying to strike up a conversation. Sweet nothings from my newly acquired North Bay Toxin slate brought in a large coyote, which learned a hard lesson about stalking turkey compliments of the A5 and an ounce and a half of 5's. Surprisingly, not a single shock gobble was heard.
Jess was starting to become concerned, as he thought this to be a sure thing. He is not a turkey hunter per se, so it was good for him to see what a sure thing hunt looks like. I know how it changes fast and did not let my own concern show. A new plan was formed and we headed for an opening a few hundred yards through the marsh. An hour of negotiating the marsh, palms and fronds and we find out that our "meadow" in the aerial image was actual a "swamp". While it began to appear futile I smiled and suggested we head back to a little hump near the neighboring property.
It was getting warm, and on a well deserved rest I pulled out my long range talker, an old HS strut box call that I bought in my early years. I talked loud and hard, if for anything, my own amusement. We moved a little bit and I heard a distant sound. Was it? Could it have been? It was. A distant, high, short gobble. Jess asked "how far is it"? over open ground on the neighboring property, it was an easy quarter mile. Jess asked "Can you call it that far?" I replied "Not likely, but we are going to try". We spent several minutes trying to find a spot to set up. The portion of ground we were on was thick and had few suitable trees to rest against.
We eventually found a spot where the fence was down between properties and a game trail came in. In the neighboring pasture a small clump of trees were between us and the bird. I demonstrated calm on the outside as adrenaline pumped through my body. The new slate came out and on the second yelp of a walking cut sequence the small patch of trees on the next property erupted. The bird was less than 100 yards. I heard Jess whisper behind me "Its On".
I slowly set down the call and reached for a diaphragm, but stopped my hand halfway to my pocket. The blue head was bobbing around behind the brush and coming around. It closed fast and stopped conveniently, but it was off the property. After more moments than I wish had passed, It crossed onto the property and stopped again. The tell tail raising of the head, the turn of one eye towards me and the flip-flip-flip of the wing tips told me that the gig was up. Clearly it had heard my heart beating. As it turned its left leg and dropped its head to run, I snapped the ancient gun into place and let fly.
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