- Joined
- Mar 11, 2001
- Messages
- 70,011
- Reaction score
- 1,003
A turkey experience unlike any other
Steve Merlo, Bakersfield Californian
Saturday April 26, 2003
California's spring wild turkey season is beginning its fourth week, and not many hunters enjoy the thought of chasing them in the rain.
Blue, sunlit skies and calm weather make for great hunting, and precipitation of any type usually keeps both the knowledgeable and smart at home --and the usually sensible birds in thick cover until the storm passes.
But there are always those few die-hards suffering from what Mike Griffith, the former Californian outdoors editor, calls 'acute brain fade.' You know the type: those who meld into muddy forests during torrential downpours and work sopping-wet, very lovesick birds into decent shooting range.
With freezing rain miserably dripping into the hunter's open seams, cracks and other supposedly waterproof clothing, this type of hunter is the exception rather than the norm.
But I counted myself among those very strange people last Friday morning.
With a hard rain pelting the area since 6 p.m. the evening before my hunt, I would rather have stayed in bed than get up and chase turkeys. Unfortunately, though, I didn't have a choice -- my only day off that week just happened to coincide with the latest southbound rumbler from the Gulf of Alaska.
After dutifully suiting up in camouflaged Thinsulate and Gortex, I walked 150 yards from my truck and sat down by an ancient oak near an old miner's shack in the Greenhorn Mountain area. One of my non-turkey-hunting friends had assured me that a big old tom had courted several hens near the dilapidated structure the evening before my arrival.
I was excited, and with my truck only 10 minutes away, I took a position below the old abode overlooking the supposed strutting grounds.
With dawn and the overcast melding into an ocean of gray wetness around my stand, the drizzle had become a cloudburst. After 10 minutes of introspection and self-doubt, I decided then and there that no self-respecting gobbler or hunter should be out gallivanting around for women or birds in weather like this. I picked up my decoys and started to return to the pickup's warm sanctuary and hot coffee.
A tremendous gobbler only 150 yards away caught me away from cover in the open field, and the only option at my disposal was the old shack some 20 yards away. The door was ajar, and upon my entrance, I found it contained a rusted box-spring bed near a window that overlooked the flat I had been watching.
I sat down, and after spreading my calls next to me, I realized I had found the perfect sniper's perch, out of the rain, from which to continue my hunt.
My first series of yelps brought an immediate response from the amorous bird -- a booming gobble, then another, and yet another. From my panoramic vista point, I could see quite a bit of the flat below me, and within several minutes I caught a bit of movement at the opposite edge.
The tom, his red, white and blue head bobbing, was cutting leisurely across the small flat toward my position. Not shy at all, he continued to answer my every purr and cut with resounding gobbles. Every few feet, he would stop, go into full fan and announce to the world that he had indeed arrived.
From 75 yards I could see that his tail feathers were sopping wet and less than perfectly arranged, but that didn't prevent him from showing his ardor for the hen plaintively calling for his immediate attention.
Even lovelorn suitors eventually have to get out of the rain and look their best for the benefit of the opposite sex. After several minutes of his courtship display, the drenched gobbler folded up and literally ran for the protection of the trees just below my position.
Shaking almost uncontrollably -- some from the cold, I guess, but more from the spectacle unveiling before me -- I sat as still as I could. Hoping he wouldn't catch any movement while his prying eyes surely pierced the darkened cavern of the miner's shack, I clucked one more time and waited.
At long last -- although I'm certain the time was less than two minutes -- either his libido or his curiosity got the better of him. The regal bird strolled out of the brush and into good range less than 30 yards away, fanned his bedraggled feathers once again and then gobbled loudly.
I'm always amazed at the lethality of two ounces of copper-plated sixes from a 3-inch 12-gauge. Almost as soon as I shot, the tom instantly folded up and hit the ground.
Quickly leaving the shack, I proudly collected my long-beard prize and marched back to the truck. An old bird, his spurs measured a little over one inch, but when I went to measure his beard, I discovered that he carried nearly 14 inches of bristle.
Total, that is. My first-ever double-bearded tom carried both 101/4 and 31/2 trophies.
An accurate bathroom scale put his weight at a little over 20 pounds -- a good bird in anyone's book -- and he provided the makings for one heck of an Easter dinner.
Steve Merlo can be e-mailed at merloworms@earthlink.net. He wants to hear about your recent turkey hunting experiences.
Steve Merlo, Bakersfield Californian
Saturday April 26, 2003
California's spring wild turkey season is beginning its fourth week, and not many hunters enjoy the thought of chasing them in the rain.
Blue, sunlit skies and calm weather make for great hunting, and precipitation of any type usually keeps both the knowledgeable and smart at home --and the usually sensible birds in thick cover until the storm passes.
But there are always those few die-hards suffering from what Mike Griffith, the former Californian outdoors editor, calls 'acute brain fade.' You know the type: those who meld into muddy forests during torrential downpours and work sopping-wet, very lovesick birds into decent shooting range.
With freezing rain miserably dripping into the hunter's open seams, cracks and other supposedly waterproof clothing, this type of hunter is the exception rather than the norm.
But I counted myself among those very strange people last Friday morning.
With a hard rain pelting the area since 6 p.m. the evening before my hunt, I would rather have stayed in bed than get up and chase turkeys. Unfortunately, though, I didn't have a choice -- my only day off that week just happened to coincide with the latest southbound rumbler from the Gulf of Alaska.
After dutifully suiting up in camouflaged Thinsulate and Gortex, I walked 150 yards from my truck and sat down by an ancient oak near an old miner's shack in the Greenhorn Mountain area. One of my non-turkey-hunting friends had assured me that a big old tom had courted several hens near the dilapidated structure the evening before my arrival.
I was excited, and with my truck only 10 minutes away, I took a position below the old abode overlooking the supposed strutting grounds.
With dawn and the overcast melding into an ocean of gray wetness around my stand, the drizzle had become a cloudburst. After 10 minutes of introspection and self-doubt, I decided then and there that no self-respecting gobbler or hunter should be out gallivanting around for women or birds in weather like this. I picked up my decoys and started to return to the pickup's warm sanctuary and hot coffee.
A tremendous gobbler only 150 yards away caught me away from cover in the open field, and the only option at my disposal was the old shack some 20 yards away. The door was ajar, and upon my entrance, I found it contained a rusted box-spring bed near a window that overlooked the flat I had been watching.
I sat down, and after spreading my calls next to me, I realized I had found the perfect sniper's perch, out of the rain, from which to continue my hunt.
My first series of yelps brought an immediate response from the amorous bird -- a booming gobble, then another, and yet another. From my panoramic vista point, I could see quite a bit of the flat below me, and within several minutes I caught a bit of movement at the opposite edge.
The tom, his red, white and blue head bobbing, was cutting leisurely across the small flat toward my position. Not shy at all, he continued to answer my every purr and cut with resounding gobbles. Every few feet, he would stop, go into full fan and announce to the world that he had indeed arrived.
From 75 yards I could see that his tail feathers were sopping wet and less than perfectly arranged, but that didn't prevent him from showing his ardor for the hen plaintively calling for his immediate attention.
Even lovelorn suitors eventually have to get out of the rain and look their best for the benefit of the opposite sex. After several minutes of his courtship display, the drenched gobbler folded up and literally ran for the protection of the trees just below my position.
Shaking almost uncontrollably -- some from the cold, I guess, but more from the spectacle unveiling before me -- I sat as still as I could. Hoping he wouldn't catch any movement while his prying eyes surely pierced the darkened cavern of the miner's shack, I clucked one more time and waited.
At long last -- although I'm certain the time was less than two minutes -- either his libido or his curiosity got the better of him. The regal bird strolled out of the brush and into good range less than 30 yards away, fanned his bedraggled feathers once again and then gobbled loudly.
I'm always amazed at the lethality of two ounces of copper-plated sixes from a 3-inch 12-gauge. Almost as soon as I shot, the tom instantly folded up and hit the ground.
Quickly leaving the shack, I proudly collected my long-beard prize and marched back to the truck. An old bird, his spurs measured a little over one inch, but when I went to measure his beard, I discovered that he carried nearly 14 inches of bristle.
Total, that is. My first-ever double-bearded tom carried both 101/4 and 31/2 trophies.
An accurate bathroom scale put his weight at a little over 20 pounds -- a good bird in anyone's book -- and he provided the makings for one heck of an Easter dinner.
Steve Merlo can be e-mailed at merloworms@earthlink.net. He wants to hear about your recent turkey hunting experiences.
