Turkey Hunting

Got to say, even though my 2006 turkey season has been one of my best, it was lackin' some of the joy I always look forward to and that was some time in the woods with my boy, Will. Ya see he took up the sport of paintballin' right before the season and was head over heels with it. Made a website for his team, had a sponsor, bought a nice ghillie suit, whole nine yards. Even was makin' a little dough, buyin' and sellin' paintball equipment. That, with baseball season made for little time in the woods. Just between you and me, I believe, for Will it takes a bit of mind manipulation to get in the mood to go trampsin' through the woods with ol' Dad. He knows he'll get his legs plum walked off and ah huntin' we will do. He won't admit it but I'd bet he don't enjoy those long walks as much as I.

I haven't really pressured him into going although I did give him a bit of a hard time for skatin' out on one planned four day hunt in mid-season. I think it may be good that he not get addicted like his ol' man, at least not at the young age of 14. Heck, if he gets auge fit fever like me, he's likely to never get anything accomplished. Yet, when he announced paintballin' was too expensive and that he wanted to hunt the last four days of the season, I was thrilled. Didn't hold out much hope for turkey action, as I hadn't heard a gobbler in a couple weeks and those I heard were right before the shotgun blast of another hunter.

Not to worry though, it was a full moon weekend and the bream should be beddin', had some good ponds to fish and fishin' has always been our game ever since he hooked a nice 3 pounder at the age of 3. Even though it got off at the boat, I can still remember his excitement and his immediate words, "I gotta tell Mama 'bout that". After all, we are the BOOYA Boys, phishin' buddies for eber and eber, another sayin' we always have said since way back when he couldn't even talk clearly.

So off we left on Thursday for a 3 day, maybe 4, father and son adventure at Redbeard's Roost. I think he was lookin' forward to seein' the new shower I'd fashioned and all the other improvements, such as a genuine fire pit and the new "totem" pole.

We get there early enough to scout and even though it'd rained, we couldn't find a turkey track anywhere. Friday morn proved that again with nothing but silence. Took him to another nearby club and no luck there either. Nothin' happened that morning 'cept a good nap in the woods. He woke up from a sure enough good 'un and marveled at the trees and immediately said, "Man, I love sleepin' in the woods". Like Father, like son.

Afternoon came around and we stopped by a friends home and asked permission to fish which was easily granted, even could work a bird if we lucked up on seein' one in his tree orchards. So fishin' was the order of the day for the remaining four hours of daylight and I was eager to win the golden dollar.

See, ever since they came out with that golden dollar with the Indian maiden that helped Lewis and Clark discover the Northwest, we've always said the first catch or kill of the day gets the golden dollar. I tell ya, I got a leather sack full of them dollars earmarked for Will when I pass from this world. I hope he can just hold that bag, feel it's weight and recall all the grand days afield we've had together.

Sure enough, spinner baits were the order of the day for bass and I hooked the first of those fighters. HA! I gloated that I was a little richer now and smiled at Will. He said, "What?". I said, "I just got the golden dollar", with a chit eatin' grin. He said, "Dangit", smiled and sorta sulked a bit. That is until he remembered he'd shot the armadillo's that mornin'. I laughed and said, "Yeah but I handed ya the .410 and then you shot it". He laughed and smiled bigtime sayin' "Don't matter none, I killed the first 'diller." Well, he had me. Even stevens for the day.

We wrapped up the day with a quarter basket of bass and bream. I anguished over the best of a 5 pounder that got away at the boat, as we left the kissed two pounder's off for freedom at the boat trailer. You know you gotta kiss a bass you let go iffn you ever wanna catch him again, don't ya? We sacked up the remainin' bream for fish fry later.

Twas a good Friday, indeed, as we closed out the evening over a nice small fire on a usually cool evening. The moon was beautiful that clear sky night and Will told me all about the Harvest moon, whilst the whippoorwills serenaded us with their never ceasin' calls o' de night.

Saturday rise and shine came a short four or five hours later and Will sleepily laced up my old Russell boots he grew into this year, abandoning those ol' clodhopper ground thumpin' Rocky boots he used to say were so much better than Russell's. Just a side note that's crossed my mind a time or two and I think I'll use the above as a lead in tip for any aspirin' turkey hunters readin' this; Go buy you a pair of footwear that allows you to feel the ground as you walk and I guarantee ya, you will become a better turkey hunter.

I've hunted with a far too many men that wear their deer huntin' boots or those so-called Rocky turkey hunters and Ah'll swar by hook that ever turkey in the woodz can hear them comin'. Plus, when ye get as old and poor of hearin' as me, you'll see that your feet need to get quiet in order to hear those turkey birds.

Always told the boy that woodsmanship should come first in his skills, the rest will follow. And I must say, after 6 years of trampsin' the woods he's a pretty good Indian.

Once in the woods we set out for this beautiful abandoned pecan grove whilst offerin' crow calls, cuttin', etc. to try and get a gobble. Nothin', not a peep. Will was more than disappointed that the birds weren't talkin' and he fully realized that he shoulda come earlier in the season. We found lots of fresh scratchin' in the oaks surroundin' the meadows and vowed to be back there Sunday morn with our ghillie suits and lie in wait. We'd just have to get up earlier to make the 2 mile walk. Will mentioned the walk back would suck after I'd said, "Now, that walk wasn't so bad, was it?" I replied, 'Hell, we're huntin' ain't we? What's so dang hard about puttin' one foot in front of the other?". Makes no sense to me at all, hear it all the time, "Dang, you walked a long ways or How'd you get back here?"

I showed Will a turkey track and asked him, "Now how in the world woulda we seen this if we'd been in the truck?" He nodded agreement and only mentioned he wished they'd talk back to us. Yeah buddie, me too, I thought.

We moseyed back the 2 miles to the truck and about two hundred yards from the truck I hear a four wheeler comin'. That always gets under my skin, here I've walked a country mile and some yahoo's comin' down the woods road on a dang ol' four wheeler. I told Will to follow me and we stepped inside the wood line and let him pass. I don't even wanna talk to 'em. It was Todd, a deer hunter down to bait deer with salt blocks and the like. He passes and we get to the truck and agree on a bacon and dirty egg breakfast back at camp.

Will fried up some tasty Boar's Head bacon and I whipped up some fine scrambled eggs and we cleaned house. Short nappin' followed until we hooked up the Skiff again for another evenin' of fishin'.

We had two choices of ponds, either go back to Alan's or try the Land Of Promise pond behind camp. It's a nice old lake from probably pre-civil war days.

An old white columned mansion sits above it that was once the Yankee's hospital. I hear those Culloden soldiers were a tough outfit. Musta hurt up some of those Yanks when they were trekkin' to Macon. Anyhoo, it's now a retreat for recoverin' drug addicted poor ol' souls of the Negro race.

Mostly city fellas that have taken the Lord as their savior and come to this small farm to repent, learn how to survive via hard work and such. They grow their own food, slop their own pigs, butcher their own beef. Just become good ol' country folk, hopefully.

The place has got it all right there for them. Even has a prayin' wall just behind our property line. A concrete brick wall with a marbled cross. You can hear them sometimes just ah wailin' away at the wall, clear down the line three miles to camp. They also have a place my friend Cornbread say's ain't right, says it must be haint'd 'er somethin' fishy 'bout it since it's way back hidden by pines on all sides.

What it is, is the shape of the cross Jesus died on in a short pine forest. It's got three old wooden crosses in the middle with many many little white crosses at the ends. My friend George was the first to notice the grassy parts amongst the pines was shaped also like a cross. After that, it made sense.

Brings to mind a good hearty laugh I had at Cornbread's comment when we saw a fellow turkey huntin' just off the side of the main cross. He said as we passed, "There's a fella sittin' against a pine out there". That's all he said. Struck me as odd, so I backed up and sure enough, Earl Mickel was sittin' agin a pine in the wide open, all camoed up and turkey huntin'.

Twern't really Earl but Bread said he sure looked like Earl looks when he's huntin'. I told Bread, "You didn't say he was camoed, I wouldn't backed up", as he promptly got up once he knew he'd been spied. I busted a gut, when Bread exclaimed, "Heck, if he hadn't been in camo, I'd be outta hyar. Dang spooky is what this is, way back hidden in the woods". I fear Bread's seen too many Klan movies and such.

Never had seen anyone turkey huntin' that land and never had even seen any turkeys on it either, not in 13 years of huntin' this land. Bread said it was good reason too, turkey gobblers were scart of the place. Figured they'd be sacrificed 'er something.

To close out this little sidebar tale of the Promise Land, last weekend I was headin' out to the main dirt road via the gas line road, which twist

I took my first Rio Grande on April, 9th 2006, 9:15am in San Angelo, Texas. The two prior days were quiet with very little activity. This Sunday morning, I heard multiple birds hammering to the calls, but they were very cautious. I suspect most of the Gobblers were henned up. This bird would not come in, but he was interested by answering every call I threw at him. Therefore, I circled him around the hill, and concealed myself in a bush and gently yelped to him. To my surprise, two Boss Gobblers came in quick and quiet. I swung my 12-gauge on him and the game was over. The whole episode was very quick - no strutting, no gobbling ... but that's hunting!

The double-bearded Gobbler weighed out at 17lbs. The main beard is 9 5/8" and the second beard is 5 ½" with ¾" spurs. Using my Primos Piggyback Series mouth call, the Gobbler was shot at 37 yards with my Winchester Super X2, 3.5" 12 gauge, shooting 2.25 oz of #5s.

Story of the Hunt

This was the third location I was at this morning. As soon as I got out of the truck I could hear this gobbler.The bird was on the opposite side of the creek.No problem. I walk across the creek and only get wet to above the knees. I make a few calls and he is answering close by. He steps into an opening at about 30 yards and 1 shot and he is mine.

First thing in the morning a jake came in I passed. Then a coyote tried to eat my decoys. Then two toms and about twenty hens hung up at about 90 yards. Then three hens came and played with my decoys. Then three more hens came while I was watching two of them play around with my decoys, I look to see what the other one was doing that when I saw him coming. Over all it was an action filled day I wish I would have had a video camera with.