Hey guys, I had a good turkey hunt this morning and had to put it into words. If anyone objects to huntingr, please keep any comments to yourselves.

Lesson Learned
I’ll start by saying this has been one of the better days in my life thus far. Being the avid hunter and fisherman that I am, I enjoy the outdoors. Better yet, I should say I love it; I live it, and breathe it. It’s me, I’m addicted to it. Ever see those stickers that say “I’d rather be hunting/fishing”? I should have it branded to my forehead, that’s me 100% of the time. Anyways, yesterday (April 3rd 09’) was the day we came down to scout out Bonneau Ferry Wildlife Management Area. This morning was the scheduled hunt. We arrived at around 10am; it was windy and warm – not good turkey hunting weather. So naturally the birds were quiet. Dad and I split up on opposite trails, looked for sign and possible spots to setup the following morning. I didn’t find but two spots on the second trail we went down. Dad found a few on his first. They all looked promising, but no sign was present that birds had been there. The key factors were there, but just no sign. We go back to the hotel to have an evening’s rest to awaken the next morning at 3:30am. I get showered and paint my face so that with a mask on, all you can see is the whites of my eyes. I practically look like Sasquatch all camo’ed up and stealthy-like. Dad laughs and says, “You look like the Lone Ranger with all paint” (It looked similar to the typical hero’s mask, covering my eyes and the surrounding areas.) We then head out the door, and naturally I’m brimming with excitement. Something about the anticipation of a good hunt is what keeps me going.
We arrive at the check-in station at 4:50am, sign in, get the rundown on the rules and such, and leave for the spot. Now, this particular area had all the elements needed for turkeys: water, strut zones, feeding areas, tall trees for roosting, and deep woods for seclusion. It looked promising. After getting settled in, the action started. We do a little calling, and listen. I counted a total of seven gobbles at first light. By the end of the morning I had heard over a hundred. Now, on average you might hear only ten or twelve, not a hundred. By the seventh gobble, my heart is pounding, adrenaline is flowing, and my hands are shaking. The birds weren’t too far off. After the sun started to come up and we knew birds were on the ground, we did a little more calling. About halfway through my first set of yelps on the slate, I get interrupted loudly by a fired up tom. We were on the edge of a swamp, facing a long strip of open ground under a power line in the woods, only about fifteen yards wide. To my left by about thirty yards was the dirt road, to my right, woods. This boy’s cackle made it sound like he was in your face, it was insane. Now the heart is pounding, I’m antsy with adrenaline and all I can think is “Where’s that bird?” We listen, and again he bellows away. This repeats over and over, sometimes while were calling, others when were listening. I ease my head bit by bit to my left to see if I can get a glimpse of him. The trees blocked my view of the road, but I did see his head bob twice, he was probably eighty yards away, walking the road slowly. Every few minutes I’d hear him sound off, proving he was getting closer and closer. Fifteen minutes go by, twenty, twenty five. I think “He has to be almost on top of us by now. I listen intently, only to hear a hen about a hundred and fifty yards away start going at it, yelping her darn head off. My heart sank.
This ol’ Tom’s head had gotten the better of him, and I heard him gobble to her, moving away each time. Great, this hen has just ruined my hunt, I thought. After a while dad starts to get up, looking behind us. I ease over and we devise a plan. The idea was to move down the road to see if maybe we can pinpoint him and start a stalk. After stepping onto the road we look around, call a bit, and listen. Boom, a gobble only one or two hundred yards away roll’s out of the woods to our right. “Let’s head up the road a bit to glass this field here”, dad says. After checking it out, it’s clear there’s no birds there. So we turn back around and attempt to find the one that gobbled earlier when we walked out. Walking back into the woods, on the opposite side of the road, we hear a “Put, put, put, put!”That means somebody knows something is up. We sit tight, calling for reassurance, only to watch what looked to be a hen fly up into a large tree over the slough. Another bird busted.
Now, after this I find myself doubting we will even see any more birds. Dad retreats to the original location, and I tell him I’m heading off to find a bird of my own. I grab my vest, gun, and a hen decoy. Back up the road I go. I ease into the field we glassed earlier and find a nice pine to lean up against. Set my things down and put the decoy out. After returning to the ashen pine, I pull my slate and box c all out. A few yelps here, a cut or two here, and I put them down. I think, “This isn’t even worth trying, but why not?” Fifteen minutes go by, and I pick the calls up again. Repeat of the other session and I put them back down. By now I’m starting to doze off; it’s been a long morning. I assume only about ten to fifteen more minutes went by before I awakened to hear a turkey “Yelp, yelp, yelp.” There goes the heart rate, back into the atmosphere. I open my eyes, and look through the top of my brow for a second or two. There’s what is likely to be the same hen that pulled the other tom off earlier. Adrenaline starts pumping. She moseys along the edge of the road, which is about forty to fifty yards away, calling to my decoy, pecking here and there at the ground. “Please let there be a tom in tow” I think. Sure enough, a big bronze and gold fan appears from behind an old pine on the edge of the road. I immediately fixate on him. He’s puffed up, large as life, strutting away. I can’t explain to you the amount of excitement I had at that very moment, it was better than you could even imagine. Back and forth he paces, strutting broadly to the hen in front of him. “A little closer” I think. At this time I’m unsure of the range, being that I’m sitting on the ground back in the woods, a good fifty yards away. It seemed the shot wasn’t what I was prepared to do. For another twelve minutes they walk the road in a twenty yard section. I look at my watch, its 9:40am. The gobbler then goes back to a normal way of walking, coming out of strut. He turns around and walks back the way he came, with the hen in the rear. Again, my heart hits the dirt. This whole time I’m anticipating the tom coming into the field, presenting the shot I’ve dreamt about for years, only to see him march away out of sight.
I slowly get up and prowl back to the road, as they’ve left the area. Hoping they’d only gone a short ways, I walk down the road a good three hundred yards. Nothing. At this point I’m really beating myself up over not taking the shot. I paced it out, it was doable. I turn around, and proceed to find dad. He comes out of the woods, I reenact the event, and he agrees I could have easily pulled it off. “Well, that’s hunting” I said. Sometimes it goes your way, others it doesn’t. After contemplating the whole situation for a few hours, I realized that maybe it was better that I didn’t pull the trigger. Dad grabs my knee and says “its okay, the Lone Ranger wouldn’t have taken the shot either.” I grinned and said “But if he did, he wouldn’t have missed.”
I learned a valuable lesson today, doubting yourself or your ability is never a bad thing, at least when it comes to hunting. For example, if I hadn’t doubted myself and the bird was fifteen yards further away, I could’ve crippled him, and he would die a slow death. Personally, I always want to make sure that each shot is made ethically, and the animal is cleanly dispatched. Ethics are one thing I hold close to my heart, because without them, I would do many things I’d regret later on in life. Even though I could’ve taken that bird safely, I didn’t. Not because I was nervous, but because I was using one of every outdoorsman’s core values – ethics.

Happy hunting
- The Lone Ranger,
April 4, 2009