The Tuesday Morning Jake

“*%$#!, I missed!”

I can work a pumpgun like an evil man when I have to.

I had set up on the edge of a cypress swamp bottom flooded by the recent heavy rains. To the east was a cow pasture broken by pines and palmettos. To the north, another deep swamp of state land where hunting is forbidden. God knows where they’d be roosting.

Dawn brought no help. For the second straight outing, there were no gobbles. And on a perfect, cool morning, too. When you have a fine ambush, though, there’s no real reason to get antsy and stomp around. Plus, the lease is only 100 acres, not much land to run and gun on.

PJ had found this lease in Polk County a month ago. We scouted it for deer and turkey without much success. The hogs are thick – you’ll be reading about the hogs soon enough. Six of us bought in to have a place close to home. If we could snag a few swine and a predator or two, it’d be worth it. Available hunting land – wait, affordable, available hunting land - in Central Florida is scarce. We hung feeders and stands and expected little other than a cool escape, camping trips, maybe a dove field, and aforementioned hogs.

The cowboy had told us turkeys were in the area, but we never could find any tracks in the sandy roads. It sure looked turkey-ish – tall pines, swamp bottoms, plenty of clearings for strutting - but I kinda put turkey hunting here out of my mind.

All that changed with circumstance. My Opening Weekend plans to hunt in Nassau County was cancelled at the 11th hour. As clinically hopeless turkey addicts, Cole and I decided to give the lease a try. Everything changed that first Saturday morning with a gobble. And a few more.

I won’t go too much into those details here, but our concept of the property changed in a hurry. Of course, you do realize the realities and difficulties of six people with varying turkey hunting experience navigating such a small piece of property. The other guys spotted a couple birds and heard a few more gobbles, but nothing came of it. There were birds here, just not many of them.

My problem was timing. Every other weekend during the season had been booked, limiting my outings for a gobbler close to home. Luckily, my new job is a mixture of office and field work. When I didn't need to be in the office early, I could run down to the property with a change of clothes and get where I needed to go after a morning hunt. It had worked last week, though I had zero luck. I stared at my desk calendar, looking for another available moment.

Today was the day. My fortunes started off poor again. The mosquitoes, held at bay by the uncommonly cold weather over the last several months, returned with a vengeance. My Therma-Cell broke on the fourth "click." The skeeters took full advantage, leaving a line of pimply bite marks along the borders of my facemask until my skin now resembles that of a 9th grader.

And no gobbling. That’s the excitement of turkey hunting to me. I tend to write-off mornings when the toms aren’t cooperating. Maybe the weather had them screwed up, or perhaps the gold strike-like rush to hunt the property after the first morning had silenced them. Who knows? All I knew was, I didn’t bust a bird last year, and the desire to hammer an incoming gobbler and frying turkey bites one weekend was too powerful to give up this go-round.

Also, while I am not a super-competitive guy, especially when it comes to hunting, I did like the thought of being the first to harvest a tom on this piece of property. Sort of a “Kilroy was here” thing. So, the challenge had been settled.

When the gobblers aren’t working and I strike up the patience, I tend to ease back myself. It can be rather boring, but I always remind myself that the best turkey hunters I know don’t cluck and cackle like they are in a competition. They stay still, call softly and sporadically. I pulled my cellphone out to track the time between my sessions of turkey-like noises, slipped a slate out of the vest and settled into the long wait. If I could discipline myself to only call every 15-20 minutes, this may just work.

After my third cadence of soft purrs and clucks, accentuated with a few louder yelps at the end, a red and white head popped up a 100 yards back into the private property swamp. The excitement of such a moment can't be adequately explained with words. Chilling, maybe. Attaining the clarity of what you must do next - keeping your calm and fighting back your nerves - is a skill I still have not mastered, but this time I prevailed over these life ruiners. Again, I had faith in my efforts. My decoys, set in the trim of the cattle pasture 20 yards from my haunt, would be in clear view once the tom emerged from the dark and through the broom sedge. As soon as he strolled behind a large oak and out of sight, I slipped the safety off and leaned into a solid rest.

He sure did take his time. The tom - a healthy jake - slowly maneuvered around pines and water oaks, and lifted his head occasionally to survey his surroundings. I refrained from calling any further as my philosophy is to just let ‘em come without betraying my mediocre calling skills.

The urgent need to breed certainly wasn’t on this fellow’s mind. He fed, picking through the grass, until he reached the wire gap separating the properties. All he had to do was slide under the fence, mosey 15 more yards, and it’d be all over.

Unfortunately, he hung up. Surely, he saw the decoys but paid little attention. The tom slowly started walking parallel to the fenceline; enough was enough with my not-calling-anymore decision. I putted and clucked a few times on the mouth call, and he swapped ends and charged under the fence into my spread.

Now, listen, children. Always pattern your shotgun. At twenty yards, there is no excuse for missing. Actually, this is a TWL exclusive since I didn’t tell any of my friends I'd missed - let's see how many of them read this - but it's only noble to fess up. That long, warty neck is too inviting of a target, and I was rock-solid. After last year's hunts and a few coyote jaunts, I hadn’t put that gun on paper, and those flimsy fiber optic sights on my Mossberg require more diligence than that.

The tom didn’t take two steps before Round 2 got him. I raced up to the bird, as is my custom, fist-pumping along the way. Trophy-wise, he won’t garner much attention from the record books. As you can see in the photo, his fan hadn’t quite matured, and the beard was maybe four inches long.

Some may look down on shooting a jake, but I’m not going to rationalize my decision-making any further on this point. Save the missed shot, my strategy was executed like the pick-and-roll, and I have turkey breast to fry this Easter weekend. That, to me, is the essence of a great hunt, and I am thankful for the moment.

Giving the Decoys a Milk Moustache

The cellphone picture below truly highlights the depths of my turkey calling skillz. Yes, I used a "z."

On a clear, 50 degree Florida morning, the gobblers should have been gobbling with vigor - they didn't.

At a set-up which could only be described as idyllic for a turkey kill, I was sure a tom would come strutting in - he didn't.

Using my patented, "don't call so much that they figure out you can't call worth a darn" strategy, I figured I'd get at least some response - I didn't.

The rest of the outdoor community was alive. Hoot owls hooted, and hogs rooted. A bobcat slipped behind me on a fallen tree trunk. A coyote stood close to my truck. The sandhills called, and the whip-poor-wills balled.

And if you want real poetry, just look at this picture. How many of you can lure in a moo-cow with a mouth call? That's what I thought!!!

Discovery Channel's Life

My first planned turkey hunting trip of the season was cancelled at the 11th hour. So, let’s just move on from that before I get all weepy and bitter again.

Sunday night, Carolyn and I tuned in for the Discovery Channel’s Life, a new documentary series in the thread of their former shows, Blue Planet and Planet Earth. If you’ve seen either of the former, you won’t be surprised by the format of Life – fantastic cinematography of amazing animals from around the globe.

My only real gripe was the narration by Harpo. I’d like to wonder how the producers chose her, but I think I know how – she came up and said she wanted to do it or else, and they agreed. Otherwise, I can’t imagine Oprah really caring too much about the environment or being an animal lover. And I kept waiting for her to pull her famous introduction when she brings guests onto her show:

“Please welcome the Ring-tailed Lemurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!”

Sadly, this didn’t happen.

David Attenborough was a solid pick for Blue Planet because of his British accent that always strikes wonder and awe in me. Sigourney Weaver was perfect for Planet Earth since she’s communed with gorillas in the mist and once had an alien pop out of her stomach. Hopefully, Oprah steps up her game in the coming episodes. She didn’t sound all that excited.

But this doesn’t mean the show was horrible – remember I am a little weepy and bitter. The part about the ibex was cool, especially the fox chasing a kid up the face of a cliff. The cheetahs bringing down the ostrich was fascinating. All in all, it's been a B+ start to the series.

I do love nature shows. Except when they start getting personal. One montage had killer whales unsuccessfully trying to make a meal out of a crabeater seal. Oprah then said something along the lines of, “in the wild, things don’t always work out for the hunters."

Tell me about it!

Urban Deer

Just read this excellent article by Don Mulligan over at ESPNOutdoors.com about urban deer overpopulation.



Here’s the lead-in:

The mainstream media somehow overlooked news of government sharpshooters being summoned to the grounds outside the Camp David presidential retreat in western Maryland last month. Had the shooters been deployed to quell a terrorist attack or put down some sort of coup, the lack of coverage would have been shocking.

When it became apparent the invading horde they were sent to suppress consisted of a bunch of whitetail deer, however, no one was surprised.

Like nearly every governing body charged with managing an urban area in the United States right now, the Oval Office is having its own deer crisis. And as they enter that battle, they are likely finding that taking care of urban deer overpopulation is as complicated and controversial as passing healthcare legislation.

This problem just isn’t natural to FL. Yet. Sure, suburbs of Orlando and elsewhere have their cases of marauding, flower-eating whitetails, but for the most part we are too occupied with alligators showing up in the swimming pool.

But this is a large issue up north. I’ve seen them in suburban Cincinnati and other parts of Ohio where I have family. Big deer, too. My aunt occasionally sends photos of Booners walking across her backyard.

Anyhow, we all know the problem with control right? Anti-hunters fight initiatives for a regulated harvest. Contraceptive methods are expensive and largely ineffective. And you can’t just turn loose large predators in neighborhoods to prey on the herd. Some forward-thinking communities have fought through this mess, established hunting seasons, and should be commended.

Go ahead and check out the article. The only thing missing is information on where to sign up for some of these urban hunts.

Stalking Sleep

I haven’t slept well lately. This is a rare phenomenon for me. You have to be far more responsible than I to be molested by the evil nights of fretful sleep, yet here they are. There have been nights in my youth when sleep was of little consequence. Like during a big night out or before a small hunt anywhere. These are natural when you’re in your twenties.

And that’s just the problem, I think. I’m staring down the barrel of thirty. August 11th is the big day. I’ve heard some say this age is no big deal. I’m not sure if these people are liars or just very strong, but I am neither at this juncture. Introspection is an activity that terrifies the peace out of me.

Given my schooling and talent, I should be more provident than I am now. There are many days when I regret my diplomas, wishing instead I’d taken off to the mountains to be an elk guide or to fish the boats off Hatteras. Many tell me this is a foolish reflection, and there’s more than a puncher’s chance they are correct. I am employed and have never truly been starving, elements that should annoy many out there with this fitful braying.

When I finished my formal education, though, the economy went south, but I refuse to blame that for tossing and turning. Indeed, my attitude towards circumstance has long been, “forget it; let’s go hunting,” and I cobbled what money and resources I could and shot off to accumulate the Good Times, driving many miles when I should have just gone the extra mile as an investment towards the future.

Living a life of leisure at this age is a fortune few are endowed with, for better or worse. I remember a quote by Hemingway - in a biography I can’t place my fingers on at the moment - that his aim in life was to fish and hunt as often as he could, share in the company of a few close friends, and have just enough to drink in the evenings to get a night’s rest. This I’ve accomplished, but as he ultimately proves, one must have a better plan or wind up miserable.

Carolyn says I shouldn’t think as much. Despite her agreeing to marry me, she is a smart woman. We both want children, and against the whirling ceiling fan, I count on my fingers the funds it will take to provide happiness for a family, a daunting skill considering I’ve only had to account for myself. Carolyn and a family I want most out of life; I find it bizarre to enter it with any anxiety.

What fills me with plain dread, and I am far too intelligent to let this happen, is when I cease to be an accountant and become an actuary, counting years of family and friends. These thoughts dwell in places no one should seek out, but you tend to wander towards in the gloom of night. There exists no truer fact than your daylight realities will never be solved while under the sheets.

So what to do? I’m a big believer in getting your rest to be prepared for the next day. Exhaustion is a crippling menace. Well, I think back on those times I’ve had. Remembering is always more comforting than wanting or worrying. Other people’s memories may be dull enough to put a reader to sleep but are a tonic from the first person perspective. I typically turn to thoughts of hunting.

I remember young Stephen and me nearly ten years ago. The rut was in full swing, and I grunted in a small six point I had let walk the morning before. Stephen, having never taken a deer, had the shot. He fought back the nerves and grounded the buck. Upon inspection, I saw he’d hit it in the neck, killing it instantly. He told me he tried to head-shoot it. Knowing best - as of course, I knew best - I told him next time to be deliberate with your shots and shot placement, and aim behind the shoulder. Ten minutes later, I tried to slap a .300 Win. Mag. round through a Popsicle-stickhouse of pine saplings at a trotting 8pt. Ha! Twenty-year olds are curious, hybrid beasts of maturity and abject stupidity.

A few years later, I recall sitting in the rain of a December cold front and guarding a feeder. A herd of hogs noisily beat through the palmettos and hovered near my stand. From behind the sows, a large, stud boar sniffed the derrieres of his harem. The wind shifted, they got spooky, and I pegged the boar in the side. At the shot, he swapped ends and ran towards cover as I stood and touched off another round, anchoring the boar. Later, cold and wet by the fire, I was triumphant with one of my best boars. The crew sharing that fire were among the best friends I've ever known. Bringing back a trophy was a large matter.

Not all my thoughts are of harvested game. Ironically, I think about some other sleepless nights. Trying to get comfortable in the cab of my old white Dodge after being chased out of the camphouse by a spider the size of a catcher’s mitt, I gazed out the window across a moonlit pasture and watched a single-file line of swine silently move towards a feeder. In that same truck a couple years earlier, I witnessed the space shuttle lifting up through the early morning darkness. Though I was nearly across the width of the state, when my eyes are shut I can still see that brilliant orange streak off into the heavens.

The worry is abating now. When I was 24 or 25, I sat in a North Carolina deer stand staring up at the brightness of the night trying to decide how past civilizations could possibly name a constellation that wasn’t dubbed the Big Dipper. I focused on a few of the brighter stars and hoped one day I could share this experience with a son or daughter. That was a telling train of thought looking back now.

I could go on and on, but as I said earlier, I don’t want to bore anyone with anything more than this last story. One evening I walked out of an oak hammock as a January full moon began to break the eastern horizon. It was a fiery red supernova against the fading blue sky. I dropped to my knees, placed my rifle down, and thanked God for the opportunity to hunt that land and for seeing such sights.

Maybe that’s the trick – being thankful for what you’ve had and showing faith in what could be. Turns out, even in my neurotic mind, thirty is eminently workable. I may not have the most sound perspective on everything, but I think I'll be just fine with these guidelines.

At the very least, I may actually get some sleep.