The Chassahowitzka Hunt

Saturday morning was an event God hosted for turkey hunting. Clear as a bell, 48 degrees, and no wind. The owls greeted me the second I got out of the truck. So did Duane.

If you’ve been paying attention to past posts, you know I drew a Spring Turkey quota tag for Chassahowitzka WMA in Hernando County. Chazz is over 33,000 acres of Florida Nasty. Tough scrubs, deep swamps, and snake-infested pine and palmetto flats. And I was a lucky one of ten who drew this permit for the weekend of April 10th.

Apparently, so was Duane.

“33,000 acres and here we are in the same area. Hi, my name is Ian.”

I could tell quickly Duane knew his business. Soft-spoken and polite, he told me of the birds he’d heard the previous morning and his strategy for today. He’d venture East into the tall pines where he knew the toms hung around. Perfect. My plan was to head West down a fire trail to the edge of the swamp and a burned palmetto flat. My hope was the toms would fly down to strut in the road before feeding into the flats.


Duane took my cellphone number in case he wanted to meet later and compare notes, and off I strolled down the fire break, catching glimpses of turkey tracks in the sandy soil, courtesy of the moonlight.

I reached my designated location and clipped the shrubs around the trunk of a skinny pine tree. I placed three decoys at the end of the fire break and another to my right in the burn. I unfolded the seat on my vest and began to wait out daylight.

Chazz is a spooky place. Parts of the swamp behind me I’m sure never see daylight, blotted out by the canopies of cypress and pine. The black water that rolls underneath the trees invites pterodactyl-sized mosquitoes, spiders with the pelts of small animals on their backs, and evil moccasins. Who knows what kind of black bears and hillbillies live in those woods. I wasn’t all that excited about having my back turned to it. The owls carried on, and branches and leaves popped and crunched with who-knows-what breed of goblin crashing around. A dog barked followed by the deep, guttural squeal of an angry hog. It was hard to stay focused.

The first gobble came later than I expected. But after that initial tom, gobblers lit up from every direction, one to the right so close it shook me. He only gobbled once, though, and I suspected he was one of those nigh-inviolable swamp toms for which the Osceola gains its reputation.


After flydown, the gobbling action flatlined. That’s when the hens chimed in. Hens were everywhere, and the prospects of landing a tom grew dim. I’d already decided against calling a whole lot, but now I thought to employ a variation of this tactic. Call every fifteen minutes, but make a decent scream when I do. Rather than getting up and closing on a gobbler, I wanted to stand out, but still have faith in the set-up.

"I am where they want to go," I thought.

Taking this route accomplished a few things. One, the toms – who were playing to the Osceola Handbook’s reputation of having lockjaw – opened back up. The excited series of putts and purrs on the mouth call, combined with a sequence of clucks on the slate, allowed me to keep a bead on a fair number of the birds. It wasn’t always an automatic response, but once one would respond to call, it was a fair bet they’d yak back at crows and owls and other gobblers. The problem was they were henned-up. Sure, they’d respond, but never travel very far. So, I leaned back to wait out the hens.

As the morning approached 8:15, a lone gobble came from up the road, probably 100 yards uphill. At the time, he was the closest candidate, so I fired back a few putts to see what was up. His response was immediate and closer than I originally thought. I adjusted to relieve the butt cramp, rested the shotgun on my knee and awaited glory.


I caught first glimpse of the hen through the charred underbrush, her back shining in the sun as she slipped down the road towards the dekes. Then, from out of sight, the tom spitted. I thumbed the safety off. I could picture him strutting in a circle on that sandy road, and I fought back the Shakes. Ever so slowly, he poked his head into the open.

It's the best moment in hunting when a gobbler reveals himself. Gently, he moved forward, not a giant bird - probably eight inch beard – but he was cautious. The hen fed on new-growth grass as the tom inched towards the decoys, that warty head surveying the new company. The decision to lay waste was easy; he just needed to take a few more steps to be in the clear at 20 yards. Finally, the sights of the Mossberg 835 sat under his chin.

Like the jake I killed three weeks ago, the first shot missed the bird to the left, with just a few outlier #5's clipping feathers. Unlike the jake I killed three weeks ago, I had no opportunity for a second shot. The tom and his gal pal scampered back up the road until the brush swallowed them forever. I ran up the road, but…well…just but.


I stood in the open limply holding my shotgun, feeling like an airplane pilot who had just watched a wing fall off - completely helpless and screwed. I mean, I patterned the shotgun on Thursday! I was sure the problem with the loose factory-issued rear sight had been corrected.

Lost in disbelief, I didn’t know what to do. For starters, there was no available tree to wrap my gun around to relieve the anger, and by the time I walked back to the one I had been sitting against, this thought had subsided. Two, it was still early, and there were plenty of birds in the area. Though I hate like the homemade sin it is to hunt with a firearm that is not functioning properly, I decided to stake one last claim on the morning. I re-adjusted the fiber-optic warlock and walked over to the next cut-down.

While entering the flat, a gobbler and hen spooked back into the swamp. No big deal. I could just sit and shut up for a while. Clearly, this is an area they like. I huddled up under the only shade tree available and waited thirty minutes before calling. Only when I went to hit the slate did I realize the rear sight had again slid out of position. I corrected it once more and then noticed something odd. The sight was creeping on its own. Somehow, there was torque on the pin that held that POS together. Maybe a bend in the aluminum? I don’t know, but it was the last straw.

Duane called about twenty minutes after I left the property. He’d a heard a couple toms and saw a jake. I relayed my situation and said I’d see him in the morning, leaving him, no doubt, wondering what kind of goober he’d run into. Then, in an effort to get ahead of the story as all good politicians do, I went about the chore of explaining to loved ones of the failure.

I’d made plans to visit friends at a hunt camp in Levy County after my morning hunt, so I waited until I arrived to work on my gun. Upon pulling the shotgun out of the truck, the rear sight fell off. And, how do you like that? My buddies just laughed. We all agreed, left with only a front bead I was in much better shape.

Sunday wasn’t to be, however. The temperature was 20 degrees warmer, the air stale and humid and heavy. A slight breeze that would certainly mature into a stiff wind by 9 blew from the east. On top of it, a sinus headache from the excessive oak and cypress pollen had dampened my spirits. Apparently, too, the gobblers' for they greeted the morning with only scattered attention.

The headache, slowly morphing into a migraine, put the kibosh on my hunt around 10. All that visited my set-up was a scrawny hen and a giant boar hog. I packed my equipment and shuffled back to the truck. Though I had missed my chance, and almost certainly had an alien baby bouncing against my sinuses, I was in good spirits. I can’t curse my luck when it was lucky for me to even draw the permit. Plus, I accept equipment failure as my fault. I’d put in hard work getting to the point where I could pull the trigger. On top of that, it was an exciting hunt with a ton of gobbling. Shame about the gobbler, though. Last I heard from Duane, he thought one was coming in to him. Hope he slayed a monster tom.


Driving back to Lakeland, Darin called with wonderful news from Levy County. When I was there Saturday evening, we went cruising the property on the golf cart. Quietly rounding a bend, a large gobbler stood in the bright green grass. Darin set up there the next day and way-laid that bad boy. No one gets more excited about taking a turkey than Darin.

Two weekends left. The shotgun will be ready. I’ve missed three birds this season, one of which, the jake, I did kill.

Three birds? I haven’t told the story on that other one yet. It was much more painful and had little to do with wobbly sights.

Probably.

TWL Classics - Dad's Green Swamp Gobbler

Two years ago I started my volunteer outdoor writing service through a local newspaper's public blogging site. Unfortunately, through powers beyond my control, my archives from that source are gone and lost forever. Luckily, I saved rough drafts of this work on my computer, and once or twice a week I'll re-introduce a past column back into the wild of the World Wide Web. Enjoy!

Originally Published April 2009

A blind hog finds an acorn.

When the call came Saturday morning, I was still in bed, my own turkey hunting plans scrapped for the weekend. When your Spring Season revolves around invitations to private lands, hopes can be quickly scattered. And sometimes I’m just too lazy, too negative, or too spoiled to take matters in my own hands.

Dad’s tom came from the Green Swamp WMA. The gobbler itself won’t make any registries – 9-inch beard, 1 ½ spurs, around 17 lbs. – but it was a true trophy as far as I’m concerned.

Not that I don’t realize there are plenty of birds on this property; as I said above, I guess I’m too lazy, too negative, and too spoiled. I’ve never been able to perform the mathematics that would equate me having a decent opportunity to shoot a bird on this public land. An overabundance of novice hunters interfering with your hunt. An immense amount of acreage to scout properly. Whine and whine. Yet, Dad, helming his much-maligned, Jed Clampett-autographed 1986 Diesel Suburban, rolls out of the gate with a gobbler of his own after only a handful of scouting ventures.

Lucky SOB.

Dad’s first set-up didn’t do much, hearing nothing to convince him birds were in the area. So, he picked up and moved to an alternate location, noting only one other vehicle along the way. He posted up in some tall trees near a burned palmetto flat and began calling on his Gaskins. The bird never gobbled he told me, just made a couple sharp clucks as he emerged from the flat.



Man, this lined up perfectly - didn’t spook anything walking about, found a location away from other hunters and sat still as a silent bird sneaked in to his calls.

The tom entered Dad’s clearing too far for a shot with his Mossberg 500 and its 3-inch loads; he could have toted my 835, its 3 ½ mag chambering and the extra reach, but he’d forgot about it. As the gobbler closed in, he took notice of the inflatable Sceery jake decoy and beelined it towards the fake at such an angle that a pine completely obstructed a shot. Dad could hear, but not see his tom spurring his decoy to death.

How did the sound of that popping decoy snapping off its peg not spook the bird? That bird would have been chop suey early with my 835. Amazing.

The tom, startled by his deflated opponent but not so much to flip on the afterburners, turned back towards the palmetto flat, still partially shielded by the pine. Dad leaned over and fired a round, rolling, but not completely terminating the gobbler. The bird hopped up and went airborne, flying parallel to Dad who wingshot the tom before he could escape.

I don’t have the words to describe how fortunate this is.

After the initial phone call, I called back at least twice more, wondering if I were suspended in some breed of dream I’d previously not dreamt. I told Dad I’d meet him at the house with the camera, knowing full well I’d be catching crap for this ad infinitum, especially since I’d poo-pooed his initial efforts and scouting trips. Forlorn over plans I couldn’t control, I’d slept in, forgoing a day in the woods pursuing that which I routinely proclaim to be my favorite game of all, this Expert-In-My-Own-Mind.

I’d like to tell you that it’s better to be lucky than good, but I know this old adage is probably more appropriate:

“Luck has a peculiar habit of favoring those who don’t depend on it.”

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.

TWL Classics - Action in the South Zone

Two years ago I started my volunteer outdoor writing service through a local newspaper's public blogging site. Unfortunately, through powers beyond my control, my archives from that source are gone and lost forever. Luckily, I saved rough drafts of this work on my computer, and once or twice a week I'll re-introduce a past column back into the wild of the World Wide Web. Enjoy!

Originally Published February 2008

For turkey hunters in the South Zone, start your engines, people. Of course, I seriously doubt you needed my reminder. This date has been on your mind for months. But yes, you are a-go on the 1st.

With the way the weather has been yo-yoing between cool and warm conditions every couple of days, I am looking forward to hearing some reports from down south on how the gobblers are responding. Generally, the earlier the warm weather, the earlier the birds are breeding. Cool weather knocks it back. Of course, farther south, this is not as much as of an issue as in other parts of the state. Maybe I’m just excited to talk turkey once again.

Two weekends ago in Manatee County, I found two separate gobblers, each on the edges of an oak hammock between a palmetto flat and river bottom – a perfect strutting area. Unfortunately, most of Manatee County is in the Central Zone, as is this place. I don’t have a tag here anyhow, so I guess the point is moot.

It has been three years since I’ve hunted in the South Zone. The last trip was on an invite to private property south of Immokalee. The person who invited me is no longer a member of that lease, so I doubt I’ll ever see the place again, but the memory of that hunt is not going away for a long time.

We rode down a few days before the start of the season and made it to a camp on the edge of a bromeliad-infested swamp that looked like Skunk Ape could have wandered out of it at any moment. The weather was pleasant, and we knew where a boss Osceola strutted from a previous scouting trip. The plan was to set up blinds early so when the other members of camp showed up, we were prepared to tell them we’d staked out our zone.

Now, let me tell you, the majority of people in this camp were not serious turkey hunters – Weekend Warriors, actually. Spring hunting meant driving around in swamp buggies all morning. Fun, yes, but not the most effective way of bagging a bird. We wanted them as far away from our set-ups as possible.

So we built blinds and did some additional scouting. Strolled through some of the dried-out strands in the area looking for orchids. So close to the famed Fakahatchee Strand, we talked about the rare ghost orchid. We found bear tracks in the dirt road leading into camp and panther tracks on the edges of a large cattle pasture as we did some preliminary hog hunting. And snakes, well, I prefer not to talk about them. Even after years of hunting this state, a wilder place in Florida, I have not been.

The opening morning of season was not so memorable. A lot of gunshots from our Rambo friends – came to find out later someone was shooting at running pigs with a .45ACP pistol from a swamp buggy. But, I could hear that ol’ boss gobbler we’d scouted hollering in the trees ahead of me. At flydown though, he wandered back into the swamp.

That evening, Travis and I set up in a hammock of some of the strangest looking trees I’d seen, which unfortunately, the name of them escapes me. The important part though, was the clearing in the trees where we hoped we could lure a gobbler. Before we set out, one of the guys in camp asked if we were heading out to roost a bird. In unison, Travis and I replied, “No, we’re going to kill one."

After fifteen minutes or so, a turkey flew into a tall pine on the edge of our strange hammock. Rested behind and to the right of me, I couldn’t see his red head until the sun hit him just right. I urged Travis to yelp a couple of more times, and as he did, the tom flew down, and I rolled around on my stomach simultaneously.

Just barely could I see the front of the tom’s head around the trunk of one of these trees. I whispered to Travis to cluck once more. The gobbler took three steps forward, and Travis ran to the dead bird before the smoke from my shot even cleared.

We brought out the camera and bipod, snapped photos, and laughed our way back to camp before the sun had even started to dip towards the horizon. At the shack, the tom was hung on a lodge pole, drinks were poured, and yeah, we showed off a little bit without being too obnoxious. We’d gone to kill one, and once in a while it’s nice to at least sound like you know what you’re talking about.

The next morning I returned to my blind where I’d hoped that big gobbler would stop for a visit. It wasn’t to be, though. As the day warmed, I heard the sharp cluck of a jake to my right. A couple of minutes later, nine red heads poured out of the swamp, no more than ten yards from my outstretched legs.

They were all jakes, and to take one after shooting a gobbler the night before seemed to push a little hard on our host’s graciousness. Fortunately for them, this was my mindset. They sure tempted fate. Instead of walking away, they wandered under the myrtle bush where I was sitting, the nearest one now inches from my black rubber boot.

If I wasn’t going to shoot the shotgun, I’d give my camera a try. Slowly, I pulled my Canon out of a pocket in my hunting vest. The birds seemed concerned, but with the sun sitting directly on my shoulder, they couldn’t get a good bead on my movement.

I snapped my last shot on the roll of film – I’ve since gone digital – and the jakes scooted amongst the decoys and finally away, leaving me with a memory and a photo that remains one of my best trophies.

Ah, turkey hunting, you never know what each morning will bring. To those of you packing your gear and heading south this weekend, best of luck. Hope you capture that unique memory of your own!!!

Scouting Chassahowitzka for Spring Turkey I - The Lucky Draw

I’ve been grinning ear-to-ear like Enzyte Bob the last few weeks. I just can’t believe my luck this year. You see, I NEVER win raffles or lotteries or anything. When I attend NWTF or DU banquets, I just give my money to the Hooters Girl and tell myself, “It’s all for a good cause.”

But this year, I’ve had the hot hand! This summer I pulled my first-ever gator permit on my first try. While others on the various outdoor forums griped about the new random draw system sucking when they didn’t get drawn, I sported a smug little smile on my face. Then came the WMA quota hunt application in June - got my first choice for muzzleloader and archery (didn’t apply for any general gun). Finally, I pulled all the hunts I wanted at Duette.

November was the month for Spring Turkey quota hunts. I perused the options. I wanted hunts with limited permits that would keep hunting pressure down even though this reduced my likelihood of being drawn. Second, I wanted something accessible so I can scout and hunt without driving a million miles and back each day. Finally, I wanted some place I’d never been. This year has been about trying new things - Green Swamp and Richloam were out.

From all the properties listed in the FWC manual, my primary choice was the Babcock Ranch Preserve. I hoped to draw in the South Zone and hunt early March just in case invites to private land popped up later in the season. Plus, I could stay at my grandparents’ place in Cape Coral and commute. No dice though.

My second choice was Chassahowitzka WMA in Hernando County. 10 permits per weekend for over 33,000 acres. Long shot, but pressure should be low. Plus, I have a couple places to stay up the road in Homosassa.

I’ll save you the details of my last three choices since I drew my second. I was dealt the flush this year. I swept the tag season!

Careful what you wish for, however. I’m not unfamiliar with Hernando and Citrus counties and its mixed terrain of scrub and deep cypress swamps. This is going to be a tough hunt. One, the sheer size of Chazz makes it daunting to scout. 33,000+ acres is a lot of ground. Next, you can only drive on maybe a third of it. The back third is accessible by boat, and I don’t have the time to learn to safely navigate those waters and scout for birds. Plus, swamp gobblers themselves are a difficult quarry. I’ve not seen it in person yet, but it looks just thick enough from Google Earth that, by educated guess, I’m not sure you could hear a gobble more than 150 yards away – if they gobble much anyway. And no telling yet what the population of birds is like.

As I said, I’ve started scouting through Google Earth. I’ve also posted queries on the forums to try and drum up some help. One gentleman offered to show me around, which I’ll probably take him up on.

One last thought. Since I have a loyal readership that numbers in the single digits, I’m confident no one is reading this who’s hunted Chassahowitzka their entire lives and is dying to draw a turkey tag here and is now angry with me. Just in case, I promise I’m going to put my best effort forward to pop a bird here and not just waste a tag.

As I said, it’s going to be tough. For the record, the other permits I’ve drawn have been met with mixed success. The gator hunting ended well while Duette crushed my hopes and dreams. I missed my muzzleloading hunt to watch UF smack down FSU, Tebow’s - and as it turned out, Bobby Bowden’s - last game in the Swamp. The archery hunt is in January.

While hunters may not have much luck drawing tags each year, there’s no question Florida does open a lot of properties up for hunting. As always, I’ll keep you posted on my progress.