A Hen Story

I poach posts from this website all the time for my other blog, Good Hunt - think it's about time to cut back across the grain. If you've not checked out Good Hunt or Polk Outdoors, please do so. 

Hope everyone's had a great hunting season, and I'll get to some original material soon enough!!!


"You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow; This opportunity comes once in a lifetime" - Eminem

So one of the neat things about hunting some of Florida's WMA's is the opportunity to harvest a hen turkey during the fall, ostensibly while deer hunting. I can't imagine anyone would set out to do such a thing as its own hobby, so its gotta be a Luck of the Draw kinda deal. All I know is the rules prohibit private land hunters from doing so.

The only wrinkle is, you've got to shoot them during archery season. No easy feat on a 8-10 pound bird.

I first noticed this quirk in the regs while hunting Upper Hillsborough WMA several years back. Ever since, I've been unable to get this challenge out of my mind, but the opportunity to stick an egg-layer has never presented itself.

Why I care about such an esoteric pursuit is beyond me. It could be because I know no one else who's accomplished such a thing. Just look at all these variables involved and you'll understand the magnitude of this accomplishment. You'd be a hero.

Skittish Hen Turkey + Public Lands + Bow & Arrow + 20 Feet Up a Climber = Hunting Immortality

Straight to the taxidermist if success ever smiled on me.

So there I was last Saturday afternoon, lounging in my Summit Viper at the aforementioned Upper Hills WMA. One of the weird things about hunting Upper Hills is that it is very close to Sky Dive City in Zephyrhills. From dawn til dusk, all you hear is the drone of Twin Otters ascending to the proper altitude and descending back to the airfield. In between will come the sound of the violent unfurling of parachutes. Hold an empty plastic grocery bag out of the window next time you drive home from Publix, then magnify that noise by 100. Add that to the throttling engine noises and this should give you an idea of the cacophony associated with pulling a tag on this property.

All. Day. Long.

Anyhow, it's noisy hunting and almost impossible to discern the crunching of hoofbeats through the dry leaves of the cypress swamps, a near necessity to know when something is approaching in that thick environment. But crunching footsteps I did hear. Whatever it was made a ruckus.

It was about 3:00. I slowly rose from my seat, clipped my release onto the bow string, gently placed my iPhone down, and awaited what I was certain would be a big buck slip by my stand.

We've all been afield and heard thrashing in palmettos and expected something grand like a 10-point or giant boar or Swamp Ape to emerge from the shadows only to be disappointed and underwhelmed by an armadillo. This feeling was similar, but the disappointment shed quickly when I realized I might have my 1st shot at that hen I've long coveted.

A skinny bird, she took her time, slowly meandering through the bald cypress. She wasn't 30 yards away straight ahead, but the shooting lanes were all clogged - for an arrow, at least. A case could be made for a clear shot had I been allowed any sort of firearm. But, then, that wouldn't be part of the mystique, would it?

She'd have to hit spots 10 yards in front or 20 yards to either side to be in the money. The way she was trending, though, a shot was, for certain, in my future.

I figured I'd have at least a little wiggle room for movement, being that I was 25 feet up a tree and all, so I shifted just slightly anticipating a shot to my right. Well, on a breeze-less day, this rustled the branches of a tree that leaned against the cypress I had climbed.

Bang! The element of surprise was gone. She was alarmed.

The hen would poke her head up to look around for a few moments, take a couple steps and repeat. Minutes turned to hours. My heart was racing and brow dumping sweat now. She was so close to a clean shot, just a few more steps...

When I thought she was obscured from view behind one final myrtle, I pulled my PSE back, knowing her next four strides into the open would be her last. Somehow - somehow - she caught me and turned 15 yards into 35. She paused on a fallen log and I released the Rage hoping the Force or Lady Luck or a fortunate wind would direct my arrow into the Kill Zone.

Today I feel like a kicker who missed the winning field goal of the Super Bowl. A slugger who struck out with 3 on and 2 outs in Game 7. I've had a couple 2-hour breakfasts alone to ponder this tragedy and realized alcoholism and a tell-all book is my future now - which is pretty depressing since I've essentially told all already.

If you've ever had success plugging a hen Osceola in the state of Florida with a bow - legally - please share.

Those of you who have missed, like me, counseling sessions are every first Tuesday of the month at Bass Pro in Orlando.

Florida Deer Journal 2010 - The Upper Hills Hunt

Behind me, I heard the dry leaves of the cypress swamp Corn Flake as the deer approached at a trot. It was coming fast. Though the weather was clear and beautiful all weekend with temperatures in the 40’s, after 12 hours perched in the stand with nothing to report, action couldn’t come fast enough.

I glanced over my right shoulder and finally saw the large-bodied buck. His antlers, tall and tobacco-stained in color, curved straight forward like lances. Points, I cannot say. It was too thick for a shot, at least with a bow.


He paused briefly then resumed his pace into the Thickness of Central Florida. I grunted on the Knight & Hale a couple times, but I knew Mr. Deer was history. He was the only buck I have seen in Florida all season.

I was satisfied. So be it. Save an unexpected invite somewhere, that was probably my last chance for the year. At least it ended on somewhat of a high note. Seeing a Swamp Buck is always a thrill.

But something felt askew. Why was he running? I thought at first he may be chasing a doe that slipped past unseen. January and February is Rut Time in this part of the state. Heck, it’s the reason I applied for the bowhunt here. Usually, though, when on the tail of a skirt, bucks will be nose-to-the-ground. This guy was heads-up and high-stepping. He was spooked.

Maybe another hunter pushed him. This was public land, after all. The evening before a gentleman and a portly young fellow crashed my set-up. Heard them coming - sounded like a herd of elephants walking down the trail. People don't realize how loud they can truly be. The pair politely moved along, but I knew they probably lurked close.

Another thought was more pervasive, however. Dad was hunting the northwest side of the cypress head, maybe 200 yards away straight line. And he’s had all the luck with seeing game lately. Problem is, I’m not sure he could kill a deer with an arrow if it had heat-seeking capabilities and a thermo-nuclear broadhead.

Had to check the texts.

“I just missed my buck.”

Sigh. The night before, he said he let a nice buck slip under his stand and couldn’t find an ethical shot in the remaining light. Nothing more frustrating than when you aren’t seeing anything and having to endure kith and kin bemoan their lost opportunities. It’s like, put me in the game, Coach!


Upper Hillsborough WMA is a few thousand acres in Pasco County. They offer only a few hunts a year, all by quota drawing and all primitive. The rut, as I said earlier, is late winter. On this hunt, I was finding fresh rubs and scrapes, sign that’s gone long cold in southern regions of the state. (Actually, the picture of the rub in the header of this blog was taken here last year.)

I’ve only hunted Upper Hills a few times; I get the sense there is not a ton of deer. The land is comprised of cypress bottoms interspersed with pine and palmetto flats and sand scrub. It is pretty land but without much in the way of nutrition, not all that conducive to a large population. (I’m also guessing a Cracker Season has been in effect in this area a long time, further suppressing numbers.)

This is not to say there aren’t a few nice ones. One person this year tagged a 198lb. nine. Not too shabby for these parts. As I said, Dad has had all the luck, but it correlates to the scouting he had done. The eastern end of the property can be reached only by bike and the trails open during game seasons are closed the rest of the year. You’ll need your hiking boots and a two-wheeler if you plan on advance recon.

This has been a strange year in Florida. A biologist buddy of mine reports harvest numbers are down across the region. It’s the way things go.

Next year things will be different. Next year I’ll do more scouting. Next year things will work out.

Next year I’m following Dad into the woods, clubbing him over the head, and hunting his stand.

Wily Coyotes. Or, *&#$! Coyotes.

I am a master of all things hunting. Wait, let me qualify that. I am a master of all things hunting when compared to my coyote hunting “skills.” I have shot coyotes. I have called in coyotes. To date, I have not called in and shot a coyote.

This has been a nigh on 14-year quest. I bought a Lohman Circe rabbit-in-distress call when I was 16. It’s occupied every day pack, fanny pack and backpack since then, collecting lint, but nary a coyote pelt. It’s been wailed on from North Carolina to Colorado to South Florida and has done an excellent job pulling in fox, bobcat, crows, hawks, cows, deer, and one wild boar, yet only one coyote in South Carolina that circled through the brush and winded me.

I remember clear as day the first coyote I saw in Florida. Back in ’94 we were driving into a piece of private property early one morning to deer hunt in Manatee County when this big ol’ dog ran into the headlights. Today – and I’m not encouraging or endorsing this in anyway, kids – he probably would’ve have died in a hail of gunfire from either of the two in the front seat, but we were slack-jawed at the time. The yote just trotted in front of the Bronco, looking back to tease once in a while, then finally off into the imagination. Since then, the coyote has been a creature of mystique for me – of course, one smelly mutt I popped in Cedar Key about ended that.

A couple years ago I purchased a Johnny Walker digital call. Wait, that’s not right. Johnny Stewart digital call! Johnny Walker is what I drink to console myself after the hunt. Silly me. Out of sheer desperation, I also acquired a Mojo predator decoy that flips this cotton thing around in an attempt to distract incoming predators. Let me tell you something. Listening to that caller for more than 10 minutes will cause dementia and horrible, ghastly thoughts. It’s deranged, especially the fawn bleat that’ll almost make you want to join PETA. And watching the cotton ball device – while I believe the theory is sound – just reminds me how much I love to blow money.

This last weekend at Upper Hillsborough WMA, I put these last two toys to the test. My coyote calling-and-killing chastity remains sacred.

The dog came in from the right out of a sea of palmettos. Of course, this was off my wrong shoulder as I faced downwind overlooking a fire trail. I turned my head ever so slightly, and that was it. He spun back around and into that rattlesnake-infested oblivion. Stupid!

I hate to admit this, but aside from blasting the occasional one from a tree stand, that story pretty well illustrates my hunting experiences with coyotes. If I can beg a pardon from the Turkey Hunting Cult, I believe a gobbler is much more forgiving to movement than a coyote - a deer especially is. You know that old saying that if a turkey could smell you’d never see one? Well, guess what? You’ve just described the Southern Coyote. The parallels between hunting the two are striking. Calling to an animal in thick brush where calls only travel so far. Each animal has fantastic eyesight and hearing, and the coyote has the extra advantage of a functioning, no, superior olfactory system.

My strategy was to face downwind to intercept the dogs as they circle the source of the noise. Dad would guard the upwind side. Both of us carried 12 gauge 3 ½ magnums stoked with heavy turkey loads. The shotguns were perfect for this brush work in a small clearing of trails between a cypress head and aforementioned palmetto flat.

I’d hit the rabbit squealer button, and the card would play for about a minute. Then silence for five to ten minutes before hitting it again. I’d do this three times and move along. Well, this coyote came at the end of the third sequence. I was covered head-to-toe in a Scent-Lok ghillie suit, and he still saw just the mere twist of my neck from 60 yards away.

Coyotes have been in Florida now for a few decades, but the hunting literature has not caught up with them yet. I enjoy watching guys air them out on TV in places like Montana, but it’s a different ballgame in the South. Stay mobile and try new things. That’s about the best advice I can give. There are plenty of them here, but they are wicked smart.

I’ve been reasonably successful in most manners of hunting in which I’ve endeavored over the last 17 years. I’m not going to give up, but the coyotes about have me beat.

If anyone has any advice to share, please do.

Hunting the Deep Freeze

That sugar or scrub sand that is so prevalent in parts of Central Florida is some nasty stuff. One spring I feared a rain-soaked road of it would swallow Dad’s old diesel suburban. I'd paused to glass an open field for gobblers and happened to look down as this quicksand enveloped the tires. We were sinking. Luckily four-wheel low chugged us to safety.

In the summer, this dirt is baking hot. It’s inhospitable. Snakes love it, as do scorpions and spiders. And during any time of the year, game tracks are distorted to dimples making it impossible to discern what had passed through. At the very least, this ankle-turning sand makes even a simple hike seem like an interminable hump through the desert.

This weekend, though, the sand was frozen hard. Only with a quick bounce would the earth give way to crumble. Other than that, it was like walking on pavement. And in the pre-dawn darkness of Sunday morning, the trail to my stand sparkled in the flashlight like one of those whiny Twilight vampires.



Twenty-four degrees the truck thermometer read. With apologizes to my Northern friends, that’s cold here, easily the coldest I’ve hunted in the state of Florida. Icicles hung from palmettos and scrub oaks. Saturday, the sleet pelted me in the tree stand as I got texts from my sister saying it was snowing in town. Record lows throughout the state. Weird.

Just for fun I’d spit on the rail of my Summit Viper to see how long it’d take to freeze. My phone kept shutting off mid-text or Internet search, the circuits seized by the cold. And the tweety birds in the tree ahead of me looked like little brown cotton balls or monster dust bunnies as they gripped their perches with ruffled, shaking feathers. The woods were quiet. This made it all the more surprising when the coyote showed up.

In all honesty, on public land, in this weather, almost any warm blooded mammal was going to catch an arrow, a coyote especially. But, I always underestimate them. As he trotted behind some bushes following a trail that’d lead him within 15 yards of my stand, I stood to draw. How he saw me through the myrtles, I won’t ever know, but between gaps in the branches I saw him lift his head, gaze the 20 feet up the pine where I stood, raise his tail and bounce right out of the area.

And that was it for my Upper Hillsborough WMA bowhunt. Spent just shy of nine hours on the stand between Saturday evening and Sunday morning freezing my keister. Strange thoughts dominated my hunt.

“I wonder how warm it’d be if Han Solo showed up and rolled Tauntaun guts on me?”

“How the hell did the Jets win/Cincy blow that game?”

“I bet they find me clinging to this bow like Hatchet Jack.”

I guess my other moment of excitement was when the bottom half of my climber escaped me during the descent down the pine. Dressed in so many layers I wasn’t exactly limber, and I was in a big hurry to return to the seat warmers in the Dodge.

Anyway, in haste, I didn't exercise the proper caution I normally would this high up and failed to properly secure my boots in the holders. As you can guess, they slid out and the foot platform went bouncing down the tree, settling cockeyed against the trunk when the safety line – the same line that had recently been tied back together; not confident it would stay together – took hold. I’m tall, but I could just barely extend my boot toes to touch the suspended half. I contemplated the situation.

“Dad’s on the other side of the property, I have the truck and keys. It’s 30 degrees and I’m still at least 15-16 feet up this pine. Hmm. After the fall do I bleed out, freeze to death, or does the coyote finish me off?”

I’ve always said safety straps are for those afraid to fall. I’ll be buying mine before September. I took a breath and used my 3rd grade gym training to lower myself on the rails of the upper half of the stand like balance beams. I managed to get low enough to jockey the foot rest back onto the tree, then slowly worked the stand back to the ground. By the way, my flimsy gloves helped none on that cold metal.



Ugghh. At first glance, the spot I sat was a goodie though it was close to a road, usually a no-no for me when hunting WMA’s. My original haunt had been violated by a lock-on some miscreant had erected on converging trails in a transition zone between a thick cypress head and palmetto flat I’d scouted months prior. Compromising, I wandered a few hundred yards to the west and settled on my location thanks to a fresh rub on a well-used trail. I fell victim to that temptation, ignoring some of my common sense.

For starters, there wasn’t crap for them to eat here unless they headed for the palmetto flat, which I expected them to do. But then again, I was hoping the deer would venture into the open on public land, which is foolhardy in itself. Tracks pummeled the firebreak road walking in, but who knows when they were made or what time. Wish I had spent more time scouting, but it was a busy fall and winter.

Dad had it right. He hung his climber on a shift between the tall pines and an open cypress swamp. In the swamp there was still some browse, and the scrub oaks surrounding the area were dropping acorns. He saw four deer, including a nice buck that was a little out of range.

On the ride out Saturday night, some guy had a little six point hanging at the cleaning station. It was a scrub buck for sure – small body and spindly antlers, but good for that hunter enduring the cold and coming out on top. I thought about that buck all night hoping to get my chance, but it wasn't to be.

And like that, my deer season is over. Fitting the weather was so strange as it has been since September when I started. Looking forward to finishing off duck season and maybe some hog hunting. For sure, I'm taking my predator calls back to Upper Hillsborough to settle the score with one coyote.

It should be warmer.

Minding the Mercury

There is a 5% chance of snow in Central Florida this weekend. I will be bowhunting Upper Hillsborough WMA if the skies do open up. Easily, this will be the coldest archery trip I’ve been associated with.

For those of you who’ve never graced Upper Hills, it’s not exactly conducive to slipping through the woods or other techniques that’ll get the blood cranking. With a bow, this is going to be an all-day, freeze-my-butt-off vigil hoping ol’ big buck pops his head out early.

Though a Floridian, I do have some tricks to help keep warm while on the stand. Nothing is going to totally fight off this Arctic assault, but these things should help.

1. Dress in Layers – I wear a moisture wicking undershirt topped with a fleece pullover of some sort. Top this with a bomber jacket to cut any wind. For pants, I wear Under Armor Micro-Fiber for my under-roos. Then my thermals covered with a pair of Mossy Oak Wrangler Jeans. Socks, a pair of polypropylene liners topped with wool stockings stuffed in my Rocky Mountain boots with 600 Grams of Thinsulate. A wool facemask and some gloves, and I’m good to go.

2. Get a hand warmer – and, no, I don’t mean those chemical packets. Buy one of those fanny pack-looking things you can stuff your gloved paws into, like what every Green Bay Quarterback starts sporting on Sundays from October forward. I bought one in Dothan, AL a few years back and it was one of the best items I’ve ever purchase. Mine doubles as a day pack which is perfect for carrying…

3. Snacks – carry a pocketful of Snickers minis in your day pack. The chocolate and peanuts will give ya an energy boost.

4. Think of someplace colder – if it’s 28 in Lakeland, FL, think of where the mercury is dipping anywhere north of you. Get a good laugh in, and be happy you’re hunting.

Best of Luck