North Carolina Gobbler Cross Up

(Originally published at Good Hunt.)

Since I'm a forthright and honest guy who wants to write off this trip for tax purposes, I feel I must come clean about other events that occurred in North Carolina at the end of April. If you recall, I had a shotgun mishap on the second day of the hunt that caused me to miss a nice gobbler. Add this to a miss the Opening Weekend of Florida's season, and 2014 was a pretty humiliating and painful year for errors and screw-ups.

Well, this wasn't quite as bad as that, as I actually put feather on the ground...let's make it short and sweet, because that's how the hunting tale unfolded.

Harris and I had flown to North Carolina to hunt gobblers on property that I've deer hunted for a decade, thanks to Uncle Dennis and his family. 10 years ago there were almost no birds. Over the years we noticed more and more thanks to re-introduction practices by NWTF. One piece of farming land known as Uncle Harry's was especially loaded. (None of these people are actual kin to me by blood; through the course of 20-odd years hunting together, though, the difference is only academic.)

Leading into Uncle Harry's is what's named the Sleepy Hollow Road, a meandering path along a creek splitting agriculture fields and a large block of planted pines. The turkeys will roost in these pines or along the water.

After arriving at Dennis' camp Thursday evening and getting our things settled, Harris and I collected our gear and set out for Harry's to roost a gobbler or perhaps get a shot on one.

We slowly walked down Sleepy Hollow, calling periodically. On the first field on the left we noticed a hen trotting towards the woodline, clearly spooked. I told Harris I would be shocked if the next field didn't have a bird in it - it always holds birds. With enough brush and small trees growing out of the creek and vines snaking down from the pines, we would be pretty well-screened as we advanced down the road.

Sure enough, there was blood-red head visible through the tangle.

Harris and I both dropped to the ground and started to crawl to a spot where we could close the distance for a shot . Harris, though, did not see the tom and was unsure when or where to move and elected to stay put. All I could see was that red head and whiffs of his dark body. I called once or twice, and he'd break into strut but never gobble. Trying to keep trees and brush between us as much as possible, I elbowed to a spot where I could get a clear poke if he were to accommodate his positioning.

For a solid 5 - 10 minutes I held on all-fours, vicious Sampson County skeeters darting my plumber's crack. The gobbler would sift in and out of view between the fresh green Spring-unfurled leaves as he moseyed parallel to the creekbank searching for his love as I attempted to will him into a pie-plate gap in the vegetation where I'd have a clean shot. I would pull the trigger if his still-bright red noggin would center in that space. In a quick motion, I'd have to flip to a sitting position and quickly shoot. One thing was certain, my knees and back weren't taking much more abuse bent over trying to hold steady. The gobbler had grown nervous, too, as no hen ever emerged from the road.

For once, things worked out as he meandered to the gap, head down and slightly angled away as he was sneaking to safety. The jig was up, one way or the other. I committed to Kill Mode, flipped around and fired in about a second, flopping him in the field. It was a fine piece of shotgunning with the 835 that would betray me the next evening.

Until this point, Harris still had not seen the bird but had picked up on him thrashing about and noticed his tail feathers on the edges of his fan were shorter than those in the middle. I had no idea as I fought across the ditch and raced into the field to claim my first NC gobbler, only to find that instead of 8 - 10 inches of beard there was 4 - 5...and that's being generous. Serious ground-shrinkage, friends.

I never in a thousand years would've guessed that was a jake. Hunkered down in the road within shooting distance but with an obscured view, I didn't take the time to check if in fact he had a long beard. When he did strut, I couldn't make out his entire fan. But he looked big and dark and strutted. The other jakes I'd seen the previous weeks of hunting were mousy critters, not animals holding fort fanning in the middle of a field where dominant birds could easily locate and spur them down the totem pole. Excited and with poor visibility is usually a bad combo, and that held true to form on this day.

Nothing was illegal, just not my preference for this trip. Discouraged, yet still pumped about executing a fun hunt, I jogged back to Sleepy Hollow and attempted to toss the jake across the creek so I could navigate it myself. Well, he rolled down into the water, and in my efforts to retrieve him I managed to yank out all of his tail feathers. Impressive photos, he did not make. Matted down and soaking-wet scrawny, it was a hard sell to make-believe he was anything but a jake after the fact, nubby spurs and stunted beard notwithstanding.

Had he wandered in clear view like a trio would the next morning, he would have lived. While I hate making excuses, these things happen. But the more I considered the situation, the more disappointment waned. It was an excellent spot-and-stalk hunt on a treasured piece of property with a good friend. I guess I'm not as embarrassed as I thought, and it'd be wrong to diminish that bird because of a few inches of beard.

Just need to be more careful next time on target identification.

The Kansas Gobbler

Nick and I were slipping through a vein of cottonwoods along a creek bottom that dissected two large crop fields, advancing on a distant roosted gobbler that had betrayed his presence to Nick's owl hoots. The morning having cleared from a full day before of rain that had softened our footsteps, we came to a bit of a stopping point. Nick hit the locator again and another gobbler fired up right on the edge of the field in front of us.

Then I saw a bird fly into the open.

We immediately found shelter against cottonwood trunks, not having time to wrestle decoys from our vests. Nick yelped a few times, and the tom's response was immediate and resolute - he was coming in. At 6:19 a.m., with the gobbler pacing in front of me at 20 yards, that morning's hunt had been the easiest part of this adventure - even that was almost screwed up.

Located in Independence, Kansas in the southeast part of the state near Coffeyville, Nick had been living at his family's farm while finishing school nearby. It took him visiting Florida in mid-March and a cocktail-infused evening around my firepit to dream up this hunt. The farm had been in Nick's family for generations, and despite numerous invitations over the years, I'd just not been able to coincide time with funds. We poured over the logistics of a late-April hunt, and after staring at my pennies and securing permission from my patient, turkey-widow of a wife, Harris and I booked tickets with Allegiant out of St. Pete on the 26th to join Nick for a weekend turkey getaway.

Now, everyone who knows me knows I'm terrified of flying, but some trips can't be passed up. As it turned out, the majority of my angst occurred while still on the ground. Despite living in Florida my whole life, I failed to recognize St. Pete had an airport. I'd always flown out of Tampa or Orlando. For whatever reason, Google Maps directed us to a tiny airport in downtown St. Pete. Realizing something was wrong, I ran into a terminal with roughly the square-footage of an average Cracker Barrel and hurriedly questioned the lady behind the counter where I could find the correct airport. Seemingly having been asked this on numerous occasions, she gave me the proper directions. Thank God, too. I wasn't getting on any of those Tic-Tac container-sized “airplanes” littered across that tarmac. So we were uncomfortably behind schedule as we strolled into St. Pete International.

With the worry of missing our flight and spending our hard-won free time at the Hard Rock Casino in Tampa, it was disheartening to see crowds of travelers stuffed within aisles waiting to check-in. I'm not sure what kind of crafts or flannel shirt convention was happening in the Springfield, Missouri area where we would hopefully land in a few hours, but there were deep, winding lines of folks, and with the boarding call closing in fast, our odds of seeing Kansas diminished further. Luckily, Harris had purchased priority boarding but had forgotten about it. Upon realizing this bold strike of fortune after ten minutes in line, he was able to call me up to bypass the masses and drop bags with just enough minutes left to clear security and sit at the bar for a pre-flight nerve tonic which turned out being extremely helpful for my anxiety. 

After boarding and feeling pretty good about having made it in time, we were getting settled in our seats when a guy trying to stuff his over-sized carry-on into the overhead compartment blew a fluorescent bulb and sprayed glass on and around all of us good people sitting near the emergency exits. I think I handled it well. I don't remember screaming, but I don't suppose many do when their lives flash before their eyes.

Let me clue you, the pop of a bulb, the tinkling of glass, and the faint smell of ozone attracts some attention within an airplane. It took 6 airport employees to handle this situation: 1 to see there was a problem; 1 to diagnose the problem; 1 to discern how to fix the problem; 2 to clean up the problem; and 1 to report the problem and tell the guy he owed forty bucks to check his bag. I leaned over and told Harris that if anything else happened, he'd be going solo.

But, we landed in Springfield without further issue beyond the delayed arrival and me being on the far side of comfortably numb. The weatherman was the one who threw a wrench in the issue now. The forecast had called for warm and sunny for the entirety of the trip. We landed in a cold drizzle that lasted through the first day of hunting. We tried a couple of set-ups Saturday morning but with no gobbles, the cows laying down and vultures roosted, it was evident that the only thing we'd be getting on this day was pneumonia. It was decided we should pull up stakes, grab a hot lunch and watch lucky hunters chase gobblers in Kansas via DVD.

As the rains eased later in the afternoon, we took a drive around the property. In this part of Kansas, the turkeys are a Rio Grande/Eastern hybrid. Some gobs have more of one subspecies characteristics than others, but we were in the state's designated intergrade zone which made for a unique trophy. Fascinating, too, was Nick's description of hunting this area. He maintained that gobblers were often a here-today, gone-tomorrow prospect. And while he received a weekend's ration of commentary and jokes about migrating turkeys, it did make some sense.

See, the property we were able to hunt totaled 400-500 acres. In parts of Florida I'm used to hunting, 400-500 acres is dominated by swamps with little clearings and fields toms are attracted to. Navigation through such areas is tricky even for game animals. There are a lot of obstacles that dictate habits. Even on wide-open properties where occasional cypress heads, pine stands, or oak hammocks comprise the only vertical landscapes, Osceolas typically return to the same roosting areas. Also, one has to consider the fragmentation of land in Florida by development and roads and whatnot; turkey populations are, generally speaking, squeezed together - Kansas, not so much. They are free and clear to travel, impeded by very little from what I saw. The turkeys on this and adjacent properties will apparently follow deep creek bottoms for miles picking new places to fly-up each evening. It's why locating and roosting birds in the evenings is an important strategy here, not something I worry about too much in the Sunshine State.

And while I don't want to place too much emphasis on the habits of an individual bird and how that translates into a whole subspecies, this gobbler did everything I would not expect from an Osceola. One was the fly-down time: 6:15 in the morning. I can't recall a Florida tom ever arriving that early – heck, most of the birds I worked this season didn't touch the ground until well after 7. Two, there was a hen calling from the edge of the same field, and he left her and that opening to come to us, crossing a deep ditch - almost a ravine – along the way. I still can't reconcile that. Perhaps that other bird we heard was the dominate animal, and homeboy knew it. We'll never know, but I credited Nick's calling because I'd like to be invited back one day. Three, the gobbler stayed in range while I buffooned with the shotgun.

For starters, everything happened so quickly that I failed to put a round in the chamber. Doing so with an incoming gobbler is a real trick of the pros - said no one ever. Fortunately Nick had, and I escaped without the clatter of fully racking the pump. Then, I'm sure you've heard the mantra, “Don't go into battle with an unproven weapon?” Well, many folks over the years have dusted gobblers with the Mossberg pump Nick loaned me, but I was unfamiliar with the use of the red-dot scope mounted on it. Since we didn't place decoys, the gobbler was pacing along the ditch searching. He wouldn't stay still, and I could not pick him up in dawn's low light with the short field-of-view incumbent with those scopes. He alarm-putted once, and I knew I'd have to get my stink together or catch Hell in camp for the remainder of the weekend. He walked behind a tree, and as he did, I focused the red dot on the trunk. When he stepped out the other side, I moved the reticle slightly to the left and under his chin and crumpled him at 35 yards to save the day. He wasn't hanging out any longer.

Weighing in at 22 pounds with a 9 1/2-inch beard, Nick and I performed the ritual high-fives and recount of the events that occurred  We laughed that the walk in and back took four times as long as the hunt. With the rains history and the temperature warming during a bluebird day, we calculated the gobblers were going to go gangbusters and more gobblers would meet this one's fate, but it wasn't to be. Harris, unfortunately, didn't hear much. A mid-morning hunt wasn't any more productive, and Nick was unable to roost any birds that evening. With great friends, you'd like to see everyone have a chance to pull the trigger.

But that's just turkey hunting - everyone present knew that. We were lucky to have the one in hand. And despite the travel and weather woes, with the company kept and the beauty of Southeast Kansas, it's a trip worth doing a 1000 times over.

Maybe we'll catch that migration one day. 

The Mossy Oak Gobbler

Rick Ferlita and I with our 1st Morning FL Easterns

When chasing gobblers, it always seems like your last easy hunt was yesterday's.

Rick Ferlita and I were camped under a wild cherry tree late Friday morning, quietly chatting about our various experiences afield. We held post on the edge of a small green field situated between a creek bottom and planted pines. We'd started the hunt in the traditional manner, well before first light, in a cut-over where we'd jumped a gobbler and his hen the evening before.

With direction from our guide, we pinpointed several roost trees that bordered the gnarled, open terrain and discussed a plan on how to set up the next morning. Daybreak came with far fewer gobbles than expected. The starlit sky we left 12 hours earlier turned overcast, and the entire mood of the woods felt ill-suited for much activity - except for one distant gobbler that would respond to Rick's calls, the occasional crow, and the lonely howl of a coyote down by the river bottom.

It's never easy to determine when to make a move on a bird, but this one seemed primed for action. We lifted our decoys and hiked back to the main road to get a bead on where the bird had gone. Fast forward a couple miles of walking around impassable blocks of pines and several attempts to get in front of the animal, and we eventually abandoned the chase and elected set up shop on the aforementioned grass patch just to see what would happen late-morning.

And, you know, with turkey hunting there are so many variables in play – what call to use, how often to call, should we deploy decoys, should we use a jake decoy – it can quickly become paralysis by analysis. With gobblers - and all manners of game, for that matter - a little patience and being where they want to be is often the soundest strategy.

But patience is fragile. At quarter till eleven, we decided to give a few more yelps and work our way back to the truck. Save a lone hen that pecked around the patch for a few moments, the sit had been for naught. Rick struck a few notes on his box call, and a gobbler cut him off. He put down the call and flicked the safety off; there was no doubt this bird was on his way.

MO Prostaff with TNT Outdoor Explosion's Marty Fischer to my right

For the first time in the five years since its creation, members of Mossy Oak's Florida Prostaff team devised plans for a group hunt, and we descended upon 4,000 acres of gorgeous river bottom and rolling planted pines near Blountstown, FL in the Panhandle. Hosted by Southern Arrowhead Outfitters, the land was owned by the Atkins/Trammell families, old Florida names well-known in state politics. For several years, SAO has offered semi-guided archery hunts for deer and hogs, but this was only the second Spring where turkey have been hunted in recent times.

While Florida is synonymous with Osceola gobblers, those in the Panhandle are deemed to be Eastern birds which was fine by me. Neither Rick nor I had ever tagged a Sunshine State Eastern. And while there was no doubt the property was rife with turkey, six months of planning could not fend off the monsoon-like conditions that was about to pummel the state. That's the luck of things.

And while the camp was brimming with turkey hunting talent, it was also luck that Rick and me pulled each others' numbers out of a hat Thursday evening. Lucky, too, that we drew a block of woods on the high point of the property. A wet spring had flooded the river bottoms, and the turkey were moving up to get out of the water, and, possibly, the hordes of mosquitoes incumbent with such conditions.

Still, it's always hard to gauge how two people who've met only briefly would work together when turkey hunting. I'm a big proponent of the One Chief Theory. When I take someone out on my own time, I want to run the show; however, Rick makes his own beautiful box and scratch calls that he sells through his Cypress Creek brand. I quickly offered the reins to him, figuring I may learn a thing or two on this hunt. My inaction paid off at that gobble. Rick had won the coin-flip to decide who would shoot first, and I was more than excited to lend moral support and end this morning on a high note.

After five minutes or so, Rick whispered that he could see a tom enter the access road into the clearing...then another, then a third gobbler. We were primed for a double. I told him that when he shot, don't hop up, just yelp or cut to the survivors to see if I could tag one, as well. The three came in a line, not in a hurry, just ambling, heads down and beards a-draggin'.

The final gobbler was obviously the older animal as he finally broke rank and full-strutted between the other two right up to my jake decoy. Marty Fischer of TNT Outdoor Explosion had joined us in camp and explained the difficulty of getting footage like this on camera - the hours of film and effort it takes to produce a half-hour segment. It's a shame his equipment was not with us. The cinematography was perfect.

When the satellite gobblers cleared and the strutter de-poofed, Rick lowered the hammer, folding him at 10 yards. One bird immediately rocketed to greener, lead-free fields, while the now-abandoned survivor tossed up in the air before landing back in the field. It turned to run, but Rick hit that mouth call - a Gagging Yelp, I would describe it - which froze the gobbler long enough for me to fire a 3 1/2-inch load of #5 Winchester Supremes out of my Mossberg 835, crumpling him into the sod. 

Nervous about the 40-plus yard shot, I immediately leaped out of the blind and raced to the gobbler, later discovering my old and faded Mossy Oak Obsession hat caught in the cherry tree. Realizing it missing, I couldn't recall if I'd inadvertently tossed it aside in the excitement or the recoil had blown it back into the bushes. With two toms in hand, we had our first Florida Easterns. Words failing each of us, high-fives and back-slaps were about the only intelligible form of communication we could muster for ten solid minutes.

I had remarked earlier how quickly things could change with turkey hunting – the few miles of hiking, several hours of sitting, and desperate strategies were struck from memory as we celebrated back towards the truck. Each gobbler had 10 1/4-inch beards while Rick's tom sported a pair of 1 1/4-inch spurs that easily trumped my duo of 3/4-inchers, his clearly a three-year old with worn wingtips and a feather-less breast from strutting and breeding.

Our shooting for the weekend finished by the one-gobbler-per-person mandate, the next morning Rick and I teamed up with Kevin Faver from The Outdoor Show and Regional Manager of Florida's Mossy Oak Prostaff to try and get him a gobbler. We sat in a different section of property and heard a tom gobbling from the roost down towards the river. We advanced on him and called until around 30 - 45 minutes after daybreak when the winds picked up and the temperature quickly cooled, betraying the approach of thunderstorms from the Gulf. For the next two days it would downpour. Although those boys didn't give up all day every day, no one tagged another bird until Sunday morning.

We hurried back to the truck, and while Rick and Kevin decided to give it one last shot before the rains, I chose to rest on the tailgate, my balky back threatening to seize up after hours of sitting and traipsing the undulating terrain.

As I watched the clouds darken and listened to the thunder roll in, I couldn't help but think how much easier the hunt was yesterday.

(Thank you to Mossy Oak, SouthernArrowhead Outfitters, and everyone who participated in the hunt.)

2012 Florida Spring Turkey Primer

As of this very second, the Interweb says I’m 1st in line for a Special Opportunity Spring Turkey hunt at Homosassa WMA. I covet this tag. I’m in Homosassa all the time, and it’s a pretty successful hunt from what I understand. Out of five available quota tags for this hunt, there is one left.

Unfortunately, this is Round 3 of permit pickups. The deadline to pay for this tag is April 22nd, the last day of Spring Turkey season. So, this goon in front of me can either buy this permit at the last second or not even bother with it, allowing it to go unused and unloved. This is the closest I have come to drawing this tag. It is maddening. It wouldn’t be so bad if I’d drawn a quota tag but whiffed in this lotto, too.

But, I have tentative, alternate plans. I’ve been invited to South Carolina and hope to pull that off. Our new lease has transient birds – with luck, the toms will spread out from adjoining property and roost on ours. There’s public land, of course. I’d love to visit friends in North Carolina or take a week-long hunt-by-boat adventure down the Kissimmee River and traipse the public hunting areas there. With the twins, though, either option and Carolyn would have my head on a silver plate. She’d have her Toyota adorned with those charming Family Car Stickers prevalent on the rear windows of minivans and Xterras these days. My headless stick-figure body would be laid prone and puked on by the babies, while she held my little round head with X’s where my eyes should be.

Despite the risks, I have to turkey hunt, no matter where it may be. 2011 was an odd year, and I’m hoping for a change in luck. According to many hunters I spoke with, the toms just didn’t gobble as hard as in years past. It rained a lot during the middle of the season, flooding many areas. It’s hard to tell the value of these anecdotes because plenty of hunters did indeed fill their bag. I was not in the latter group.

(Remember, if you are seeking the Osceola, they inhabit the peninsular area of the state. The Eastern subspecies is found in the panhandle.)

Florida Spring Turkey Seasons

Zone A (Youth): Feb. 25 – 26
Zone A (Regular): Mar. 3 – Apr. 8

Zones B, C, D (Youth): Mar. 10 – 11
Zones B, C, D (Regular): Mar. 17 – Apr. 22

Holmes County (Youth): Mar. 10 – 11
Holmes County (Regular): Mar. 17 – Apr. 1

Bag Limits

Spring Turkey Daily bag limit: 1
Season and possession limit: 2 for spring season

Florida WMA’s that do not require quotas
Map of Florida WMA’s
State Turkey Densities

(Information provided by myfwc.com)

TWL Classics - Struttin' in South Carolina

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 2008

Our timing was screwed up Friday morning. The alarm hammered off an hour early, which felt much worse considering we’d only gone to bed two hours prior, having left Lakeland later than planned. Then we screwed around too long getting dressed and breakfast. So I guess it should not have come as any surprise when we walked to our planned set-up in almost broad daylight that the gobblers were already doing their thing.

P.J. and I were fouled from the beginning. The first gobble came as we debated where to sit. We scrambled into the woods and deployed the decoys – a noisy waste of time at this point – and settled by a couple trees amid what can only be described as a biblical swarm of mosquitoes. I’d forgotten to heat up my Terma-Cell and was fully assaulted, slapping my head, legs, arms, and eyeballs. Only deaf, dumb, and blind were these gobblers coming our way. Not when they’re perched a mere 150 yards away.

This is not how I’d envisioned my first turkey hunt in South Carolina. Honestly, though, I didn’t know what to expect other than to see plenty of game. I’ve hunted deer in Allendale, Barnwell, and surrounding counties off and on since I was 16. Deer, deer, and more deer, is the only way to describe this Low Country portion of the state. I seem to remember reading once that the deer population ran from 30-40 per square mile, incredible considering the season starts in August, ends in January, and farmers and other landowners obtain permits to shoot them during the offseason.

Turkey, though, were always an afterthought. Sure, I’d seen plenty of them in corn piles and elsewhere, but I’d never considered packing up a truck and leaving Florida to hunt gobblers. That was back in my younger days, a time when I had access to all the turkey hunting I desired. That changed, but my passion for turkey hunting didn’t.

Unfortunately, around the same time we lost our Florida properties, hunting in South Carolina became expensive. Way back when, day hunts on soy bean fields were $100 per day for deer, and we balked at places that charged $150-200. The guy who managed all this offered turkey hunting for $50-75, another $20 a night to stay at a local motel - cheap now considering one well-known hunting outfit charges $495 per DAY.

Our old contact at that hunting land is gone now, so I never took advantage of those relatively inexpensive hunts, and in the years since, I’ve relied mostly on invitations to treat my gobbler fever.

So, it is nice to have friends. P.J. leases 150 acres in Allendale County, a beautiful piece of land with planted pines of varying ages and a deep swamp bottom over which the gobblers tend to roost. I’d been told there were plenty of toms on the property, and I’d been ready to make the trip since we first discussed it months earlier.

Since I’ve grown up spoiled rotten on Osceola’s, I still think of the eastern gobbler subspecies as some kind of exotic game. Like a lot of turkey hunters, I dream of completing the Slam, and though Rio’s and Merriam’s are still a few years off for my budget (not to mention Gould’s or Oscellated), a half slam of Osceola and eastern in a single spring still gets me excited.

So this year, with my Osceola side of the deal completed, I was ready to take a crack at South Carolina’s best toms. And as I wrote above, the whole venture started wrong. Besides being late and covered with mosquitoes, I felt I’d stepped on every loud-cracking stick and twig in the woods. I didn’t want to say it or think it out loud, but I knew those birds weren’t heading our way, no matter what I threw at them.

The tom, and some squeaky-clucking jake, gobbled two or three more times off the roost, pitching down on a ridge opposite our location. He gobbled now and then from the ground, but it became clear him and his entourage were moving away.

After a long silence, P.J. suggested we move shop and follow the road alongside the ridge leading to the swamp. We arrived at a bend in the trail, walked another 50-60 yards, planted a couple hen decoys in the right-of-way, found a good sittin’ tree, and leaned back, calling every once in a while.

No matter how many hunts I go on, I’ll always shake my head at how different gobblers respond to different calls. Slate call, no luck. Raspy Ol’ Hen yelps, nada. Excited clucks and putts from a single reed, bingo!

The tom gobbled from a startlingly close distance from the pines in front of us. In between the trees stood tall new growth grasses and weeds that provided cover and food for turkey, but limited our visibility. Not convinced he’d planned to hit our dekes, I hit him again with a series of high-pitched clucks that sent him into frenzy, gobbling five or six times in a row.

Game on now! Soon jakes came dodging through the pines, trailed by Mr. Longbeard. My heart had long since taken to pounding as the Shakes took hold. The gobbler strutted back and forth behind the decoys as the jakes milled around, becoming more agitated as time passed.


P.J., as the trigger man, swung his gun slowly towards the gobbler, but the jakes picked up on the movement, I guess. They grew spookier, so I whispered to take the gobbler. Maybe a second later, P.J.’s shotgun blasted, rolling the tom, as I tried to locate a jake to gun down as they beat a retreat, but with no luck. It’s possible we could’ve waited for both of us to take a shot, but I’d rather put one trophy bird in the bag than mess up trying to wait on the perfect double situation.

I don’t know if I’d forgotten, didn’t pay attention, or what, but the realization that this was P.J.’s first bird skipped me - and what a fine tom, sporting a 10 ¼ inch beard, 1 inch spurs, and weighing in at 20 pounds. Not a bad start to what will be a successful turkey hunting career, I’m confident.

The Shakes still rattled me as I snapped photos and didn’t settle until long after we’d returned to the truck. I can tell you, no deer or other big game leaves me as manic as a run-in with a gobbling, strutting tom. We’d gotten the Show, the absolute pinnacle of any hunting experience, I believe. Love deer hunting, but I’d crawl over a Boone & Crockett buck any day of the week to call in a tom and watch it strut in the decoys.

The next morning, we almost made it 2/2 for the Silver Can Assassins, our team named after a particular brand of Rocky Mountain refreshment enjoyed throughout the weekend. We heard gobblers back down in the swamp, but I wanted to start the morning near some strut marks in the road we’d found, surmising the birds would work their way from the bottoms up to the grassy roads to feed.

I almost knew what I was doing. Again, this tom gobbled too close for comfort. He didn’t seem nearly as worked up as P.J.’s gobbler. Only twice more did he sound off, the last gobble toward the distant pines. I don’t know if he’d found the hens we’d heard from the roost, or if I sent him a call that rubbed him wrong, but I guess I’ll never know. One for the bush, I suppose.

Sunday, the weather changed to a cold, rainy morning. We sat in the truck awaiting daylight, but this morning was over before sunrise. I’d hunted in the rain once already this year and found success, but I’m never too angry at a turkey to go out in this pneumonia weather.

Maybe I’ll get my half-slam in Georgia later this year or maybe not. I don’t know. One thing is for sure though - I’m definitely excited to return to South Carolina. The state never disappoints for deer, and with turkey, well, our relationship is off to a great start.

Scouting Chassahowitzka for Spring Turkey III - Gobblers Gone Viral

Scouting for spring turkey season is an art that’s really only picked up steam in the last decade or so. Or maybe just written about in the last decade or so. I remember talking with my taxidermist a couple years ago about his hunts at Richloam WMA in central Florida. I asked how he went about scouting a property of that size, and he scoffed at the question.

"Well, I show up before light, listen for a gobble and work my way to him. I don't waste time scouting.”

I guess it worked for him. But I am also guessing he’s not the only one who employs this approach and has resulted in a few busted hunts and PO-ed hunters.

For me, turkey scouting was engrained at an early age – identifying roost trees, looking for tracks and scat, paying attention to where the gobblers hung out during the offseason, and getting to know the lay of the land. It was no real art and never 100% successful as turkey habits change throughout the spring, just some basic woodsmanship and observation skills. Of course, my history of turkey hunting has been conducted primarily on private lands with ample opportunity to see birds on a regular basis and explore the property at will.

Those days are gone. If I hunt private property these days, it is on an invite basis only, and I am stuck wherever someone wants to place me. Until this changes, I’m hunting WMA’s.

A lot of public land in Florida is downright daunting to the newbie. The Green Swamp, Richloam and others that allow entry without a quota are huge and access to scout throughout the year is limited. Big Cypress is even more intimidating. When season starts, you have the access, but plenty of other hunters wandering aimlessly about, too. If you can hunt during the work week, you have the advantage of access and fewer hunters, and yes, listening for a gobble and moving in is probably a safe gamble.

Weekend warriors such as me need to be a tad shrewder, I think. Again, I am not a pro on public land; I’m just picking things up as I go along. Case in point, I drew a quota tag for Chassahowitzka WMA. (You can read about my other scouting posts here: Part I & Part II). I’ve done my Google Earth scouting and have been able to get a general idea of the terrain. I’ve driven the property and got a real eye-opener. It is huge piece of thick land, and the hunting is going to be tough. Chazz, luckily, is open year-round, but it’s not exactly next door for me to scout. My next step was to ask around the Internet forums for advice.

Outdoor forums have become a valuable database for all sorts of hunting and fishing information. Yes, some will be hesitant or downright hostile towards helping others, especially when it involves their cherished hunting lands, but others are more than happy to lend a hand. I try to, at least.

The beauty of Chazz is only a handful of other hunters drew a tag this season. There won’t be several hundred hunters giving a crap about the turkey here this season and reluctant to swap notes. And I’ve received great advice on how to proceed with scouting and my hunt.

Bigcountry at NWTF.org really came through:

“That place is awful thick and the birds don’t gobble much! We hunted off of main grade where it starts to tee to the left and right! It’s mainly swamp but it’s got large roost trees and fairly open! We found a bluff in there with a lot of sign on it and went back the next day and listened that morning for a bird! Heard 9 different birds but none gobbled after they flew down! Between 7 and 9 we killed two 2 year olds on the same knoll!”

“Get in there before they hit the ground or ur gonna be mad! They calm up right after fly down! I’m sure you will be on birds if you make the trip! Let me know if I can help any! Maybe one day I can pick ur brain on a few places??? Have fun and good luck.”

That’s solid recon. I don’t think he’d purposely mess with a stranger!

Even if someone can’t offer firsthand knowledge on laying a bird low, they may know a thing or two about the land itself that can help you plan and prepare.

Rackman at Floridafishandhunt.com gave a sobering account of hunting here:

"At the end of rattle snake camp road there is a turn around spot with a picnic table. There’s a closed road that starts there and goes into the swamp. Just walk that road and you should see turkeys all day. Move slowly and keep your eyes on the ground, snakes are big and everywhere."

Noted.

Since no one invited me to hunt the opener in the South Zone this weekend, I am trekking out to Chazz to burn boot leather to check out these spots. Obviously, there are some advantages such as open access and limited hunters that Green Swamp enthusiasts won’t enjoy this season, but many of the tactics here can work there as well.

Social media is the chic form of communication these days, and promoting products and businesses and whatever else online is the norm. Going viral is the buzzword for utilizing social media to increase knowledge of whatever it is you want increased knowledge on. There’s no reason not to apply it to hunting – or, in this case, spring turkey scouting.

Magnums, For Better or Worse

This is not something I am proud of but it happened. Hunting a Georgia clay logging road one foggy morning several Aprils ago, I dropped my biggest gobbler at 80 steps. I had my dad come confirm it. If I’d realized he was that far, I would have not lowered the boom. As it was, the wide open terrain of clear-cut combined with the fog caused me to misjudge the range. And I was a touch antsy anyway. Two mornings prior, a bounding coyote spooked an inbound gobbler, and the following morning a gobbler spooked upon seeing my jake decoy. Such things happen with turkey hunting, agreed?

Well, this tom slowly eased down the road without a gobble or strut. My H.S. Strut Lil Deuce slate was working its magic once again. And I don’t know. Call it a fear that something else would go wrong or call it just plain bad judgment, but I decided he’d crawled within acceptable range.

80 yards, stone cold dead. Lucky. The big eastern sported an 11 ¼-inch beard and 1 ½-inch spurs on each red clay stained leg. Fortunate.

OK, I’m a little proud. Though this wasn’t the first tom laid low by the shotgun, this incident earned my Mossberg 835 - shooting Winchester Supreme No. 5’s in 3 ½ Magnum - a special place in my heart. Maybe I got a little cocky, though.

A couple years ago in Levy County, Florida, I had been calling to a bird all morning. No one had killed a gobbler on this property yet and I wanted to be the first. On the roost he gobbled at everything, and I expected him to pitch down into a little food plot to my left as I huddled under a dewy myrtle bush. Never really happens how you want. Instead, he settled in a cow pasture obscured from view by a cypress swamp and a row of palmettos.

For nearly two hours I slowly worked this bird my way. I was badly out of position and couldn’t redeploy or he’d surely peg me. My first glimpse of him was through a Frisbee-sized hole in the brush, his white head bobbing up and down with every gobble.

And there he stood, in that hole, 45 yards away, gobbling like crazy at my increasingly poor attempts at calling. All he had to do was move fifteen yards to my right and I’d have a clean shot, or maybe he’d see my dekes and come a-runnin’. I was badly unwound.

He almost made it. Through my peephole, I saw him begin to move in the favorable direction then stop, flip his wing and about-face, heading back from where he came. I just couldn’t take it anymore. When his head settled in the middle of the clearing – that ugly white head resembling a front post settled in the ghost ring of an aperture sight – I drew my fiber optic bead and squeezed the trigger. Hey, I have a 3 ½ mag. I can go Predator-era Jesse Ventura on him.

In a long career of making dumb shots on all manner of game, this was the worst. I hopped up and circled the palmettos in time to see him beat feet into the dark of the cypress.

I returned to my set-up shaking, feebly fumbling with a lighter to fire up a smoke, wholly disgusted with myself. I’m no rookie, for crying out loud. I knew better. This bird got the best of me, and through hubris only did I attempt a shot like that.

When my hunting partner arrived fifteen minutes later, I’d chiefed through half a pack and still quivered. I explained the story and showed him what I tried to shoot through. The vegetation looked like it’d been hit with a weed whacker, and I seriously doubt many, if any, pellets scooted past.

The 3 ½ magnum is a wonderful tool, but stupid it will make you if you let it. In one of my previous blogs I wrote that just because they sell guns that’ll shoot across a cow pasture doesn’t make it a good idea. Now you know where that statement comes from.

If you ask me, I will look you straight in the eye and tell you I prefer having my decoys set within 15 yards of me hoping the gobbler will correspond with plans. In the same vein of honesty, I will also assure you I will take just about any opportune shot presented.

You know how it goes. Only so many days of hunting. Chances are limited. Self-imposed pressure to perform. Both these above stories have one binding thread: getting too excited and feeling too empowered with my weapon. The magnum’s siren song sure is sweet to those lacking self-control.

I’m not here to tell you what’s right or wrong or what shot to take. By most measurements, both these shots were ethically questionable. If you don’t think ethics has anything to do with it, we could also use the words “responsible” or “practical” and maybe a few others. Luckily, neither of these birds were crippled and left to the coyotes.

I don’t like “what might have been’s.” Maybe if I’d let that Georgia gobbler get closer he would have spooked. Perhaps if I’d shown a bit more patience with the Osceola he could have slipped back around and in an unfiltered line of fire. I don’t know.

I do know I’ve learned my lesson. “No lead, no dead” is a fun campsite slogan, but in the field I’ll be taking concerted efforts to slow down, breathe and try not to make so much happen simply because I am running with the big gun.

2010 Florida Spring Turkey Hunting Primer

With Florida’s Spring Turkey Season resuming March 6th in the South Zone, here’s a list of somewhat random things you should know before the 2010 campaign kicks off.

- Remember, Florida is home to two subspecies of turkey, the Osceola and Eastern. Regardless of what an entrepreneurial outfitter may have sold you, the Osceola resides only in the peninsular section of the state. If you’re coming to Florida to hunt the Osceola, make sure you haven’t booked a trip in the Panhandle.

- Here’s FWC’s list of walk-on WMA’s for those without a quota permit.

- Correctly, a third and fourth subspecies of turkey lives in Florida. The third typically inhabits WMA’s and is particularly dangerous. They can be lured in with a number of calls, a gobble being most effective, and are extremely hazardous to jake decoys in particular. If you suspect this beast roams your woods, take great care in setting up your spread in the morning. The Fourth breed of wild turkey comes in liquid form, and is, more often than not, directly responsible for the actions of the above-mentioned subspecies.

- I guess you should know the legal mumbo-jumbo. The daily bag limit for bearded turkeys is one, while the season limit is two, almost guaranteeing someone will break the law when, after days of fruitless pursuit, a pair of satellite gobblers comes wandering in. Hunting license is $17 for residents, $46.50 for nonresident 10-day license; Management area permit is $26.50 and needed for all WMA’s; and the turkey tag is $5 for residents, $100 for nonresidents.

- Popping a bearded hen is in the Top-Five of my hunting goals. And she’s going straight to the taxidermist when it happens. What a neat trophy, I think.

- You may not use dogs to hunt turkeys, hunt within 100 yards of a feeder, or shoot them from the roost. Why us hunters are held to strict standards is beyond me; it’s not like the toms play by the rules. They should be required to consistently gobble at call, never walk up behind you, and never follow hens to a feeder.

- I hunt with a Mossberg 835 3 ½ Magnum, stoked with Winchester Supreme #5’s. Those who’ve hunted with me on a regular basis know I’ve done some wicked things with this set-up, but I won’t repeat it here for fear of scaring the children. We’ll just say at forty-five yards it’s lethal, and beyond that it’s pretty deadly too. Still, the focus of turkey hunting should be getting the birds in as close as you can. The fact they manufacture shotguns that’ll poke across a cow pasture doesn’t mean it’s a great idea.

- Usually, I prefer to stay put when I hunt, but there are times to go mobile. Two things will make your day so much easier. One, a shotgun with a short barrel, 20-22 inches. You never know how helpful this can be until you go crawling through Florida tangle trying to circle a field bird or what have you. Two, a vest with a seat built in. Yes, they sell stools and chairs, but a vest where you can pull a strap and sit comfortably against the palmettos without toting extra junk is the cat’s meow. Go. Spend money. Help the economy. And your hunt.

- Take a hog with you when you go. Spring gobbler season in Florida is an opportune time to do a combo hunt either during the middle of the day when the birds have shut up and are back in the woods, or after you’ve tagged out. The hogs love the new growth grasses and vegetation of spring, and can be a downright nuisance some mornings. Plan accordingly. (Check with individual WMA regs!)

- Florida is one of the few states where it’s legal to harvest toms with centerfire rifles on private land. But man, if you want to raise the hackles of the faithful, show up to camp with an AR-15 for purposes outside of swine. Ethically, I see nothing wrong. People shoot deer standing in the middle of fields with rifles all the times. What is different with turkeys? As a sporting concept though, especially to those of us who plant decoys and roost birds, it’s akin to fishing with dynamite.

- Decoys, as you may have already picked up, are legal in Florida. One question I can’t completely solve is the jake decoy. I’ve had gobblers charge it, ready to whoop some butt, and other birds high-tail it the other direction on seeing the young foam stud hanging with his blowup dolls. I always carry one, but tend to regard it as a secret weapon anymore.

- Necessary items you should have in your turkey vest: decoys; one slate call, two strikers; one box call; one push peg; a Tom Gaskins call for practical and spiritual purposes; a pair of clippers; toilet paper and Therma-Cell refills. Anything else is extraneous unless you are backpacking into the Green Swamp for a month.

Good luck to you this spring. Gobble, gobble!

Busted! Turkey Tales of Woe

If you hunt gobblers long enough, you will get busted. A sure thing becomes a bad memory. I promise there is not a turkey hunter worth his salt who has not screwed up royally over the years – and never trust one who says otherwise.

I’ll never claim perfection. I’ve ruined enough hunts with bad decisions to even make such a remark, but at least I’ve come away with a lesson learned. Here are my Top 3 Gobbler Goofs (I could run this into the double digits, but would like spare myself some embarrassment).

3. Mr. Patience

I’d set up on the edge of a Florida oak hammock near a roost and dry wet-weather pond where I figured the birds would fly down. Morning came and not even a cluck. It was the first time I’d hunted this spot, but had plenty of reason to believe there was a gobbler in the area – I’d seen him on an earlier trip. Still, it was late in a warm season and gobbling activity had slackened, so I should have expected a quiet morning.

Impatience grabbed me early, though. I figured I could slip out to a cow pasture on the other side of the swamp and find a tom strutting.

I walked out to retrieve my decoys. As I returned to my oak-root seat to grab the rest of my gear, the gobbler was standing behind where I had been sitting, no doubt watching me get the dekes and shaking his head at this fool in the woods before high-tailing it, as only a gobbler can. But give it credit; the bird had more patience with me than I had for him.

Lesson Learned – It pays to have some faith in your set-up, especially late in the spring. Boss toms have an annoying habit of sneaking in quiet anyhow, but after the pressure of the season builds, they can go completely lockjaw. If you’ve done your scouting, located a bird and can exhibit just a bit more measure of self-control than you think you are capable of, you’ll probably get your tom, although it may not be the Made-For-TV moment of strutting and gobbling you expected.

2. Getting All Up In His Grill

If you’d watched gobblers constantly walk to this one tree to feed and strut, it’d make sense to sit under said tree to nail one, right?

One would think. I did such a thing. A huge oak sat in the middle of a 40 yard break between palmettos and a swamp bottom. Over the course of a couple mornings, we watched several toms strut right up to this tree and chase hens around before petering out into the cow pastures. I’d tried intercepting them on their way from the roost and on their way to the pastures with no luck. For some reason they keyed on this tree. They cared nothing about calls or decoys, and my set-ups were always just-too-far away from my kill zone.

Well, we’ll just solve that problem! One morning, a friend and I plopped down under the tree, deployed the decoys and waited. Sure enough, soon after the first crow caw a gobbler lit up, answering my calls and everything else – I could have thrown my box call against the tree and he would have gobbled.

He hit the ground gobbling and made his way to the tree. For some reason though, he held up.

Finally, I glimpsed back to see his head poking out of the myrtles, kinda like in Jurassic Park when the velociraptor kills the game warden – he was suddenly too close for comfort and knew something was up. He slowly backed up and gobbled his way to the swamp, out of view. I tried to re-position several times, but he was having none of it.

Lesson Learned – The tom knew trouble immediately. One, we were too close to where he roosted. He probably - I use “probably” since I don’t have a great grasp on any turkey’s deep thoughts and feelings - watched up set up, get adjusted, etc. Two, he and the other birds in the area had probably been following the same ritual every morning for a month. He may have been a talkative bird, but not a stupid one. To him, something’s wrong when he heard hens clucking at the base of the tree at first light. Three, me flipping my head around surely sealed the deal. He played cautious anyhow, circling us, but that movement no doubt iced the cake.

In hindsight, I could have set up on some trees by the palmettos within in shotgun range and been fine, but I wanted him to land in my lap. That mentality ignited every red flare in that bird’s consciousness. I guess the big lesson here is not to interfere with their habits. Stay just on the edge and out of their microscope.

1. The Big One

This incident still hurts, and it’s been 6 or 7 years by now. I’d set up in an oak hammock humbly named, “Ian’s Island.” A shallow creek separated it from the larger hammock, and I’d convinced myself it was the Promised Land.

Well, my dad hunted the big hammock, and I went to mine. After a quick sprinkle that refreshed the morning, a gobbler sounded off. Really, it bellowed – shook the raindrops off the leaves. Dad and I were at least 200 yards apart with the gobbler perched in the middle.

As luck would have it, the bird came my way, approaching from behind – seems all these stories sound the same – but separated from my ambush by the creek.

Now, we’ve all heard gobblers won’t cross fences, creeks, etc. The tom hadn’t read that. I had him gobbling and on a rope, but convinced myself he’d never cross that creek. Since I thought him to be the dominant male in the area, I pulled out my box call to gobble at him, hoping in desperation to challenge him across the water.

As it turned out, there was no need for this. I went to strike a gobble at him just as he showed up off my right shoulder. He was a big boy. And when he saw me hit the paddle and a half-gobble, half-car wreck noise wobbled out of the box, he hit the brakes and reversed course.

I tried to scoot over to get a desperation shot, but my vest has one of those fold-down seats that prevented me from standing or moving quickly. He ran straight through that creek and put it in the wind.

I shook my head all the way to the truck right up until now as I painfully recall this.

Lesson Learned – If a bird is coming to you, let him come. Don’t get too fancy. They won’t cross creeks? At least give him a chance to try. I’ve killed multiple birds that ducked under barbed wire which allegedly they won’t do either.

I swear the mortality rate of gobblers would be infinitely higher if hunters didn’t screw around so much. Call only as much needed to grab and hold his attention – if even that. I can almost guarantee a push-button call and 15 minutes worth of patience has laid more toms low than hurry and some “Screaming Eagle” metallic, marketing scheme of a call has.

Look, you will probably mess up one day. It happens. These birds are sharp which makes hunting them such an exciting challenge. Just try and avoid making them look any smarter than they already are!