An Osceola in the Rain

.
(Originally Posted at Good Hunt)

The rain was no surprise - hell, it seemed to pour on every other hunt this turkey season. At this point, it was laughable, and the mirthful radar displayed waves of yellow and red rolling in from the southwest straight into the Big Bend.

The property of scrub and planted pines and cypress heads in Rosewood I hunted the last weekend of Florida's Spring Turkey was more of a bog. Without any major creek systems or ditches to move water combined with a solid sheet of limestone 20-ft. underground, the persistent downpours over the previous six weeks had nowhere to go other than through merciful evaporation.

So, rain - no surprise. The shock was my ability to stave off complete inebriation. When it's raining, I'm a full-blown pessimist. In these surroundings with these conditions, the only reasonable thing to do - in my sick mind - is swale bourbon, laugh too loud, and eat a huge steak by nightfall. Beyond the safety and legal ramifications of this, once the whiskey starts flowing with any rapidity, my feet are kicked up and the hunt is over. Call it advancing maturity, call it triumph of the human spirit, call it the bloodlust to kill one more turkey, but I avoided this urge. I just felt I'd have a chance at action later in the day if I kept it between the buoys, as Alan Jackson would say.

I can't say it was easy being trapped in the cabin, despite its comforts. The Friday morning hunt was cut short by howling winds - my turkey calling attempts blew away only slightly faster than the sideways pine needles. And from previous conversations with Mike, the owner of the property, the gobblers hadn't been all that vocal this year, dampening my enthusiasm further. Back in camp before nine, we settled down for breakfast and watched Bay News 9 reveal our fate via iPhone.

(Quick aside - if someone had told you 20 years ago that there would be a device that let you talk, text, check e-mail, sports scores, weather stations, and other websites - wink-wink - how much would you have predicted it'd cost? $10,000? More?)

By 10:30 there was a solid downpour. We looked through hundreds of trail camera pictures of drier days to bide the time. The hogs on this property are ridiculous. You almost never saw the same one, yet the property is under 90-acres. And we noticed most of the gobblers moved after noon and later into the evening.

In particular, we noticed one large tom sporting a rainbow of a beard. He was clearly a mature animal that had been recently ambling between two locations from 2 to about 5pm. Three jakes were frequently photographed, as well, and at this point, that would be game on. I set it to my mind that I could get one of these birds if given half-a-chance, and maybe a pig, too.

At four, the rains ceased. The radar had showed a break in the weather. Dad and I hurriedly donned our gear and set to the woods. I chose one of the areas where the gobbler had been seen in the last few days, and set up in the only dry place I could find, a treestand. Adding to this unconventional arrangement, I was toting my Ruger No. 1 .25-06. I'll happily debate another day the political correctness of turkey hunting with a rifle, but with the pigs and coyotes on the property, I wanted to be ready for anything.

It didn't take long. After settling in, I loudly yelped a few times. Within minutes, one of those jakes came splish-splashing down a trail, poking around for a potential lover. He sadly found it. That Ruger loves killing turkeys. I shot him very carefully in the neck to avoid ruining any breast meat, and he dropped in a puddle at 20-yards, soaking his feathers. All turkey are worthy opponents to me; hate to see them all drowned-rat-like. Of course, with the weather conditions he'd endured this Spring, this was probably a constant style for him.

I suppose I could have let him pass and held out for the bigger gobbler. I could have...but a bird in the hand and all that. Actually, Dad shot immediately after me. He had spooked a few hogs off while walking into his area, but things had settled down and he watched as that tom started closing the distance. At my shot, the gobbler changed directions, and Dad fired a desperation round. He should have been carrying a rifle.

We got back to camp soon after dark. I selfishly pined for a pig to wind down the day, but one never ambled by. As we packed our things away, the rain began to spit again. I stowed the jake in a trash bag and put him on ice to clean at the house and show the kids. As is my tradition, I did not get out of bed to hunt Saturday morning, my last of the season in Florida. The sheets were too comfortable, the 6-week season plenty long and exhausting, and I finally got to those drinks I'd be meaning to enjoy.

This time, though, they were of a celebratory nature and not dedicated to the rains.

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. 

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)

What to do with a Blackpowder Shotgun?

My buddy Vo gifted me a muzzleloading shotgun - I’m officially a double-barreled .458 away from having it all.

He won it in a raffle a few years back. Vo is not a hunter. Unless he goes with me and that has been a very long time. After feeling guilty for not attending my wedding last June, he decided it would make a fine gift for us – or me, I suppose. He didn’t know what to do with it.

Not sure I know what to do with it. The gun rests in the corner of my nook like an alien weapon stumbled upon by humans in a Sci-Fi flick; I’m vaguely aware of its intentions, but have little idea how to make it work or define its exact purpose.

Well, let’s start from the beginning. The shotgun is a Knight TK2000 12-gauge. Vo was unaware of my Mossy Oak affiliations or he would not have given it to me replete in its Realtree-clad barrel and stock. I guess that’s not a big deal – best of my knowledge there are no Hatfield-McCoy blood feuds between the two companies, so I accepted it with open arms.

Besides, neither camo organization manufactured the shotgun; Knight was responsible for that. I’ve owned a .50-caliber Knight Disc Rifle since 2004 and absolutely love it. Maybe too many were donated for auction purposes or, like me, folks were satisfied with their first Knight purchase and did not buy upgrades, but sadly the company went into bankruptcy in 2009. But all glory was restored when the Knight line was resurrected in 2010.

The TK2000 utilizes a musket cap nipple in the breech plug. If I discover an upgrade to 209 shotgun primers, I will swap it out. Instead of a closed bolt system like my Disc rifle, this is a simple inline system where the bolt slams into the primer – a Streetsweeper it is not. No matter what, I’m guessing it kicks like hell.

Since we’re talking about a frontstuffer, obviously the shot is dumped down the barrel on top of some form of propellant. This is where my knowledge really waters down. Despite the vast amount of hunting and firearm literature I consume, I know very little about muzzleloading shotguns and will definitely need help with all considerations pertaining to how much shot, how much powder, and what wads to stuff down that barrel. And how to keep the shot from rolling out if I tip the barrel down!

(I’d offer my guesses on how to properly load it, but I’d inevitably wind up making a joke involving wads of chewing gum and condoms and get sued after some reader lost a few fingers for taking me seriously.)

The next big trick is how and when to use it. This is a hunting rig, not one of my many WWII rifles that just sit around collecting dust. The shotgun balances well, is camo-ed, and is fitted with fiber optic sights. No questioning its aesthetic suitability in the field.

Turkey hunting is the obvious answer, but let’s come back to that. Cole has suggested taking it on a duck hunt – you know, just to see what would happen. I think this would irritate others when that early-morning flock of teal disappears in the gray-blue smoke of my first shot. Each year we have a moorhen tournament and the Knight would certainly up the challenge quotient for that event. But water and blackpowder don’t mix well.

My other problem with waterfowling is the lead shot. This thing has a pretty tight choke on it, and to load up enough steel to down a duck, I’m scared it’d peel the muzzle open like a firearm in Elmer Fudd’s safe. I suppose I could use Tungsten or another malleable non-toxic shot – but that’s getting into cash for a novelty.

So turkey. Gonna have to put it on paper to determine that. Knight claims it will punch an 85% shot density in a 30” circle at 40 yards. But, having been around the block, I’m wary of such claims. And, I’m not exactly concerned with 30” circles when firing at a tom. We need pellets in the head/neck area.

Plus, turkey hunting is tough and frustrating enough with a normal shotgun. All I need is a bad primer to ruin a hunt and that would be the end of that experiment. I’d feel a whole lot easier with a closed bolt arrangement for those ultra-foggy Spring mornings in the latter end of Osceola season. (I can practically hear the flint and frizzen primitive blackpowder crowd banging their collective heads against a table. Hmmm....it is drilled and tapped for scope mounts...)

I do suppose, after some range time and fine-tuning, it will find the turkey woods one day. I like a new quest and the quirk of doing something as esoteric as shooting a tom with a blackpowder shotgun.

It’s a project and one I’m seriously looking forward to. If anyone has any suggestions – tips that won’t blow MY face off – please feel free share.

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.

Giving the Decoys a Milk Moustache

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

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

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

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

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

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

YouTube Video of the Week - Coyote Close Call

Have just an awesome video for you this week courtesy of WhiteTailAddicT at USA Hunting Pros. Silly coyote!

Sometime soon, too, I plan to get off my lazy behind and do some actual writing.

Until then, enjoy.

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.

Guest Post - Turkey Hunting Safety

Thanks to Treerooster at the NWTF Forum for permitting me to re-publish this post. Just a savage reminder to pay attention in the woods.

(Original Thread Here)

Some will be hitting the woods in a few weeks, and I thought it's time for a safety reminder.

I think this is my 4th year posting this, and I am sure a lot of you have seen this before. But there are new hunters going out on their first season and always new board members.

So...

In the spring of 2005, I had just finished a turkey hunt in Colorado with my friend, James, a couple days earlier. James headed to Kansas for another hunt, and I was on the road to Black Hills of South Dakota. As I drove near a cellphone tower my phone beeped. It was a message from my wife. In an emotional and broken voice she said, “Gary call me, Fred shot James.”

Below are his X-rays





James was hit with a Remington #5 Hevi-shot from approximately 40yds (shooter's estimate). He was just getting up from a calling position and was in full camo, including face mask and gloves. He had at least 139 hits. One was within millimeters of an artery to the brain. One or two passed through his lung. Two are, to this day, lodged in his heart.

Let me get up on the soap box for a minute:

My job as a tree climber has some inherent dangers in it, and when I first started learning to climb trees my boss said, "Gary, there are 2 times when you will be a danger to yourself. When you are afraid, and when you think you can't get hurt." I think the 2nd situation applies to us turkey hunters. If you think you can't get shot, for whatever reason, you are a danger to yourself. If you think you could never shoot someone, you are a danger to others. James was shot by his BIL that had over 40 years experience hunting, and he was shot on private land.

Just like driving we can hunt defensively.

Always assume someone else could be in the woods with you, even if no one is supposed to be there.

Set up your decoy so if someone were to shoot it, the shot would not hit you. Use folds in the terrain, a tree as a block, or plenty of open ground behind the decoy.

Think about hunter orange (hat or flagging tape). Maybe while carrying your bird out, or possibly even a flag at your set-up. You don’t have to use it but at least asess the situation.

Be safe guys. Hunt defensively and be sure of your target.

Thanks for listening.

BTW James has recovered and continues to hunt turkeys.