np307
Ten Pointer
Hey y'all. First post here, but I've lurked some in the past. I killed my first turkey this year and wanted to do a little write-up of the experience. I figured this would be a good place to post it.
My alarm went off at an ungodly hour on a Monday morning. Everyone hates Mondays, but nobody hates Mondays like pastors do. Preaching and teaching is mentally tiring and that leads to physical exhaustion. I did not want to get up early on a Monday, during the last week of turkey season (when the gobblers were probably going to be quiet anyway), to go chase the birds that had been giving me the slip all year. I thought about waiting until later and just slipping in for an hour or two of prime-time, but ultimately decided to drag out of bed and suit up.
It was a clear morning and cooler than I expected. The high for the day was supposed to top 90 for the first time all year, but in the dark of the morning I comfortably walked two miles of logging roads in long sleeves without sweating. I made my way back to a section of public land that I had experienced frustration with throughout the season. I stumbled upon it out of pure curiosity and had a jake appear at 60 yards, only to disappear as soon as I saw him. Once more, I battled with a gobbler for 45 minutes only to discover that he refused to cross a swollen creek that I couldn’t find a decent crossing for. All of this weighed on mind, even tempting me to investigate another corner of land that seemed to always be occupied and have shotgun blasts coming from it. I couldn’t let those birds get the better of me though, and so I went to complete what I had embarked on a week earlier.
As I tiptoed those last 50 yards, hoping not to alarm any birds that might have happened to roost in the area, I desperately looked for a different space to set up in. None was to be found, and I placed the decoy in the same spot I placed it just a few days prior. I sat down at the same tree and situated all my gear. Dawn had broken and birds were singing all around me. I joined in with some light scratches on a slate call, trying to convince the world that my decoy was a living, breathing turkey. As the sun rose higher, so did my heart rate. This was the first time all year that I had found birds on the roost. Gobbles and yelps were resounding from the trees to my right – the same direction as the creek which Mr. Tom wouldn’t cross earlier. Surely this wouldn’t be a repeat performance. After some more clucks and purrs, I saw the time was approaching 6:45 and I realized I hadn’t yet pulled my facemask up or put my gloves on. I did both of those and decided to lean back, close my eyes, and listen for the sounds of turkeys moving closer.
Ten minutes of not hearing any turkeys made me wonder if my calling had run them off or if they had avoided me in the fly down. I was interrupted by the subtle sounds of a turkey spitting. Turkeys have a funny way of sounding distant while close and sounding close while distant. I knew this turkey was behind me, but he sounded like he was over the hill behind me. Assuming I had time and distance on my side, I turned my head to look dead in the eyes of a red-headed jake no more than seven yards away.
My first instinct was to fumble for my shotgun, but I was frozen solid. My heart pounded as the jake eyed me and then the decoy he so wanted to become more acquainted with. He didn’t like what he saw and began to leave. His back completely to me, I maneuvered my grandpa’s shotgun to my shoulder and clicked the safety off. If the jake went straight away from me, I would have no shot. Suddenly, he seemed to remember that my decoy was there and turned to his left. I still had no shot, but he was heading for a small gap between two trees. In my mind, this dance was taking hours, but in reality he had moved no further than 5 yards. That red head showed up between those trees and I pulled the trigger.
I haven’t been a hunter for very long. I’ve hunted deer for 4 years and only last year did I kill my first. This was only my second year hunting turkeys, with last year’s hunts consisting of two days spent aimlessly wandering around while scratching on a slate call. Though my experience in the woods is short, and my dreams of the woods are not well-developed, one dream I had always entertained was to take an animal with my grandpa’s shotgun. It’s just a common man’s autoloader: a Winchester Ranger 140, not even the more well-known 1400. I’ve shot skeet with it and every time I’m reminded of a man who I admire, even having very few memories of him. A connection with one whom I share blood and personality with. Every time I have pulled the trigger on this shotgun since the time my dad handed it down to me as a teenager, I reflect on a man that I miss without having known for even 10 years.
The jake started flopping. All the nerves and muscles of the bird were now firing while being cut off from any brain activity. He was dead. When I killed my first deer, my reaction was subtle. My heart rate increased, but I still had plenty of rational thought left. I calmly texted friends and family who had been waiting to hear the news. As I watched this bird flop on the ground and I realized what had just happened, I thought my heart would explode. I pinched myself, expecting to wake up from this dream to find myself still sitting under the pine tree without a hint of any turkeys around. But this was no dream, instead it was a dream realized.
It’s easy to get worked up about beard and spur length, and I certainly want to take some trophy turkeys throughout my life, but when I look at this fan on the wall I’ll see the greatest trophy in the world. Life is about the decisions we make, but what we have from those decisions are the memories they create. Hunting is no different. This is a reminder from someone who knows next to nothing about turkey hunting – remember your roots. Create those hunting memories now and give yourself something on which you can reflect for the remainder of your days. Happy hunting.
My alarm went off at an ungodly hour on a Monday morning. Everyone hates Mondays, but nobody hates Mondays like pastors do. Preaching and teaching is mentally tiring and that leads to physical exhaustion. I did not want to get up early on a Monday, during the last week of turkey season (when the gobblers were probably going to be quiet anyway), to go chase the birds that had been giving me the slip all year. I thought about waiting until later and just slipping in for an hour or two of prime-time, but ultimately decided to drag out of bed and suit up.
It was a clear morning and cooler than I expected. The high for the day was supposed to top 90 for the first time all year, but in the dark of the morning I comfortably walked two miles of logging roads in long sleeves without sweating. I made my way back to a section of public land that I had experienced frustration with throughout the season. I stumbled upon it out of pure curiosity and had a jake appear at 60 yards, only to disappear as soon as I saw him. Once more, I battled with a gobbler for 45 minutes only to discover that he refused to cross a swollen creek that I couldn’t find a decent crossing for. All of this weighed on mind, even tempting me to investigate another corner of land that seemed to always be occupied and have shotgun blasts coming from it. I couldn’t let those birds get the better of me though, and so I went to complete what I had embarked on a week earlier.
As I tiptoed those last 50 yards, hoping not to alarm any birds that might have happened to roost in the area, I desperately looked for a different space to set up in. None was to be found, and I placed the decoy in the same spot I placed it just a few days prior. I sat down at the same tree and situated all my gear. Dawn had broken and birds were singing all around me. I joined in with some light scratches on a slate call, trying to convince the world that my decoy was a living, breathing turkey. As the sun rose higher, so did my heart rate. This was the first time all year that I had found birds on the roost. Gobbles and yelps were resounding from the trees to my right – the same direction as the creek which Mr. Tom wouldn’t cross earlier. Surely this wouldn’t be a repeat performance. After some more clucks and purrs, I saw the time was approaching 6:45 and I realized I hadn’t yet pulled my facemask up or put my gloves on. I did both of those and decided to lean back, close my eyes, and listen for the sounds of turkeys moving closer.
Ten minutes of not hearing any turkeys made me wonder if my calling had run them off or if they had avoided me in the fly down. I was interrupted by the subtle sounds of a turkey spitting. Turkeys have a funny way of sounding distant while close and sounding close while distant. I knew this turkey was behind me, but he sounded like he was over the hill behind me. Assuming I had time and distance on my side, I turned my head to look dead in the eyes of a red-headed jake no more than seven yards away.
My first instinct was to fumble for my shotgun, but I was frozen solid. My heart pounded as the jake eyed me and then the decoy he so wanted to become more acquainted with. He didn’t like what he saw and began to leave. His back completely to me, I maneuvered my grandpa’s shotgun to my shoulder and clicked the safety off. If the jake went straight away from me, I would have no shot. Suddenly, he seemed to remember that my decoy was there and turned to his left. I still had no shot, but he was heading for a small gap between two trees. In my mind, this dance was taking hours, but in reality he had moved no further than 5 yards. That red head showed up between those trees and I pulled the trigger.
I haven’t been a hunter for very long. I’ve hunted deer for 4 years and only last year did I kill my first. This was only my second year hunting turkeys, with last year’s hunts consisting of two days spent aimlessly wandering around while scratching on a slate call. Though my experience in the woods is short, and my dreams of the woods are not well-developed, one dream I had always entertained was to take an animal with my grandpa’s shotgun. It’s just a common man’s autoloader: a Winchester Ranger 140, not even the more well-known 1400. I’ve shot skeet with it and every time I’m reminded of a man who I admire, even having very few memories of him. A connection with one whom I share blood and personality with. Every time I have pulled the trigger on this shotgun since the time my dad handed it down to me as a teenager, I reflect on a man that I miss without having known for even 10 years.
The jake started flopping. All the nerves and muscles of the bird were now firing while being cut off from any brain activity. He was dead. When I killed my first deer, my reaction was subtle. My heart rate increased, but I still had plenty of rational thought left. I calmly texted friends and family who had been waiting to hear the news. As I watched this bird flop on the ground and I realized what had just happened, I thought my heart would explode. I pinched myself, expecting to wake up from this dream to find myself still sitting under the pine tree without a hint of any turkeys around. But this was no dream, instead it was a dream realized.
It’s easy to get worked up about beard and spur length, and I certainly want to take some trophy turkeys throughout my life, but when I look at this fan on the wall I’ll see the greatest trophy in the world. Life is about the decisions we make, but what we have from those decisions are the memories they create. Hunting is no different. This is a reminder from someone who knows next to nothing about turkey hunting – remember your roots. Create those hunting memories now and give yourself something on which you can reflect for the remainder of your days. Happy hunting.
