Scouting trips had been anything but encouraging.
There was, at one of those monsoon puddles, a single track in the
mud. I had hunted this patch of Area 22 many times, though it had
been several years since my last visit. I practically knew the
terrain well enough to not even bother with topo maps. The two
main waterholes, however, showed not a trace of big birds. Still,
as October approached I felt positive. For one, the area always
had turkeys around. For another it was finally fall season, time
to enter the woods for harvest.
Opening day came fast, like seemingly everything as we get older.
Just the weekend before, though not in my hunting area, I had seen
turkeys in an open meadow at first light. That tipped my decision
to select the waterhole in the lower, more open juniper terrain,
instead of the tank located in the pines. I snuck in before first
light, wedged the folding chair tight against a bush that shielded
the soon rising sun, and optimistically looked and listened. On
fall turkey hunts, one can dare a rifle shot, so it was the combo
resting across my legs, waiting for action.
Certainly about two hours into it, this game became very old!
Nothing, not a single big critter of any kind showed. Smaller
birds and my 10x30 binoculars became my friends. Flycatchers,
finches and mainly jays provided at least some sort of distraction.
At one time I witnessed a deadly attack as a sparrow hawk dove deep
into a rather thick bush to grab a songbird. At least there was
one successful hunter at this waterhole! But hey, some ten years
ago I had bagged a hen here, so be patient dammit. That’s what I
explained to my rear end which by now began to beg for mercy,
longing for some old-fashioned walking, even standing up, just
anything other than pressure of 200+ pounds wedging against cheap
canvas.
Relief was on the way. Around 10 AM I had to change my position to
remain obscured in the shadow. A few hours later I had arrived at
the other side of this tank, to keep vegetation between me and the
sun. By then, however, I had enough of this sitting BS, so I folded
the dreadful chair, stuffed it under some brush for possible future
use, and had all but stepped out of the shade when I detected a deer
moving through an opening in the distant bushes. That changed
everything. Is now the time for wild and free creatures to come to
water? Maybe I ought to hunt smart, instead of hard. Sandwich,
snack and juice at the Toyota, parked some three-quarter miles uphill,
would have to wait. I would sit the day out at this waterhole, come
hell or high . . . I mean turkey. The shadows slowly grew longer, and
so did my face. Admittedly, that late in the day my focus wasn’t
sharp on ambushing turkeys anymore.
And of course, just then, around 4:30 p.m., it happened (yes, if you
did the math, that’s more than ten long hours of waiting). My mind
was full of doubt, drifting, idling, and my body was ill positioned
for all eventualities. Movement behind my right shoulder suddenly
drew every string of attention. Probably to offset his oh-so-ugly
head, the tom was dressed in the prettiest black, brown and gray
outfit, with obvious beard dangling, as he hesitantly stepped out of
the bushes, not even fifteen steps away, followed by at least four
more flock members. With the barrels of my combo so typically
pointed away from them I had no better choice than to freeze. A
shoulder holster containing my .410 Contender with #6 pellets in its
3” chamber would have been so handy at that moment! Oh well, hunting
is not perfect. The birds hopefully would proceed to the water’s edge,
thus significantly lessening the angle I would have to move the
barrels through.
That worked for exactly four steps, when the leader looked my way, and
did not like what he saw. Or at least his senses pushed the caution
button as this tom stopped and stared, then turned and slowly began to
retreat. Damn!
Now I slowly and gently rotated the combo and turned my body towards
them. That just made the bunch more eager to get back. The gun lost
this snail race.
By the time I had it trained on the big birds, they were behind bushes
again. I had to get off the chair, make a few steps. I detected their
heads and outlines behind cover, but could not find them in the scope
because the setting sun made everything bright. Talk about bright . . .
it would have been a bright idea to have thoroughly cleaned the optics
before the hunt!
Sure, all #6s in the Rottweil ounce and a quarter 12 gauge shell, left
behind by my brother after his last elk hunt visit, were just eager to
be unleashed. But shotgunning was out, too risky to slay more than my
tag was issued for. Their heads were too closely staggered in the
bushes, and how many could I not even see?
Just when frustration peaked, a single turkey walked through an opening,
now some seventy paces up the slope. It took about two seconds to mount
the gun, aim and squeeze the front trigger. Sierra’s 130gr Single Shot
7mm, downloaded with 26 grains of IMR4227, found the big bird! He
seemed to collapse, wings flapping frantically, as he disappeared behind
junipers to the left. Thrashing and flopping continued for a few
seconds, then eerie silence. I reloaded the 7x65R chamber, and soon
found the tom, expired.
With an apology to my rear end, and a smirk on my face the messy and
tedious job of plucking was almost a joy. At least I was standing,
and even shuffling my feet. The bullet had hit him in the spine just
inches above his butt, exited through the right thigh, and clipped that
wing. He might go 10 pounds, but I swear he weighed as much as a range
cow by the time my right hand got him to the SUV.
All that boring sitting had resulted in a Thanksgiving beast. Thank
you, indeed!
Julie began her hunt the next morning. We occupied the same waterhole
again, since I had denied them access the day before. None showed.
We tried again in the afternoon, and none showed.
Then I remembered seeing them many seasons ago under the power line
late in the afternoon, probably on their way to roost. We relocated,
walked the power line road. My ego swelled when indeed a big dark
bird popped up ahead of us, unfortunately over 150 paces ahead. Julie
launched lead from the 7mm08, and barely missed. We heard, but did not
see them Sunday.
Thursday, the last day of the season, was earmarked for one more try at
turkeys. Glenn was able to come along, having mostly beaten back an
untimely (is there any other kind?) illness. To make it short, we all
saw turkeys, both Julie and Glenn had a shot late in the afternoon
while waiting in ambush at separate waterholes. Unfortunately both
shots were far, over a hundred paces, and the turkey are still there to
talk about it.
It is now past Thanksgiving. David offered to deep-fry my wild turkey.
A mere forty minutes in bubbling oil made him brown and delicious!
Real turkey taste, noticeably richer than what your grocer’s freezer
offers. Hope we’ll get drawn again in 2005!
