Charlie Elk

pseudonym of a man

Sunrise on the Oklahoma Red River

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The following is the account written by First Bubba detailing his effort to get a “cull buck” who earlier visited his trail camera.

Photo of First Bubba’s cull buck  “My trail cam has revealed an older, heavy antlered buck that needs to be culled.”

First Bubba mentioned this buck in his comment on my deer post “My trail cam has revealed an older, heavy antlered buck that needs to be culled.”

Of course, I wished him luck with his cull operation.  And here is what happens during First Bubba’s attempt at culling the big 10.

The sun is creeping up to the horizon on Red River of Oklahoma.  A gorgeous morning!  Dead still, not a cloud in the sky and 30°F.  I took a 5-minute wait at the STOP sign on the highway to finally get my frosted windshield clear enough to continue.

I’m humming a tune, dreaming about the thermos of hot, black coffee and the biscuits in my pack. When I get settled into the blind and got the coffee and biscuits out, the eastern horizon is beginning its morning blush.  The food plot is dark, but I can see well enough to tell no deer are present.

The coffee and biscuits taste like heaven in the chilly gloom.  About 6:45a the biscuit is gone and the slow sipping of the coffee satisfies.

I glass the wheat pasture for movement… Nothing.

I go back to sipping the now cooling coffee… Glass again. Still nothing…Back to the coffee.
Just as I set the thermos down, the motion of a deer jumping the fence gets my attention.  I’m hoping for the big 10 point that’s on my trail camera; IT’S HIM!

7:00 AM Ruger No.1 .270 WinRedfield 4× standard
Sierra 110 grain SP
I forgot! 18.5″ outside spread.

 

 

 

I’m on the .270 and watching him through the scope, waiting, impatiently for him to give me a broadside.
He picks at the oats and slowly turns to offer his right shoulder…I slip the safety off, find the trigger and squeeze. He collapsed in his tracks! I never feel the recoil.

My scale only went to 160 pounds – He bottomed it out!  Field dressed, he weighed 135 pounds.
Nine points.

The Euro Mount

OOPS! Wrong buck, good luck getting the “right cull buck” next year Bubba.  Or, what the heck, just keep shooting nine pointers!

Congratulations on a very nice deer.

Hunting Deer From the Ground in Wisconsin

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The pungent smell of a buck drifted down on the morning thermals right when an urge to stretch crawled through my muscles.  The yearn to stretch was mentally pushed aside, on a windless morning like this the smell of a deer this strong leaves me with no doubt a buck is close, very close. A glance at the winding string tied to my bow tip indicates the deer is uphill behind me 45 degrees to my right.  Deer just like turkeys seem to always approach on my weak side.  Many years of turkey hunting has taught me how to hide on the ground in plain sight and at moments like this, a hunter must be quiet and motionless.  Everything in the woods has slowed to the speed of a molasses flow.  My eyes have moved as far to the right side of my head as possible and strain to push further, there is no sound of a moving deer perhaps my nose mistook the odor.  I slowly inhale, nope, there is no mistake a rutting buck is not far away.  With a smell like that my bet is he is an elder carefully checking the safety of his next steps.  My eyes shift to confirm the thermal’s direction. According to the frayed dental floss tied on my bow tip still shows the path of scent movement is in my favor.

Last week while sitting in a Gobbler Lounger a doe unexpectedly showed up standing right in front of me at ten yards.  She busted me, stomped her foot, snorted and bounded away.  After a few minutes, I bleated in the manner Ishi once upon a time would do to call deer for Pope and Young. After a short period of time, she came back, stopped at fifteen yards and bolted when my arrow passed through her engine room.  I found her laying peacefully within forty yards of my shot.

Knowing that the buck uphill behind me could move off unseen in any number of directions, I decided to make the Ishi call.  In this case, I did not dare touch the heel of hand to my lips. Instead, I pressed my lips tightly together as when I kee-kee on a wing bone.  As I sucked air in through my lips, the desired soft bleat sounded.  It worked, the buck begins quartering down the hill passing 6 feet to my right and continued angling down the slope toward the trail I had figured deer would walk along broadside past me.

Keeping an eye on the buck and the winding string on my bow I could anticipate the exact spot where the buck’s nose would intersect my scent line, much experience has taught me if there is going to be a fatal shot it must occur before that intersection.  When his head went behind a tree I raised my bow, he never noticed and when his front leg extended out for his next step my arrow hit in the pocket with a hair cutting blood spraying thump.  The surprised buck launched, scrambling/crashing away, all went quiet, after the saga of the buck trail last year I decided to wait 30 minutes before standing up to check anything out.  Even though my broadhead was robust, sharp and the shot was good.   Checked the time, 9:00 A, at 9:10A there was loud sounds of a falling deer sliding down a steep hill being cheered on by some startled squirrels.  Not sure who made more noise the buck or the squirrels, this little puzzle kept me occupied for the next twenty minutes or so.  Then that long-awaited stretch as I stood up felt so good.

After a rough slide down to the bottom, he lays with head resting on a rock.

Sure I had heard the buck drop I contained the urge to make haste to the place of that sound;  it is always best to move with purpose along the trail without taking any shortcuts until you see the deer laying dead.  At the point of the shot, there was lots of cut deer hair and foamy pink blood, but the amount of blood leading out from there was less than I like to see.  However, with the large divets kicked up through the fallen leaves, there was no doubt which way the buck went.  I advanced on high alert watching the trail well ahead for my deer after moving forty yards the edge of the deepest ravine on the property came into view, and few feet from the drop was a huge puddle of blood as if someone had just dumped it from a pail.  Best of all 150 yards almost straight down, at the bottom of the ravine lay my buck.

 

Life Beyond a Screen

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My rowboat slipped quietly to the dock, as usual, the dogs were excited to disembark and get about the most critical of dog business,

Sunrise on the lake is relaxing even for a husky.

checking to see who left new scents during their absence.

The husky, Jaz,  whined while Vic snorted as they both scramble out onto the dock claws scratching on the dock boards as I held their leashes in check. The low water level makes it a bit of a challenge for me to get up on the dock and as I straighten up to look around for any incoming dog company, none to be seen so we start clomping down the galley-way only to pull up short to take in the weird sight confronting us.  It appears time has stopped!

No one is moving at this ordinarily bustling village boat landing.   There are tourists scattered about, but they are all frozen in place staring at these odd small rectangles held in the hands.  Even their small designer dogs are stopped stiffly at leash end.  Did I row us into another dimension or perhaps a Twilight Zone where time stands still?  My head snaps a look back from where we came, and to my relief, all appears normal.  The beautiful sunrise glistening on the rippling blue waves, gulls circling on the thermals, and pelicans are fishing. Other bird songs are dripping like jeweled droplets all around.  Yet, all these folks appear oblivious to sights, smells and sounds all around them.  Are all these folks unaware of the surrounding real world or is it distasteful causing the life in the screen to be more comfortable?  I do not know, except to accept the old cliche “to each their own.”

During my youth before screens became so ubiquitous an old, philosophical sage warned that screens would become windows of reality to those who spend too much time looking through them.  The human mind and eye would lose interest peering out of real windows.  A few years ago I thought of him and his insight again while turkey hunting with a buddy.  A blabbermouth gobbler was sounding off nonstop on his to our set up.  As usual, the tom was coming into my calls from behind, but no problem, my buddy is sitting at the backside of the tree.

As the gobbles sent sparks of excitement deep into my hunting soul, surely a shot will ring out soon.  The turkey was very close and moving around to my weak side, his head pulsing the colors of mating excitement.  Still, no gunfire.  What the heck, did my sidekick fall asleep, enjoying the moment or is he being generous, letting the shot come to me?  OK, whatever I am ready.  The strutter finally gets clear in front of my gun barrel.  At the roar, in my peripheral vision, I see something odd flying in the air, and my fellow turkey hunter lets out a shriek. It turns out he had earbuds in while watching a turkey hunting video.  He thought all the gobbling was from the video and never looked up from the screen.  Viewing a hunting video while hunting!?  As I have come to understand watching a phone has become a standard hunting procedure.

“To each their own…”

 

Wild Turkey Burns

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Two hens and three toms strutted about two hundred yards ahead.  I had taken cover behind the charred remains of three oaks spaced like the legs of a three-legged stool.  Other than these oaks it is wide open between the birds and me. “What to do?” Is the recurring question bouncing around in my head; with their focus on the hens it is unlikely the gobblers will pay any attention to my calls.  Meaning the hens must go, only writers hunting on those protected game preserves call in hens who in turn lead the gobblers to the waiting gun. Wild turkeys in genuinely wild places do not act in this manner. Instead, the wild hens are jealous by nature and will try to lead the toms away rather than share.   Without a turkey dog, a scatter will not likely be useful.

As the toms fans into the strut, they are all facing away from me, and the hens are looking in my direction; I stand up to make sure those girls see me and see they do as the scoot off into the brush line leaving the deflated gobs trying to figure out what just happened.  Before they realize anything is amiss, I yammer out some forceful clucks and yelps on the slate which is the first call out of my vest, putting the birds back into a strut; Although they are standing their ground well out of range as I grab for the next call.

On my knees behind the oaks, hunched over in a semi-ball shape, boonie hat pulled low to the eyes I am hoping to appear like a turkey as the challenge yelps and clucks charge off the Tongue Teaser. I peek around, and through the blackened oaks, one of the toms is within 100 yards and closing fast, I start to shake, oh my! all this may work! How can the gun be brought to bear?  As I pick up the little 20 gauge, I feel under gunned.

My poor planning has placed the gun on the left side of the trees, it would have been better on the right side, but in turkey hunting, you go with the situation.  All three turkeys stop when I peek around for a look; gently I lay the gun down to pick up the call and striker.  My striker’s hand is trembling with excitement to the point it’s sending out a morse code rather any sweet sounding turkey talk.  I have to smirk; it’s what I love about turkey hunting, the excitement is still there.

I sway slightly side to side telling myself this is to glimpse the birds. However, it does wonders for the cramping muscles.  Not only have I seen the birds, who have moved closer, one of which is now about 60 yards staring intently at the movement in the trio of burnt trees.  The gun still lays near at the ready, and this is calming, I scratch the burnt ground with a stick and then make some clucks, exchange the call for the gun and lean to the left.

The nearest turkey is approaching in all his splendor head-on, the sound of his feathers is audible, he gobbles and the electricity of the moment envelopes all of us at this moment, in this burnt field.  It is almost a shame the gunshot deflated the moment, but that is why we are called hunters, and that is what we hunt for time and time again.

 

Best Coyote Call – – Turkey Yelps

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If you are hunting coyotes in an area with turkeys and the coyotes are not responding to the rabbit, mouse, or fawn in distress calls;  try talking turkey.  As a long time year-round turkey hunter it is most annoying at how often coyotes come in and come in close looking for a turkey dinner.   Coyotes have investigated turkey calling during all seasons, spring, summer, fall and winter.

On December 31st the last day of Wisconsin turkey fall season the sub-zero temperatures were too cold for Vic, the turkey dog to hunt.   Sadly, he had to stay home while I went hunting.  Setting up for cold calling takes on a whole new dimension.

After setting up, I started making lost turkey sounds; these are a series of loud yelps trailing off as if the voice was breaking at the end.  Picture yourself yelling until your vocal cords become strained causing the sound to fade and crackle.  That’s what a lonesome, lost turkey sounds like as it tries in vain to find a companion.  A young bird of the year will throw in some Kee-kees.

Within 20 minutes this coyote made the mistake of thinking I was going be the turkey dinner.  A Federal premium 3 inch, #5 Third Degree turkey shell dropped her in her tracks.

Coyote killed with a Federal third-degree turkey load. Coyote came in fast & close to my calls of the wild turkey.

Yes, coyotes prey on wild turkeys.  Why would they not?

Coyote wild turkey kill. Coyote scat in the top of the picture. The scat contained what appear to be turkey feathers.

This coyote responded to turkey calls in November and was shot a few yards away with a shotgun using a turkey shotshell.

If you are a coyote hunter take a turkey call out with you and see what happens, you may just be pleasantly surprised.   And we turkey hunters will be grateful one less coyote is looking for a turkey dinner. Good luck.

The Ten Minute Buck Leads Us to Next Day

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Hunt date October 24, 2017

The buck stood just a mere 15 yards with one back leg lifted as if a dog on point.  The setting sun’s glare was blinding as I settled into the stand, so I turned my back to it while waiting for its further descent to the horizon.   The view on the other side of this short ladder-stand can be just as productive.  Figures, just like turkeys, deer like to appear on your backside.

The first assumption is the buck has busted me in this seven-foot stand. However, buck’s eyes are focusing on something at ground level and not at my position.  Apparently, this buck has come to find out what made the walking noise.  Whenever approaching a deer stand, it is best to walk in like a deer, the noises made must be natural sounding within the cadence of the deer’s world. In this case, instead of thinking a hunter had moved in this beautiful buck came to investigate a potential doe.

The temptation is to count points while waiting for a good shot; longtime experience has taught me not to do this, stop the one, two, three… immediately and focus on the task at hand.  This evening’s thermal current is gently cascading downhill from the buck to me; there is plenty of time.

When deer are in close moments must be slowly deliberate so that they don’t catch the deer’s attention by sight or sound, including neurological background noise.  Like the hands of a clock, my lower torso shifts to align the bow when its time comes to rise. The front angle of the deer is too sharp for a shot; he needs to move down about eight feet for an arrow to hit the pocket behind the left shoulder and exit before the last rib on the opposite side.

Time seems to have stopped, I’m not sure if 54 years of deer hunting have numbed my excitement or if more concerning, shooting a buck no longer causes the fever.  Sadly, I feel no excitement, only intense concentration to not screw this up because no matter the experience level, things can go wrong in a hurry.

The multipoint buck sniffs the thermals one more time before moving on the downhill trail, almost broadside he comes to a stop with his front shoulder extended forward. Perfect, the arrow is released.  My buck bounds angle straight away uphill, stops, his antlers are above the brush then disappear while the sapling he was standing by vibrates as if life is leaving the deer or he is making a rub.  It is time to wait at least a half hour; I give it 40 minutes even though my arrow is blood-soaked.  Slowly descend to the ground, all senses alert.  Upon inspection, the blood on the arrow has bubbled up and down the shaft, indicate substantial lung penetration.  There’s chest color hair on the ground and a good blood trail to follow.  However, this deer should not have gone up any hill, which always makes me suspicious that things are not as they first appear.

It takes me at least 15 minutes to move 50 yards towards a dead buck, the sound of a deer bounding downhill freezes me, and more deer sound like they are walking away side-hilling.   More time passes, the sun is low, and light is fading fast as I reach the sapling.  At the base of this little tree, an empty blood-soaked deer bed.  Wait some more even though a substantial blood trail beckons me to follow.

Apparently a mortal hit. Air bubbles in the blood pool indicate lungs are pierced.  At this point, I did not think the deer would go far.

The thick hillside brush makes moving sound like anything other than a human crashing their way ahead impossible. At any moment a carcass should be illuminated in my beam of light, depressingly, I find another bed, blood, and a good crimson trail leading off onto neighboring land.  Time to seek permission.

The neighboring landowner was, perhaps, one of the most accommodating, he promptly granted permission to search.  Shane with Calling all Turkeys was to arrive tonight so that we could video some fall turkey dogging.  I called to let him know I’d likely be busy hauling a buck in, at that time, my expectation was for a smooth recovery.  This year Shane was training his 9-month-old Blue Tick hound, Callie, for deer recovery, a leashed tracking dog is legal in Wisconsin. I agreed and waited until Shane arrived with Callie before resuming the buck’s trail.

We were back at the point of shot five hours later.  Callie quickly picked up the trail as she started dragging Shane behind her.  Large puddles of blood confirmed she was on the correct deer.  With all Callie’s baying and commotion of us busting brush to keep, we flushed several other deer on the way. In spite of the distractions of the deer, Callie stayed on the track.  However, that gut feeling of something is not going right begin to seep into me.  During my half-century-plus of deer hunting, I have been on hundreds of recovery trails, for many of those years I was on the tracker’s call list to help other hunters; something was not going right here.  A deer who has lost this much blood and continued to do so, should not be leaving yet another bed.

After a couple of more hours, the blood on the ground started turning a grainy black color typical of deteriorating lungs and not a lot of it.  According to Callie’s nose, the deer crossed an open grassy field that took us to another woodlot.  We decided to wait until sunrise before going further.  We all needed rest and a break from the inky black night.  My sleep was not restful as the mind kept replaying all the events of the shot and track over and over looking for some details it might have missed.

As the sun rose it all its splendor, we were back sorting through the evidence to figure out where this buck went.  At a planted food plot the deer was expected to cut across to the other side, wounded animals are known to take the path of least resistance.  The buck did not do this.

Blood sign continues to be easy to follow.

Instead, he circled and bedded in the opposite side’s brush line. He bedded stretched out; the moist ground leaves

Charlie is pointing out the bucks outline where he laid stretched out.

held an imprint of his body.  And he had moved out yet again!  Tracks and small spots of blood led us downhill towards a paved county road and past several trail cameras.  Shane suggested I contact the landowner for permission to pull the cards so that we could perhaps see the condition of the deer was.  Yeah, I, of course, was having doubts about my shot placement too; to my pleasant surprise, the landowner allowed us to pull the camera cards.

As we ate lunch, we perused all of the camera pictures and were shocked; there was no photo, not a single one of the buck!  How could this be?  The sign and Callie’s nose confirmed the buck had used the trails heading downhill.

After lunch and some rest, we replaced the camera cards.  Unless this deer possesses powers from the gods not yet discovered by us mere mortals, there must be an earthly explanation.   While Callie continued dragging Shane around in attempts to pick up the trail and that included attempting to take him for a walk along the busy county road, I started back trailing in an effort to find the

Shane covered in burdock including some particles in his eyes. He trusts me to remove them from his eye.

“earthly” reason for no pictures.

This old buck knew where the trail cameras were!  Figured out he should let his picture get taken.  He had left the trail to walk behind every one of the cameras!  Never before had I encountered this kind of behavior from any deer.  How could he possibly have figured out how hunters use and why hunters use cameras?  Of course, my mind has worked on this quirky happening.  The only thing that seems logical is the electronics in the camera make some noise that spooked a cautious buck; he did not like the sound or the flash causing him to move around the camera.

By this point in the day, I’m feeling queasy, hate not doing my part well and losing a deer and, the thought of giving up bowhunting gnaws in my head.  The trail is cold and the final option, grid searching appears to be it. There’s a long grass swamp at the hill’s base along the road; he must be in there.  As we searched I lost track of the deer remains that we found, one a small buck died within a week, others large, literally mossy covered natural European mounts and some more recent.  What we could not locate was our buck.

In what was to be the final loop along an old logging trail that would allow Callie to scent on the downwind side of the swamp.  As we moved around the swamp getting close to the county road, I was ready to give up on the recovery of this buck.  Or at least until the vultures and crows showed me where he was in a few days.  The case could not be made that he’d be OK and alive.  In situations like this, I always consider my tag filled because clearly, I killed the animal.

Callie suddenly jerked Shane off the path into a thick bushy patch that lay between the trail and county road.  Shane yelled. I got something in my eye and need help.  Earlier Callie had dragged him through dense patches of cockleburr, and I had to get him to hold still while pulling some fragments out of his eye.  Oh no, not again.  But my partner needs my help so into the brush I go.

Shane had his camera pointed at me, his eye was ok and on the ground lays a large dead twelve point buck with a perfectly placed arrow wound.  It’s about 3p, nearly 24 hours since the shot. Shane has a video of me he continues to laugh at–as my face from depression to ecstatic “Holy shit is that my buck?! I mean holy moly…”  The back story there is Shane had made the reasonable request that I refrain from profanities during recordings.

We would not have recovered this deer without the aid of Callie the deer tracking hound.  She had tried to take us along the buck’s trail along the shoulder of the road.  We did not think a wounded deer would walk on the shoulder of a busy county road during daylight.  Moral of this story, trust the dog.  In this case, even if she is an inexperienced 9-month-old.

Shane has every reason to be proud of Callie and training he as given her over the summer months.

Excitement might not have hit me way back at the shot, had the buck been recovered from his first bed, I’d have been thrilled.  But after all

I will be forever grateful for Callie’s excellent nose work. Notice where the arrow hit. This is a shot opportunity I would take every time it is presented.

that trailing and becoming ready to give up then finding him;  well, I was in touch with a  lot of that old-time deer excitement.   The buck’s meat is perfectly fine and delicious, weighed over 200 pounds field dressed.

Callie absorbing the hard found deer scent.

What went wrong? Why such a long trail?

This is an obvious question that all hunters think hard about, and the answer did not hit me until I was reading a piece by a chef regarding knife sharpening and proper knife selection for the task.  The chef stated a knife cuts best by slicing, not pushing.  It is the length of the back and forth pulls, causing the food to be sliced cleanly and not pressure pushing the blade down to get it through.   Of course, I knew that!  This year I had been convinced to use a different broadhead which has a wide stout blade.  This head smashed its way into and out of the deer’s chest but did not do a good job cutting its way.   Kind of like a hatchet would have performed.

An arrow kills by hemorrhage, which requires cutting like a knife, not a hatchet type whack.  Broadheads that are wide, and short, even though they are sharp, are not as deadly as the longer knife like heads.   A big wide broadhead causes entry damage, making for copious amounts of blood. However, internal cutting–hemorrhage may be minimal.  Both lungs on this buck were penetrated, plus the edge of the liver. With my old Zwickey or Grizzly heads, he would have been dead within 60 yards with a hit like this.

Both lungs were hit, and the liver, which has a large wound.  Notice the bruising and tearing.  No evidence of the broadhead slicing.

Starting from the left; QAD Exodus this is the broadhead I used this year, notice the short blades, they are not long enough to slice.  The Grizzly has the most extended cutting surface and slices it passes through a deer’s chest.  The Zwickey operates similarly to the Grizzly head with slightly shorter cutting length.  The last broadhead on the right cutting length is short due to notches at the rear so it too will tear rather than slice.  Tearing does less tissue damage, thus allowing game animals to live longer after a lethal hit. 

In my experience, the Grizzly and Zwickey broadheads when adequately placed have killed deer without fail to cause the deer to drop dead within 60-70 yards.  After my experience with the QAD Exodus this season, no one will talk me into using a broadhead that does not have enough cutting length to slice rather than tear its way through a chest cavity. Other broadhead designs may look “wicked,” but no company has done a study that refutes the finding of Dr. Ashby’s study of arrow lethality on African game.  I should have known better.

Wyoming Snow Turkeys

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In many parts of the country, July spells are hot, or July suffers hot spells, in any case, the heat can be oppressive.  While all this is happening memories of snow and frozen turkeys sound extra appealing. After experiencing an intoxicating Colorado turkey hunt that came to an end much faster than anticipated any “regular” turkey hunter would try to figure out where to hunt next.  Well, Wyoming is on the way home from Colorado to Wisconsin, right?

At times it seems like Nebraska is everywhere

On the drive north to Wyoming, hey forgot about having to traverse Nebraska too, the weather forecast for Sundance not only contained rain.  But the rain was expected to turn into snow by morning in the shadow of Devil’s Tower.  Change of plans on the fly seemed a prudent choice.  Check the Wyoming map, err; What Wyoming map?  A stop at the Sidney Cabelas fixed that problem with the purchase of aWyoming onXmap GPS map chip.  Cell phones do not work where there is prime hunting in the hills of Wyoming.

Wunderground has personal weather stations all over the country for which they provide point weather forecasts.  Due to incoming weather, my decision was to hunt much further south than usual where only rain was supposed to fall during the night. The map chip got me to a remote campsite in an area with lots of potential and high enough that I should be able to hear morning turkeys for quite a distance.

Totally content, sipping a hot cup of coffee in a snug camp I figured I’d better refresh the old memory about the ins and outs of Wyoming hunting regulations.  “You have got to be kidding!?” my brain silently screamed, a habitat stamp is required, and the kindly elder lady at the gas station forgot to mention when I asked if this is all the license needed to hunt turkeys.  Oh, well, bless her, my mother wouldn’t have told me any different.

Turkey hunting destinies do not work out in obvious ways. The jeep’s bouncing along in the dark on my camp’s trail signaling the 160+ mile habitat stamp round trip was nearly the end.  I now felt like something great was going to happen in the morning.  Thank goodness that Shopko had still been open on this fateful Sunday.

At my predawn awakening, it was evident by the sag in the tent, that snow had moved further south.  The good news, the temperature was

Wyoming spring turkey hunt welcome mat

well below freezing which ensured the Colorado gobbler was frozen solid, likely for the duration of the expedition.

At this point in the story, I’d love to write about toms on every mountain top angrily gobbling the snow away and stomping in practically tripping over their beards.  But, alas, that is not the way the day went.   This turkey hunter did his share, make that more than his share of tromping or slipping up then down hill and dale to the tune of a gobble-less day.

My body tells time, there is no sense to wearing a watch or checking a phone see what the time is, a turkey hunter must learn to operate on turkey time.  Whatever in the world that is exactly.  Unmistakably, it was approaching evening meaning it would be a good idea to move from my after dinner relaxation and into putting a gobbler to bed mode.  Camp is remote, thankfully, I shouldn’t have to travel far, just to point over there and make some turkey talk.

Stretching as I stood up from a good camp meal I put the wingbone call to my lips and let loose some plaintive lost yelps immediately answered by the first gobble of the day.  The sound echoed making it difficult to tell where it emanated from, yelped again.  By golly, those birds are close and getting closer fast!

Grabbed the shotgun and started heading for some kind of a setup.  As any experienced turkey hunter can attest a “setup” can be overrated in particular when you see the strutters heading your way across an open alpine meadow.  Hunter movement is not helpful in this case, so I artlessly hide standing behind the closest towering Ponderosa pine.

The gobbling has stopped for what seems an eternity.  A peek to see what is going is imperative in my mind.   The peek reveals two toms strutting on their toes as if a pair of ballerinas.  At thirty yards it’s time to get to the shooting part.  Mountain Merriams are not noted for how close they get to a hunter.

As I stepped around and even with the tree keeping my left shoulder in contact the far gobbler drops out of strut and begins eating!  The near tom stays in half strut while extending his neck to get a better look at the expanding tree.

This is why it is important to camp where the game is rather than staying miles away.

Perhaps he thought the shotgun was just a growing branch.  Somethings we will never know.

 

 

 

Nightfall brought clear sky with bright stars.

Nothing to do now except enjoy the evening.

Run’n’Gun or Sit’n’Wait: Why Not Both?

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By Huntfishtrap

Most turkey hunters seem to fall into one of two camps – on one side you have the people who prefer to sit in one spot and wait for the turkeys to come to them, while on the other you have the folks who like to keep moving as much as possible. And both camps generally think their way is best. It’s kind of like politics, only (usually!) more polite. They each have their pros and cons, and you can be very successful using either strategy, but I prefer a more situational approach, where I let the needs of a specific hunt dictate what kind of tactics I use. I think the following story illustrates the benefits of this approach very well. 

Going into our 2nd shotgun season this past spring, my hopes were high, as I had roosted 3 birds on one of my favorite properties a few days before. I expected a relatively short hunt on opening day, and my expectations were met, although not quite in the way I envisioned. Despite picture-perfect weather that morning, there was very little gobbling on the roost anywhere within earshot, and none at all on the property I was hunting, nor on the neighboring one where I also had permission. I set up anyway, and stayed until 7 AM, but heard nothing close except for a few hen yelps. I knew there had to be gobblers around but was getting impatient, so decided to go elsewhere in search of more cooperative birds. 

I drove to another property a couple of miles away from where I’ve often had good luck later in the morning. This is a small farm, only about 35 acres, but I’ve killed a number of gobblers there. They generally roost on the neighboring properties and congregate on this one after fly-down. I set up just inside the woods on the back side of a small cornfield and made a few series of yelps. After my 2nd or 3rd series, a gobbler answered me from the neighboring property to the north. The tom was about 300 yards away, so I decided to cut the distance between us as much as I could, and eased down over the crest of the hill on which I’d been sitting until I was about 75 yards from the property line. I don’t know if he spotted me moving, or just wasn’t that interested, but after the 2 initial gobbles, I never heard from him again. After a fairly dull half-hour, I decided to make a move and headed back up to the ridgetop where I’d started out. I walked to the end of the ridge, which overlooks a very large valley, and pulled out my loudest aluminum friction call. The first series of ear-splitting yelps brought a faint response from a distant gobbler way off down the valley, so I elected to drop down to the valley floor, even though I knew I couldn’t get very close because the property ends just past the base of the hill. 

When I got to the bottom of the hill I called again, and the still-distant bird answered again, but this time another, a much closer tom gobbled as well. I quickly found a spot with decent visibility and hunkered down next to a tree. The gobbler answered my next series of calls enthusiastically, then went silent for a few minutes. Finally, he gobbled again, and I could tell he had closed the distance quite a bit, but was circling around me on the hillside above. He continued to gobble as he moved but didn’t deviate from his course, and I was unable to move because I knew he could see down into the valley from his position on the high ground. Eventually, he circled far enough around the shoulder of the bluff that I figured he couldn’t see my position anymore, so I grabbed my pack and gun and took off running around the base of the hill, trying to get ahead of the bird and cut him off. Running up the steep, 300-foot bluff nearly killed me, but I knew I had to beat him to the spot where I wanted to set up. Thankfully he kept gobbling every so often, so I could keep track of his position. I huffed and puffed my way to the top of the bluff about 100 yards in front of the gobbler, and just over the crest of the hill from him. I crawled up behind a large oak tree that offered good cover and scratched out a few soft yelps. He hammered right back, and I thought it would be over quickly. But even though he gobbled heartily every time I touched a call, he wouldn’t budge from what I now assumed to be his strut zone on the ridgetop. I knew I was between where he was and where he probably wanted to go, so I settled in to wait him out. 

After a 20-25 minute stalemate, during which time he didn’t seem to move more than a few feet in any direction,

Wonderful Iowa Turkey

I suddenly saw a red head pop over the crest of the hill, peering down the slope in my direction. The head was quickly followed by the rest of the bird, as he came walking down the ridge toward me. I already had my gun up and resting on a fallen tree branch, so it was a simple matter to swing it over a few degrees and track him with the muzzle as he approached. After navigating a patch of thick saplings, he finally popped out into the open at a mere 20 yards and stopped. A trigger squeeze later, and my first turkey of the year was flopping his way down the hillside. 

Given his behavior and the fact that it was relatively early in the spring when most older toms would still be flocked up with hens, I assumed I was dealing with a 2-year-old bird. But when I bent over and grabbed a leg to pick him up, I almost fell over in shock. He had perfectly matching 1 9/16” spurs,

Perfectly matching 1 9/16” spurs, both razor-sharp

both razor-sharp. He was otherwise relatively ordinary, weighing just under 24lbs, with a wispy 9” beard. But judging by the spur length, he was definitely an old turkey. That fact made the successful conclusion to the hunt even more rewarding. 

Looking back on the hunt later, I realized I had utilized both patient and aggressive tactics to kill that bird, and most likely would not have been successful had I stuck with one or the other. It was a good example of why you should let the turkey’s behavior determine how you hunt, rather than sticking with a predetermined course of action. Planning has its place, but to be a consistently successful turkey hunter, you sometimes need to be able to change things up on the fly and adapt to the situation at hand.

After The Storm

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by FirstBubba

From no bird since 2011 to the spring of 2015!
At least I’m not greeted by thunder and lightening this morning! Meant to be up by 5:00 AM. When my bleary eyes finally locate a clock, it’s 5:26 AM!
Coffee and dressed and I’m out the gate at 6:03 AM! Not bad for an old, fat cripple!
It’s 6:43 AM when I stop at the gate and it’s beginning to break day. Quite a difference from the deluge of two days ago! The air is still, quiet and nearly 60°. The sun promises a cloudless, bluebird sky! AWESOME!
Somewhere across the bottom, a gobble breaks the silence! I quickly gather my gear and head out across the still soggy pasture, birds gobbling from time to time. The crystal clear notes tell me they’re still on the roost.
I set the “deke” and make my spread. Then the “Gobble Fest” begins. I must be hearing 10 to 15 birds from three different directions.
Low lying fog spreads across the bottom. The fog is beautiful, and I take a few pictures. Two coyotes stop and check the hen decoy before moving along.
Muffled gobbles tell me birds are on the ground. Buffing the slate call, I throw out a “cut” or two. They’re greeted with gobbles. Yelps and purrs are more often cut off with gobbles than not!
Checking the camera, I see the batteries are getting low. Retrieving the four new batteries from my coat pocket, I pop the old batteries out and drop the new ones in. I replace the camera on its monopod and shove it into the soft ground and realize that two birds are almost to the pecan trees! One looks to be a very nice bird! Oh, well!
Checking back the way they came in, I see a big white head about 30 yards out.
What do I do now? The gun is resting on its tripod, probably 70° from where the bird is! I contemplate my next move.
I lift with my right hand on the wrist of the stock and slap the fore end with my left, lifting the gun out of its cradle.
Startled, the bird stares at me as I swing the shotgun into position and slap the trigger!
He’s mine!

Not as big a bird as the “Rain Storm” gobbler, but a VERY pretty bird! 16 pounds 3/4″ spurs 9″ beard

 

The Kamikaze Bird, by huntfishtrap

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By, HuntFishTrap

The morning of May 5 brought clear skies and mild temperatures to my corner of Iowa, and I was itching to get back into the turkey woods again, after a 2-week layoff following the hunt for my first bird of the year, back in our 2nd shotgun season. We’re allowed two gun tags for spring turkey hunting here in Iowa, and of the 2 one must be for the 4th and final season, for reasons I have never heard explained by the powers that be.

Being strongly averse to rising early in the morning, I elected to set my alarm for 6 am, and then hit the woods after fly-down. Since it was a weekday when most of the competition would be at work, I elected to go to a public land spot where I had long wanted to kill a gobbler. The property had produced a number of close calls over the years, including missing a big longbeard two seasons prior, but I had always seemed to be snakebit there.

I pulled into the deserted parking lot a little after 7 and set off into the woods as the rising sun painted the just-emerging maple and oak leaves with shades of gold. I walked about a ½ mile into the timber before stopping to call for the first time, knowing from past experience that calling close to the parking lot is usually a waste of time on public land. The first series of yelps did not produce a response, so I kept going, stopping to yelp a few times every couple hundred yards or so. My destination was a ridge overlooking a large oak flat that often held birds, and I had almost reached it when I heard a faint gobble from somewhere off in the distance. I cut loose a few loud yelps on my go-to long-distance aluminum pot call and received an answer. Still, could not tell exactly where the bird was, so I eased up to the top of the ridge and tried again. This time the far-off gobbler was joined by another, much closer bird, somewhere down on the oak flat in front of me. I quickly scanned the trees around me for a good spot to set up and chose a large oak tree with a deadfall in front of it which acted as a sort of natural blind.

After settling in, it didn’t take long to ascertain that the distant tom was way down in a big valley on the other side of the oak flat, and was most likely a lost cause. But the closer gobbles were only a few hundred yards away, and it sounded like there might even be more than one bird. My first few series of calls brought immediate responses, and it sounded like the bird or birds were moving closer, but then they seemed to begin to lose interest. So I started switching calls, looking for something they’d like, but without much success. The occasional gobble would ring out, but they didn’t seem to be answering anymore. Finally, I got to one of my three wingbones, which I rarely use, and mostly carry for emergencies. That was the ticket, as they – by now I was certain there was more than one – started responding again, and began working their way closer. The birds got to within 200 yards, then hung up, and a stalemate ensued. I would call, they would gobble, but wouldn’t come a step my way. I knew the area quite well and didn’t think there were any obstructions that would prevent them from moving my way, so after about 30 minutes I was getting exasperated. Finally, I’d had enough, so decided to make a move.

I eased back over the ridge until I was certain the turkeys couldn’t see me and started looping around one side. The open oak woods didn’t offer much cover for trying to sneak up on anything, but I knew there was a small ditch on the far side of the ridge that I could use for cover if I could get there. I made it to the ditch and followed it as far as I could, until reaching the point where I had to climb out in order to keep moving in the right direction. At this point, I figured I was still at least 150 yards from the last gobbles I’d heard, but at least I was now on their side of the ridge. I elected to stop and call just before reaching the top of the bank above the ditch, but before I could get my wingbone out of my pocket the toms gobbled again, but they sounded much farther away. I cut loose with a little wingbone music and received silence in reply, tried again, the same result. I was standing there a little despondently, trying to figure out a new plan of action, when I heard what I thought was a hen putting just over a small rise in the ground, about 100 yards in front of me. That was followed immediately by a loud commotion that sounded like several turkeys running in the dry, crackly leaves.

I figured I had somehow spooked part of the flock I’d been hearing, and almost started to jog up to the top of the knoll to see if I could catch a glimpse of them, when a red head popped over the hill in front of me, followed immediately by two more! I froze in consternation because I knew that standing in the middle of the open woods without any cover near me was a recipe for disaster. But thankfully when they lowered their heads they disappeared behind the rise in the land again, and I could drop to my knees and scramble several feet backward until I was up against an oak tree. I just had time to raise my trusty 870 and steady it over one knee before they came trotting over the hill, headed right for me. At this point I was not certain what kind of birds were coming in – the gobbles I’d been hearing all morning had sounded a little choppy at times, like jakes – but the first bird in line was a nice long beard, and he was determined to be first to the party. He came trucking right toward me, beard swinging from side to side, while I tried to make myself small against the oak. While he was coming in, I heard a loud spit-n-drum from beyond the rise and saw a fan pop open, so I knew there were still more birds coming but was focused on the one at hand.
He paused at about 40 yards, and I almost shot him, but just as I was about to squeeze the trigger he kept coming, and I kept tracking him with the gun muzzle. Even in the heat of the moment, the thought popped into my mind, “This bird is like a kamikaze – I’m going to kill him, or he’s going to run me over!”. Finally at 25 yards, he started to slow down, and finally stopped and started giving me the old hairy eyeball, so I centered the bright fiber-optic bead on his glowing head and sent 2 ounces of #5s on their way. The gun boomed he dropped like a stone, and turkeys took off in every direction behind him.  There were at least 5 or 6 different birds, a mix of jakes and toms. I will never know what made that flock suddenly reverse course and come right to me after essentially disregarding my calling for the previous 2 hours, but I’m not complaining. Sometimes the unpredictability of turkeys is bad, and sometimes it’s good.

When I looked at my watch, I saw that the time was 9:35 am, only 5 minutes later in the morning than when I killed my first turkey of the year, two weeks before. This bird would then tip the scales at 20 ½lbs, with 1 1/8” spurs and a 10 ½” beard. A nice 3-year-old tom. After snapping some photos, and stopping to enjoy the beautiful day for a while, I loaded the bird into my pack and set off on the 3/4+ mile walk back to my truck. The hard part of the hunt was just beginning, but it was a small price to pay for such an awesome morning in the turkey woods.

The Rain Bird

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The Rain Bird

by FirstBubba

It’s April 13th and so far, turkey season has been a bust! I’m seeing birds but my every attempt has been thwarted! Soooo…I’m up early this morning to try again!

A gusty north wind greets me at the door. Lightning to the northeast provides brief illumination as I scurry to the truck with my shotgun. I almost turn back, but forge ahead into the gloomy morning.

Parking at the gate, the one ton Dodge rocks and rolls as the blustery wind buffets it broadside!

Again I think, “Why don’t you just go home?”.

At 6:45 AM, daylight is breaking through the gloom. I gear up and head across the soggy pasture to my ” spot”. Thirty-knot wind gusts and 58°! It ain’t fittin’ weather fer man nor beast! After fiddling around a bit, I get my gear spread out and set up.

Buffing the surface of a slate call, I send a few yelps into the gale. That won’t be heard until it reaches the next county over! Oddly, I get a reply from across the creek to the east! Cross a creek? In a rain storm? R-I-G-H-T!

I settle back and wait.

The spot is comfortable, but the wind is miserable. Especially since it’s beginning to spit rain. “Just what I need!”

Lo and behold! Out of the storm, I see a jake cautiously approaching. I get my gun up but a small hackberry tree blocks my shot. A little shift and lean to the right and I get him lined up, but it also spooks him and he’s having none of it! He scurries off in a trot.

The rain picks up.

Minutes later, what appears to be a rain-soaked tom gingerly approaches from my left. I suppose it’s because of the rain, but this is one scroungy looking bird!

The rain picks up.

Approaching dead on, I’m having a hard time detecting any “tom” features like beard or fan. One or two tail feathers seem to be dragging the ground.

The bird finally turns far enough to his left that I can detect a decent beard through the rain, thunder, lightening and wind.

The safety snaps to the off position and he approaches dead on. At 20 yards, he stops and stares at me through the rain. (did I mention it was raining?) The recoil is unexpected and he collapses in a pile of soggy feathers.

FINALLY! This was my first bird since 2011!

I retrieve my bird and begin to pick up my gear as the cadence of the raindrops increases.

Two toms appear out of the storm from the east! They had to be the birds gobbling at me from across the creek earlier. I’m in a “2 Tom” county, but they’ve seen me move and all the soft clucks and purrs won’t bring them in. They skirt around me at 70 to 80 yards and head west across the rain-soaked pasture.

I get my gear picked up and reach over to a broken limb to grab my hanging camera. The two toms that came from the east are coming down the fence line from the west…..in the rain!

When I step out into the open, 8 to 10 birds gathered under the pecan trees scurry across the pasture and the two stragglers join them!

I’m covered up with birds! I’m soaked! I’m cold! I’m elated! I’m going home!

Old Rainy 22 lbs. 9-inch beard and .75 inch spurs

This bird only had 7 tail feathers! It appeared that maybe a predator had shredded his tail. Five feathers on the left. The two on the right hung loosely and drug the ground!

I tried several times to pose him for a picture or two. Nothing worked! I finally just snapped a picture of him lying in the mud! It WAS raining, you know!

As the diesel roared to life, I realized that water was still pouring out of my rain-soaked”Boonie” hat and had to laugh! My dad used to tell me, “Son! It was raining so hard, water quit running IN my boots and started running out!” I knew exactly what he was talking about!

Ending up Intoxicated on Wild Turkey in Colorado

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It sounded almost like a breeze moving dead leaves on the tree branches, but I don’t remember there being any leaves on the early spring cottonwoods. As another wave of the fluttering sound reached my ears I realized the sound was not the trees or any leaves; it was a flock of turkeys rustling their feathers, and there must be a lot them to make that much noise at little after 4:00 am.  A few minutes later the first yelps of the morning started.  Apparently, Colorado turkeys wake up much earlier than those sleepy eastern birds in Wisconsin. Sure enough by 4:30 the first crescendo of gobbling cascaded down from their roosts, each like a wave crashing on a rocky beach.  Each time the audio wave began it gained volume as if urging the sun to rise early. My shivering intensified, surprised I was that cold, then I became acutely aware it was maximum exhilaration that had no relationship to the temperature, this is what turkey nirvana is all about, like being drunk on wild turkey, the non-alcoholic kind.

Six years ago, on a now defunct turkey forum, Treerooster and charlie elk recognized each other as fellow turkey nerds.  We discussed things like the length of the turkey’s memory, how they find food, the effect of ground temperatures on behavior, what the snood means, why two- dimensional sight works, techniques for tree-roosting all night with turkeys; OK you get the idea.  Fortunately, the forum had a private message option allowing treerooster and charlie could make hunting plans.  And when charlie got enough preference points to draw a spring license he was on his way to treerooster’s hunting turf in Colorado.

Our optimism was high we waded across the dark river back to the truck. We had roosted at least 15 toms and jakes on this eve of Colorado’s opening day of spring wild turkey season.  Wake up was scheduled for 3:00 am to make sure we could take our place among the roosted turkeys well before sunrise.  A treerooster nugget of wisdom – “Turkey hunting extends your life, each day of turkey hunting is the equivalent of 2 or 3 days of “normal life.”

There’s something about 15 or so roosted gobblers that make the lack of sleep and morning grogginess recede into the background of one’s conscious mind.  Gazing up at a half dozen roosted turkeys highlighted against the moonlit sky I wanted to give treerooster

treerooster sometimes likes to spend the night in the roost trees.

 

two thumbs up for his accuracy last night casting the correct GPS  coordinates.  Clearly, he has done this many times, and that is why I told him that I would hunt the way he hunts.  And he is a one of a kind tree-roosting aficionado, sometimes he actually sleeps in the tree with the turkeys; Prefers to setup, not 200, 100 or even 50 yards from roosted birds, rather, right in the middle of them.

There was a certain surrealness sitting under roosted turkeys expecting the morning light to brighten and instead, it became quite dark after the moon set as we waited for the first glimmers of sunrise.  However, the turkeys had no inhibition and continued to call and gobble to each other.  They did not seem to care there were coyotes on the prowl, raccoons screaming out their mating calls; every sound caused all those anxious roosted birds to turn up the volume. Treerooster was supposed to do the calling but any calls we’d have made would be the equivalent of spitting in the ocean due to all the actual turkey noise.

Is there such a thing as sonic boom gobbling?  Had anyone asked me this question before my first-morning hunt in Colorado I would have thought them crazy.  But, not now. A couple of mallards came flying through the trees, and one of them quacked, this caused such loud gobbling that it caused the ducks so much turbulence they almost fell out of the air.  Laughter would have erupted from me had my ears not hurt so bad, never before did I wish to turn down or remove my hearing aids on a turkey hunt.  What had been 15 roosted gobblers was now apparently 50-70 raucous male turkeys surrounding us on all sides. In almost 40 years of turkey hunting, I have never experienced anything like this.

When the hens snuck up from behind on my five, I became concerned if I didn’t get a tom out this huge group I’d have egg on my face and some explaining to do. Hen turkeys are notorious for messing up a well-planned gobbler killing strategy. One of those hens got so close she could have rested her beak on my shoulder when she yelped.  I swear I felt her spittle on my cheek.  If she putted, no one here noticed and none of the turkeys noticed the deer that almost tripped over my boot.  Thankfully, the deer did not notice me, perhaps due to all the ruckus from turkeys.

 

Treerooster and charlie with Colorado opening day Rio wild turkey

More gobblers flew down; it was quickly getting crowded here on the ground. Finally, the one who had strutted back and forth from one end of the limb to the other launched and sailed in.  Lesser turkeys scrambled out of his way, for a brief moment he disappeared in the dawn’s light.  As his head came around the other side of some wispy brush I made a quick check for any other turkeys in the area, the roar of the Benelli caused a literal explosion of turkey wings clawing at the air and every sound these large birds can make filled the woods and the surrounding grassland.

In almost forty years of turkey hunting, I’d never experienced anything like that Colorado morning.  We ended the

charlie carrying Rio turkey from the kill site.

hunt intoxicated by overdosing on a whole lot of wild turkey. The non-alcoholic kind.

Hip boots are required for access.

 

Crossing the river with the turkey while using a  walking stick to stabilize footing on the shifting sands.

 

Pause to soak in the hunt and wide open scenery.

 

Treerooster’s very comfortable camp.  Where charlie managed to arrive the day before right after treerooster got is setup.

 

Hey treerooster, thanks for the best of the best turkey hunting experiences.

 

Velvet Trophy Shows His Stuff

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vic preparing for setup

Due to Vic’s training, he will not chase deer.

On Sunday, Vic and I were out for a woodland stroll during the lunch hour.  Of course, our ultimate goal is to locate turkeys and check on the local flock dynamics.  There are so many deer across the landscape these days that most of the time they just blend into the background, but then on occasion, a few standout.

You never know what you'll see on a summertime stroll in a Wisconsin Woodland

You never know what you’ll see on a summertime stroll in a Wisconsin Woodland.

This smallish velvet buck was eating small burning nettles, as Vic and I approached he lifted his head and walked over to get a better look at us.  Fortunately, I had my camera and was able to get out and turned on.

Deer, including trophy class bucks are not afraid of dogs.

Deer, including trophy class bucks, are not afraid of dogs.

As the deer approached, Vic sat near my left leg, so I was able to snap this picture of a beautiful public land buck.  After spending the better part of a half a century pursuing trophies like this, I marvel at how at home they are around dogs.  I wrote about deer and dogs here.   I know what some readers are thinking, “Oh, well, that’s just a summertime buck.”  Wrong, this happens in the fall while wild turkey hunting, pheasant, grouse, or woodcock hunting.  At that time of year, a shotgun is in my hands, and the camera is in a waterproof, cushioned pocket so getting a picture like this is more challenging.  Interestingly the deer will tolerate my dog even if he growls or barks at them, but they will not stand around when I start digging in my pockets.

My passion these days, fall turkey hunting, so now the question I ponder; Should I go out this season and take him or should I give the GPS coordinates to some other deserving hunter?

Deer can’t be reliably saved for future years because there are too many hazards in the wild that most likely will take their lives.  In Wisconsin, a buck deer like this has about a 50% CWD infection rate.  There is a 50/50 chance  that any buck you encounter will look like this next year.

Patrick Durkin wrote an excellent piece on CWD in WI.

Patrick Durkin wrote an excellent piece on CWD in WI.  His article should be mandatory reading for all hunters.

Somewhere along the line this fall I’ll meet a deerhunter who’d like a crack at a nice buck and I’ll give them the coordinates.  Perhaps, they’ll tip me off as to where all those turkeys I’ve been seeing went.

Pheasants to a Last Minute Gobbler on New Year Eve

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December 31, 2015, found Vic and I coursing through a likely pheasant field. Wild pheasants in Wisconsin can be very hard to find especially on the last day of the season. Most pheasant hunting here is a put and take proposition. The DNR’s yearly stocking is usually done by the 2nd week of December. The last pheasants released are anemic and short lived due to predators getting easy meals before the onset of severe winter.

Vic learned to hold turkeys by the neck so figures all birds should be held by the neck.

Vic learned to hold turkeys by the neck so figures all birds should be held by the neck.

Turkey dog Vic has turned out to be an accomplished upland game dog. He can change tactics to match the requirements of hunting conditions. For a couple of afternoon hours, Vic coursed around me in his effort to force a pheasant or 2 to rise at my feet. One rooster nearly ran into my legs before flushing a few yards in front. Pheasant number 1 of the 2 daily limit.

Tired and wind burn we headed back to the truck. There was a brush line containing some bulldozed brush piles. Vic earnestly began working a scent trail that I thought was the most likely rabbit. He came to a rigid point at one of those piles. He had worked hard so I thought I’d humor him by kicking the pile to flush the bunny.
Well, these “bunnies” had multicolored iridescent feathers, long tails and all 6 of them cackled as they broke off heading to different points of the compass. So startled was I target panic set in as I fired three rapid shots to no effect. “I can’t miss all these pheasants of last season flush” raced to my mind. “dang it, pick a target you fool!” Luckily I did and the biggest and final rooster of the year crashed to the ground. With a limit of pheasants in the bag, single digit temperature, a brisk wind, and an hour & half of daylight left I pondered whether or not to try for a turkey at the buzzer, and this was the first year in decades it looked like we were not going to get a Wisconsin Slam.

Super secret Wisconsin wild pheasant location

Super secret Wisconsin wild pheasant location

The Wisconsin Slam sounds easy, just get a turkey each season of the year; spring, summer, fall and winter. Due to mrs. elk’s chronic health condition my time afield was more limited than normal. And mrs. elk prefers eating pheasants, so we spent more time out pheasant hunting than turkey hunting.

On the way to our super secret pheasant field, a small pod of gobblers had crossed the road onto private land just before the old creek bridge. First time I’d seen turkeys in that area so what the heck, time to investigate. It was only a 5-minute drive back there.
As I drove slowly across the bridge, I scanned the fields, no turkeys, when I looked into the creek valley black blobs were moving in the water. What the heck?  I cursed myself for not having the binoculars in the truck. Stopped to study those blobs with squinted eyes. The blobs materialized into a flock of turkeys wading in the water. Not exactly where they’re expected to be.

Turned around to park the truck about a half mile at the public parking area. Vic and I dumped the orange to change into snow camo jackets, slipped on the turkey pack and headed towards the creek keeping Vic on a heel. A glance at my watch revealed about 45 minutes of 2015 season time left.

The turkeys were there, in the creek heads submerged much like feeding ducks. They do this in the spring to eat invertebrates, first time I’ve seen this behavior in the winter.

The 2015 turkey season continues ticking down as we stalk in closer. As Vic catches their scent as he becomes more eager by the second to do his job. On release, he tears down the ravine in a blur snow powder and yipping. The turkeys take to winged frenzy cackling and clucking as they go water drops are clearly visible dripping off their beards while others have icicles hanging causing a mirage of diamond spears protruding from their breasts.

The beard is ice covered from feeding in the creek.

The beard is ice covered from feeding in the creek.

This late in the day I feared the gobblers might just go to roost. However, in late season turkeys prefer roosting together and with toms on opposite sides of the creek, one group would most likely want to rejoin the other before roosting.

Half of the turkeys flushed out the creek

Half of the turkeys that flushed out the creek, the other half went the opposite way.

Picking a setup was tough, the wind was icy especially for Vic; he has very little hair, so something sheltered was a must. That put us below the field sitting against a tree on the slope towards the creek below. Visibility to see any incoming turkeys was more limited than I like.

After 5 minutes, of course, aggressive calling Vic started trembling. At first, I thought he was cold but no, he was on point, head laying across my lap staring intently to my right. Then I heard it- prrt putt, prrrrrt putt, if I can hear that sound the turkeys are close. Slowly I turn my head and came eyeball to eyeball with a frozen bearded gobbler. He backed away putting; his head darted behind a tree, and my body twists to get the gun on him just when another gobbler sticks his head up to see what all the putting was about- Boom!

Vic smelling success

 

Vic charges to our prize and flushes more previously unseen gobblers. It always surprises me when the gunshot does not scare them. About 15 minutes left of season 2015 so we reset to end the season with a nice gobbler in the bag, a leftover tag for tag soup and best of all memories of gobbling, yelping and roosting turkeys against the red sky sunset.

The last gobbler of season 2015 on Dec 3, 15 minutes before the buzzer.

The last gobbler of season 2015 on Dec 3, 15 minutes before the buzzer.

Pearled Head Gobbler

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Dang it anyway, I had just moved towards a hard gobbling turkey which I thought was the conversational turkey that abruptly left me to chase those four late departing hens.  As gobbler and I conversed, I had missed detecting the four hens still on roost above our heads until they flew down at 7:00 yelping their way off in the opposite direction with my tom in tow.  And now!  I hear gobbling coming from my original setup spot.  So much gobbling that surely if I had not gotten seduced into moving a beautiful turkey would be wearing my tag right now.

Here I am on day 3 of my hunt during Wisconsin’s second mini-season.  The morning dawned quiet and still even though the evening before I did a lot of audio baiting so I knew there would be birds nearby.

From some of the treetops on the opposite ridge, I heard what I thought were feet shifting on their roost branches and the ruffle of feathers.  No response to my owl hoots.  Gobbling has been sparse so far this spring in spite of the beautiful weather.

I setup down the ridge from the turkey sounds then around 6:00 a turkey gobbled in answer to my soft clucks.  Soon the sound of a dull thud as the tom apparently just let go and fell to the ground.  A series of walking clucks got him fired up gobbling and strutting as he moved towards me.  As I prepared for the anticipated upcoming shot, those hens mentioned earlier sailed off their roost, and my gobbler turned in pursuit gobbling his merry way after them.  Moving seemed a reasonable strategy, it always does until 20/20 hindsight takes effect, like gobbling coming from where you just left.

As I called more, gobbling started up all around.  A real turkey hunter’s dream morning, still, clear, mild and turkeys coming to life everywhere.  Picking the correct side of the tree in anticipation of which gobbler would arrive first was my most pressing issue.

The first group of 3 toms fought, strutted and picked their way along the top of the ridge to my right.  The offered shots were marginal and quickly became worse when a fourth unseen turkey busted me causing all them to move out and spooking the rest of the incoming turkeys.

All that action and now I’ve one more chance if I can get the left behind turkey to come in.  He was hung up gobbling his head off.  I moved around the to the other side of the large oak placing my back to him hoping my calls would sound like a hen giving up and walking away with the other turkeys.

Turkey noise stopped, and the only thing I heard was rustling in the leaves to my right.  Ever so slowly I turned my head just enough to see the tom in my peripheral vision, he was mere feet behind at 4 o’clock.  No breathing or blinking for me as he suddenly cut loose a thunderous gobble and walked past in the wide-open woods.

Nothing but air between us, I dared not move as he slowly continued to amble past me.  His feathers audibly rustled with each step that finally took him behind a large tree trunk out of sight.

Being right handed I had to turn for the shot, gun up at the ready for the tom’s reappearance.  It took forever; I started to think he’d heard me and walked straight away keeping the tree screening us. Oh No!

Oh yes!  His pearly white head emerges 12 yards off the end of my barrel, his eye straining to pick form out of the gnarled tree bark. My gunshot sounds as slides his neck out, beard dangling in the opening.

2015 first turkey at kill site (13) (640x469)

Double Tongue Gobbler

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The height of the red oaks provided the turkeys a long glide path.

The height of the red oaks provided the turkeys a long glide path.

The wild turkeys flew down before shooting light this morning in Wisconsin’s unit 3 area.  First the hens pitched off their roosts at 5:15 hitting the ground running like they had somewhere to be.  They must have nests they needed to tend to.  The gobblers sounded off and pitched off roost shortly after and that’s where things got interesting.   Their fly downs were more like long range glides carrying them well out my sight and hearing range.  In the “big” woods of areas of Clark County this makes for a challenging hunt because the toms just keep ranging further out all day long while giving the hunter little indication of where and which way they are heading.  These toms had a lot of altitude off their red oak  roosts so I figured they would have glided out a ways, I took a compass bearing and headed in the direction they went.

A lone gobble slices through the morning silence, distant, as in, across 2 creeks and in the middle of the swamp.  There are dry islands in the swamp but the water is too high for causal wading out to them. The trolling box call is put away and replaced with a Tongue Teaser.  After a couple of yelps and bionk clucks a  gobbler joins me on the trail staring intently in my direction about 40 yards away.  Oops, busted and game barely started. Big wings clawed for air as he took flight to parts unknown.  Where  there’s one turkey usually/sometimes there are more and now it’s  past time to get setup.

I select two different Willlowridge tongue teasers calls one built from purple heart and the other made of chestnut are placed in the go position ready for some very robust aggressive calling.  On mornings in the big turkey woods I have learned aggressive calling works best to bring in turkeys.  Once they get interested a hunter needs to keep them hooked with no slack in the audio line, for if slack is allowed toms will usually get distracted and throw the hook.  At this point in the game I’m thinking that distant gobbler or the one who flew away are the best chance.

Alternating between the calls I cast out course yelps, aggressive purrs and clucks for about 15 minutes elicited a  gobble which I answered immediately and continued cutting his gobbles off midway at each gobble.  The gobbles were getting closer and I must admit I was playing around more than really expecting the turkey to travel all that way across the two creeks to me.  Before I knew it, not only did the gobbler arrive but he brought a gobbling buddy.  Both turkeys went in and out of  strut as they closed the distance, I continue to cluck whenever they could not see me.  Only one turkey gobbled the other just strutted along silently.

As the toms cleared brush entering the open red oak woodland they did their final strut and pirouetted.  When the fans blocked their heads the tongue teaser gently slid onto my lap as my Remington rose to target…  Unfortunately for his buddy, the silent buddy offered the first clear headshot and I took it.

 

Purple heart and chestnut tongue teasers closed the deal.

Purple heart and chestnut tongue teasers closed the deal.

 

 

Sunrise Wild Turkey

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Moon giving way to morning.

Moon giving way to morning.

Every hunt has a certain ebb and flow, plans are made, altered and when it comes to wild turkey hunting altered again.  Turkeys are random birds being there one day and somewhere else the next. A turkey hunter is never sure… this was the case last night when a good buddy called  to tell me about a gobbler he heard while fishing on the Mississippi that afternoon. When a turkey’s location is offered during the last week of Wisconsin’s turkey season you’d be wise to pay attention and change plans accordingly.  An active late afternoon gobbler is likely going to roost nearby.

My buddy got fed up with Wisconsin’s licensing scheme and  quit turkey hunting a few years ago.  He has no desire to turkey hunt after the first 2 weeks for which, he was never drawn or he’d forget to apply. A late season turkey tag would just interfere with his beloved fishing.

During the fall this buddy loves to bow hunt deer so I had given him GPS coordinates to a particular spot where I figured he’d have a chance at a dandy buck.  While fall turkey hunting Vic the Turkey Dog and I would see this 12 pointer,  after just a couple of hours my buddy killed his first trophy class buck.

He felt he owed me something in return and  knew I would be interested in his turkey report including the coordinates.  Besides he figured I was the only one crazy enough to  climb that  huge bluff in the dark from river level.

My hunting plan ebbed and  at 4:40 AM: I found myself at the base of a 500 foot bluff thinking just maybe my friend was playing with me. There was no turkey talk going on, a beautiful but silent morning in an area my boots had never before trod. Up the old logging path, hooting and cawing. At the top- the woods was open, 5:45 not so much as a cluck.

To catch my breath and figure at things I setup on the most comfortable tree of the season, the sun just a red beam peeking over the horizon at my back. Fighting off a bout of tree trunk narcolepsy I made my first calls quiet yelps, rising to cackles and into fighting purrs. Nothing. Let out a series of lost yelps and kee-kees. Quiet.

The most intense sunrise ever?

The most intense sunrise ever?

About 6:10 burning red light reflected off the morning clouds, the sunrise light is filtering and dancing in all around throughout the woods, magically gorgeous and I know not from where he came, the most outrageously beautiful strutting turkey I have ever seen; bathed in the glow of sunrise. His feathers caught and shimmered those colored rays of light back at me as he pirouetted on his toes in a manner that would make any ballerina jealous. I gazed intently over the  barrel, usually a natural thing at times like this, but it seemed so out of place on this morning…..

There are times when the quarry has conducted itself admirably and  you’ve hunted well.  Isn’t that reward enough?

Sometimes It’s Easy

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Season-C-Unit-2-Wisconsin-Turkey

It was one of those rare magical turkey hunting mornings yesterday, when the weather is beautiful & the turkeys are loud & suicidal.

Morning alarm set at 3am, 70 mile drive to northern unit 2, in the woods before 5am, turkey down at 5:30am.  Nice size, 22+ lbs.  5+ pounds of turkey breast to be smoked at Maplewood Meats.

I had planned to hike in about a mile, most of it no-trail, to a wooded ridge.  But turkeys gobbled nearby while I was getting out of the car.  Set up just a few hundred yards in, 100+ yards from two competing gobblers.  Then I fixated on a bunch of brush about 8 yards in front of me, worrying that I wouldn’t have a clean shot.  So I stupidly crawled forward & snipped branches.  Bad move.  I never heard the two gobble again.  But somebody must like me, since a third soon lit up 200+ yards out in a different direction.  I only ended up calling twice to bring him in, soft yelping & clucking.  He came in quiet the last hundred yards, stopping to strut every half dozen steps.  While I was tagging him & taking photos another nearby tom began gobbling & was still gobbling as I walked out.

It was the 3rd day I hunted, & the first decent weather day.  The other hunts had several non-turkey critter adventures involving a fox squirrel, multiple deer, & a coyote.  Had one turkey near-death Thursday.  The tom was 60 yards out, coming uphill gobbling to me when a doe & two yearlings stepped out between us.  Never saw them until they were in front of me.  Incredibly they lingered for 15 minutes 15-20 feet from me while the tom gobbled & plucked on the other side of them.  A lot more to that story, but the ending was no turkey.

Interesting thing about the online harvest count.  I looked at the Zone 2 number when I registered just before noon yesterday.  Then at 5pm I refreshed the page.  The count went up ONE, me I assume, from 6249 to 6250.  Later at 9pm a refresh added 95 more, where it stays this morning.

The Harvest: A Story About Giving

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The Harvest is a documentary of 3 Hunt of a Lifetime hunts, a Merriam turkey hunt, a black bear hunt and an elk hunt.  All of these  hunts were the dream hunts of kids with life threatening illnesses.  Be ready with your box of tissues nearby some of the uplifting determination these kids display will bring tears to your eyes.

The Harvest can viewed here  on HULU  if this link does not work go to www.hulu.com and search “The Harvest” or Vimeo

Hunt of a Lifetime was founded by Tina Pattison after her son Matthew was taken away by cancer.  Read Matthew’s Story written by Tina.  Here is a short excerpt:

 On Christmas Eve, while we were preparing for our first holiday without Matt, the phone rang. The voice on the other end explained that his 14-year-old godson needed our help. A few days after the boy had received his hunter’s safety certification, he was diagnosed with a brain tumor. Instead of enjoying his first buck harvesting, he was enduring the ravages of surgery and chemotherapy. Could we help him with his dreams and prayers? The boy’s name was Matthew Riley. God had granted me the most precious gift that day. He had sent me another “Matthew” in order to understand that mine was in good hands and that Matthew’s legacy would never be forgotten. – Tina Pattison

 

Reason for the Loss of Hunters?

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Across the country the number of hunters continues to decline.  If trend continues at its present rate wildlife conservation will dramatically suffer due to the lack of funding via hunting license purchases.   No other outdoor user group as stepped up to the plate to willingly pay the fees and taxes required to maintain wildlife populations.  If think this is wrong thinking feel free to comment.

As hunters we continually contemplate reasons why this hunter decline is happening:

  • Historically hunter numbers  ebb and flow peaking about every other generation.  So perhaps this current decline is part of that natural ebb and flow.
  • Modern education is demeaning and derogatory when it comes to man’s role in the natural evolution of development.
  • The technological advances have made  would be hunters more comfortable in their homes so the incentive to go and spend extended periods of time in inclement weather without all conveniences of modern life.
  • Hunter population is aging and quitting for health reasons.
  • Fractured families and the increase in single female parenthood  households are not conducive to introducing kids to hunting.
  • There are too many other  entertainment distractions that are more fun than hunting.

    Is this young hunter a hunter for life?

Distractions, hmm.. Who is getting distracted?  The potential young new hunter?

Or is it us old-timers?

How could that possibly be so? “I love hunting and love to share it with beginners.”  OK I understand, but hang with me a minute.

Many of us old-timers or experienced hunters if you prefer, jump at the chance to introduce kids to hunting.  After all isn’t that what WI learn to hunt program and all special youth hunts are all about?  Well, yes, that is the intention of these programs.  But there are times I will hear a father comment about taking the kid out on the youth hunt, get them their deer or turkey and then “I” get to “really” hunt.  Responsibility discharged.  Of course not all verbalize it this way.

Thinking back on my introduction to hunting I realize there  is more to it than that.

52 years ago there were no minimum age requirements to hunt or learn to shoot. charlie was shooting a Red Ryder BB gun at age 3 by the time he turned 6 charlie was profiecent with 22 rifle and successfully hunted small game.

Where are the stories told anymore?  Adults have a lot of things going on, we get tired and on those occasions when our adult children come to visit with the grandkids do we mostly talk to the kids or our adult kids?  Hey, I miss my kids so I talk to them along with the grandkids but not as much.  My 9 year old grandson on his last visit said he was “going to play because adult talk is boring.”  This raised no eyebrows, pretty normal, kids like to play.  Something about this comment stuck with me and when that happens I reflect.

After arising before the sun I was enjoying a quiet moment reading an old book of hunting stories, when my grandson’s words popped into my head.  It hit me then.  Many of today’s hunting books and articles are how to, or if they make an attempt at a story it is a description of the kill with plugs for the latest products used to make the kill and you must have these if you too want to be successful. Uff.

Hunting allows you to be a participant in nature rather than just a casual observer

Do we tell the stories any more?  The stories of hunts successful or not sets off sparks of desire, they did for me as a young lad.  Those recounted tales of the hunt sparks ignited all that dry rambuncous tinder into a raging fire of desire to hunt.