Desperate times, desperate measures
I’d been chasing this tom since opening day. He was very vocal, would readily reply to calls, but would not come in. I don’t mean that he would come in but hang-up out of range. I mean that he never, ever came any closer, not a step.
I didn’t even lay eyes on him until May 21. There was little pattern to his movements and to make matters worse, he would rotate between three different roosting areas, rarely using the same roost two nights in a row. The only pattern was that after fly-down he always went in the opposite direction. On several occasions I watched hens running toward whatever pick-up lines he was gobbling out to them. How could I compete with that?!
I changed locations, I tried moving away from him as I called, I tried little calling, aggressive calling, no calling, various decoy combinations, no decoys, the woods, AM, late morning, mid-day, late day. The result was always the same; his gobbles became more distant.
On Saturday morning I crept in ninja-like and was set up at 4:30 AM in a new spot, with a single feeding hen decoy in the field. It was a risky location, close to a roost. At 5:05 AM he gobbled, right on time but not where I expected him to be roosted, instead 250 yards to my left. I gave him 2 clucks and he immediately responded. I let him gobble 3 or 4 more times before I gave him 2 more clucks and put the call away.
Then I heard a hen softly yelp. I watched her come from his direction and enter the woods 40 yards to my hard left. I suspected he would follow her. But being a left-handed shooter, a hard left shot was impossible, and at that point I did not want to risk making any noise or movement by rotating my seat. So instead I s-l-o-w-l-y switched my gun to my right shoulder and right eye. It’s something I’ve occasionally practiced, but have never had to use on game. Then I waited.
I heard him fly down and when he started walking toward my decoy gobbling as he came, I feared I’d made the wrong choice in switching my gun over. But then he stopped for what seemed like an eternity, before making up his mind and changing course to go after his real girlfriend. When his route brought him as close as he would get before disappearing into the woods, I pulled the trigger. I have to admit that I was particularly relieved to see the tom tumble, considering I had shot from my wrong side.
It was 43 paces to where he lay. I expected to pick up what would surely be a wise old limb-hanger boss tom. Instead I was surprised to find 3/4-inch rounded spurs and a 7-inch beard. The hardest turkey I’d ever hunted was a two-year old!!! My fishing scale said he weighed 18 lbs, 3 oz.
I never did succeed at calling him in the classic turkey hunting style. I got him through an ambush. And I’m good with that.
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