Out of the Woods

By MIKE OSTERHOUT

My father and I have a tradition of hunting the turkey opener up in Cooperstown with our good friend Ray Key. Used to be we'd get up about 3:00 a.m. and drive to Ray's farm for his wife Bernie's fresh coffee, donuts and milk straight from the cow before hitting the woods. Now a days we get a room the night before and forego the early drive. I figured this would save a lot of wear and tear on the system and allow us to enjoy a more relaxing hunt. What I didn't count on was sharing a room with my old man, who snored nonstop from the time his head hit the pillow until the alarm went off. There's a recent study that concludes that people who snore incessantly are of less intelligence than the rest of us, and a simple operation can cure the offending snorer allowing all to get some sleep. I'm sure the author of the study shared a bed with someone who sawed wood all night. Maybe ignorance is bliss, because my old man woke up bright eyed and ready to hunt while all I wanted to do was crawl back under the covers. Who's more stupid?

Ray Key milks about 40 head on a couple of hundred acre spread just outside the little tourist village of Cooperstown. His father and grandfather farmed the same spot that he's leaving to his son Buddy and Buddy's kids. On the side, the Keys run a sporting goods store, drive a school bus, work various jobs and do whatever they have to do to make ends meet and stay farming. In his "free time" Ray runs a trap line all winter, and is the area's only licensed nuisance trapper. Bats in yer bellfry? Snake in the cellar? Skunks under the porch? Call Ray. All that aside, the one thing that Ray Key lives for and, to my knowledge, does better than just about anyone is hunt turkey and deer. The man can spot a bedded deer a half mile across a meadow in a snow storm. If a turkey gobbles in the next county a couple of soft clucks from Ray's box is more than likely to have the bird strutting within shotgun range. What he doesn't know about the land he hunts, you can be damn sure ain't worth knowing.

After breakfast the three of us head for round top, a knob of hardwoods with a million-dollar view of Lake Otsego. The weather is more like spring than October. By the time the sun comes up it must be 70 degrees. We consistently run into birds in this spot, but this morning nothing moves except for a couple of deer and a red squirrel. Fall turkey hunting , although a lot of fun, holds none of the blood- pumping excitement of the spring. The toms aren't riled up, roaring gobbles from tree to tree. There are no strutting birds emerging silently through the fog. You have to work for it in the fall. You look for scratching in the leaves, dropped feathers, listen for faint clucks and pray that you can entice a flock after they're spooked. On the positive side you are allowed to take either sex, and the challenge of calling in a wary old hen is just as great as any spring gobbler hunt.

Unlike hunting here in the Catskills, there's quite a bit of glassing of big meadows in Otsego County. A tiny black speck in the far corner of a cut corn field can lead to an hour long stalk around a swamp, through a Christmas tree farm, over a stone ridge in order to intercept a feeding bird. The old man's jeep chugs up a steep ravine. Because he's left the back window open, and the interior is filled with dust, it takes us a minute to realize the dash board is on fire. What we thought was dust turns out to be smoke pouring out from beneath the dash. We all scramble for the fire extinguisher that my father swears is under the seat. I don't know how snoring affects memory but all we find is a candy bar wrapper and one left glove. Luckily the smoke recedes and after much jibing we proceed. Since I'm "the kid" in this geezermobile I'm usually being treated like a 12 year old. I take the opportunity to lecture on the maturity of carrying a fire extinguisher and always checking your gear to see that it's in proper working ... "There's a bird," Ray says, cutting my lecture short. Three hundred yards out in a field, barely distinguishable from the manure pile he's feeding, stands a long beard.

It's been a few seasons since my elder has shot a bird so Ray and I both insist that dad take the shot. "We'll back you up if you miss,'' Ray promises. "You mean it, don'tcha?" I add. My father stuffs two shells into his beautiful old Parker 12 gauge. He could care less about killing that bird. He's killed more than his share over the years. Now he hunts for the pure joy of car fires, keeping me awake all night and treating his grown son like a kid again. Ray and I smile as he creeps through the brush towards the bird. The Parker comes up and, a split second after the sho,t Ray shoots. The bird sports a nine-inch beard and is as skinny as a rail. Judging from its feet it's as old as Methuselah. Handshakes all around. "That bird would've never made another winter," Ray says solemnly. Shouldering his Parker, my father picks up his tom. "That's how it's done," he informs Ray and me. I couldn't agree more.